Michael T. Smith is an Associate Professor of English, where he teaches a range of courses in both writing and film studies. His academic work reflects a strong engagement with contemporary literature and visual culture, bridging critical analysis with creative practice. In addition to his teaching, he has built an extensive publication record, with approximately 300 pieces of poetry and prose appearing in more than 100 journals. His work demonstrates both versatility and consistency, contributing to a wide array of literary publications and establishing his presence across diverse writing communities.

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ADHD

 

I wanted to have a word with you.

It was like a bad movie, made by one of those auteurs;

Or, I forget the term

that I mean to say — it’s the opposite of that,

            like a moon to a sun.

Anyway, with mind skipping

like celluloid,

 

I wanted to focus but couldn’t 

Concentrate

 

But I made a poem as the night played 

a trick

on my mind, and so unethically

bound

 

Every word, 

which was chopped up into almost 

nothing

and wanting to turn the 

leaf

              (to leaf through or pull through or whatever I meant to say then)

            to cover up the meaning of the word, 

to flow down a river as smooth as a glass of wine,

a Cava

from some European winery that I cannot pronounce

even though I idolize the place like a personification

 

And I

Swerved

to avoid the misunderstanding, did

what I could 

to produce

Noise.

 

Perhaps this is a new thought, 

            but only to you.

Perhaps 

instead, this is an old thought, 

            

For a word I had with you 

was steeped in blue,

and as soon as I had it 

it bid adieu 

to me, but sadly not you.

——-

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Bakku-Shan 

 

I don’t know what your beauty is, but –

Ooo, that snatched me.  I was entranced

by only a frame of you.

(Do you judge this?  

I’m not alone, and all people should have this freedom – )

Bakku-Shan, meaning a beauty 

when viewed from behind

for hotness from the back is the definition

of optimism –

I think.

And if you still feel bad 

(despite my best intentions)

then know we never really judge a person,

only parts.

And it’s just like Dali said 

while putting drawers on the venus de milo:

the beauty of the femme lies in its mystery.

 

It —

an object, I understand –

and I don’t mean to offend, 

but from behind,

your form’s an ideal of the moment,  

your bureau is filled with whispers of secrets

I want to know.

 

This poem is my secret, 

a wink

you can take with you

wherever you may be on your way to go,

or throw away, 

as you go

like the dance your hips suggests.

———

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 Have you ever?

(A sonnet)

 

Have you ever cut your words with a splice

by the use of a renegade comma,

have you split the infinitive so nice,

as to blankly write linguistic drama?

 

Your verse was written in novitiate;

Do you wonder ‘if a passive voice mess

was written by you?” – a’ Midas vitiate.

Do you think your errors are somehow less?

 

Or haphazardly using an em dash —

you need training how to hold your pencil

if you would punctuate by means so rash,

not only use adverbs, but the -ly kill!

 

Did you ever – I can ever exclaim —

Reflect on your poor language, that you maim!

 

———

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 Emily Dickinson’s Dashes

 

I mean – oh my – “He aven”

God! Have you read a poem —

By Emily Dickinson?  It’s like she’s the almighty 

 

Typographer.   With dashes more important than

Punctuation – or word choice.  She –

Clearly one without an auto-format –

Just went nothing but nuts—

 

With the dashes, I mean – not 

Her — actual — mental illness –

These lines, these –

Are like giggles, filling a page madly –

A page that never really ends –

——

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 ‘Teh’

 

E’ry time I type up a poem 

Of moored and sandy thoughts

My fingers dance on loan

And renegades they be, 

type a peculiar word –‘teh’ 

 

From where is this word

Of homeward thoughts? 

to free said convicts

from out their prison stick.

 

Is a sign of my aging years

of arthritic fingers stumbling

in the Ben Hur of typists,

whose Roman numerals are bloated.

 

Or is it born of the unconscious —

in that loom of the mind,

where weaves an Arachne able,

entangling thoughts in their way.

 

Is it something to be deciphered —

a code (like most of poetry)

to bury in a ‘t’ the crossword

title, beyond letters hyetal?  

 

Might it be some slang, 

written on a slant, 

to boorish hours 

of morning all alone.

 

Yet in this monstrosity 

something touches my soul –

not only the words we teach, 

but even ‘teh’ bloated things

we mispronounce.

——-

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