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jason smith
jason smith grew up in eighty-four, pa, 20 minutes south of pittsburgh. after high school he lived in spain for 3 years, went to st. louis to finish college, and is now chillin' like a villain, paying rent, enjoying his penchant for dense verbosity. yoesaqui@hotmail.com

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you were never lovelier than you were tonight


You were never lovelier than you were tonight

"A religion, old or new, that stressed the magnificence of the universe as revealed by modern science, might be able to draw forth reserves of reverence and awe hardly tapped by the conventional faiths. Sooner or later, such a religion will emerge." - Carl Sagan

It begins with a question...

Is the Earth more quarterback or courtesan?
Which is by some randomly conceived sense of DOOM
followed by another...
Can you and I ever really conceptualize
holding in our minds a weight exceeding six thousand billion billion tons?

The Earth.
Our Father who art in heaven,
or is it,
Our Mother...
or could it actually actually be
Our technicolor cornucopia of stiletto heeled genital pierced hermaphroditic lisping reptilianly
with breath like a neon sign advertising twenty-five-cent hot dogs
- crying like a dove -
but then again maybe just fakin' it
Immaculate Artists formerly known as?

Almost silently, save the slight beeping that is the pulse of our vessel,
the elliptical motion of Mars brings us closer
to the Pale Blue Dot.
(Please forgive the dizzy feeling,
interplanetary journalistic journeys that focus on the spherical enormity
of your own backyard garden
tend to do that.) It approaches slowly, or rather,
we approach it slowly, or -
oh, whatever, it's all relative.
At this point we have not entered the farthest reaches of Earth's power,
and the haze still obscures the orb you and you enjoy bouncing like a ball.
Then it seems only proper to, let us say, go in for a closer look.
"It's enormous!" shouts someone from the back,
at which point we all are viewing
the strange, truthful, charming, loving,
and chance(?)
formation of marshmellowy globs of the irreversible static cling
as they rotate,
wrapping around themselves
until forming a shape not unlike your toilet water as it descends
in Bogota, not Dusseldorf.
Then, these nimbic forms from Father Time's funeral pyre
(mercilessly bound to a machine given some gas at the same instant
the match used to light the pyre was struck)
and as the countless spirals combine to form one hellish funnel-like image that would have
Dorothy, Toto, Frank Oz, the Wizard of, Epi, Blas, the Seven Dwarfs,
and even Yo Mama
(no matter how much shit she's put up with, while she bellows
"Don't nobody know my troubles but God")
looking to purchase one-way bus tickets The Fuck Outta There.
So, while in some imaginary dimension
a bus driver attempts coming to grips with the distress of helping
half the populations of Disneyland, Sesame Street,
and someplace not unlike Home
seek refuge from
the devilishly bad breath of the omnipotent Fire Breathing Magnet,
the successions of other dimensions
intertwine their facades with dexterity surpassed only
by that of greed and ignorance infesting the cosmos like a badly timed fart
and the infernal persistence of your neighbor's stare
(although they both stink so much they absolve all heinous crimes in their infancy),
while compliant clusters consume societies
of TV repairmen, telephone operators, and rocket scientists,
while meteorologists keep on guessing
while we all still have more time,
our journey proceeds unfettered.

Our bus,
whose design alone would send the most ingenious Greyhound thinktank
into uncontrollable seizures,
combusts and gyrates, combusts and spins, and combusts,
shredding through hypothetical lead barriers,
serenely perusing the Encyclopedia Universalia for incontestable proof
that the lava lamp is the true measure of time,
that HIV is not just a product of our imagination gone haywire,
that transvestites might be on to something,
and I,
your tour guide during our stellar surrender to the confines of eternity,
politely request while in transit from Torrejon to Navas de Tolosa
from the Cave of Salsa Rosa
through the pale grandeur of the moon
(I would the ladies not swoon)
as we slowly traverse Our Vast Universe
in search of the purest funk imaginable,
that you attempt to get comfortable,
maintaining the same perspective from which a tulip might admire a frog.

The Pittsburghian nostalgia of I-beams finding peace on concrete warehouse floors,
the hiss of the beguiling jokester converting this into, well, that
overtakes our vessel,
and acts upon we as subjects unto Thee...SILENCE!!
Arms raised to heaven in the obsolete blackness within a background
of gum smacking and iron babbling:
a sensation known to almost all, but quite discernible to those on board.
Entire generations of ancient Smiths are blindly dissecting fibers,
while yet again,
somewhere over the rainbow,
locked within the innards of the original
half baby mule, half sulfurous-electron dragon Deep Thought Master
But fear not,
With the remembrance of arms still raised to heaven and lubed up orifices
Gaping to the babble of countless alchemistic Vikings never banging their thumbs,
I invite you to draw your attention away from the kiln
And to the jolting discovery of your very own appendix.


The glare is too bright for eyes slovenly accustomed to inner-space travel,
And my insurance company feels at this point
Your sunglasses should be removed and tucked away,
For the Time has not yet come
and the final yawn of space contraction is nowhere in sight.
This - I will only explain this once -
Dazzles the imagination
Is comprehensible to very few
Is limited to one time only
Is not based on a bestseller by Isaac Asimov
Is said to be only...theoretical
But how and most importantly,
Is brought to you by the Tupperware Clockworks.
Now if you have the strength to bend to the ground,
(Close enough to see how ants procreate,)
You'll see the blissful ignorance on the face of the patriarch of Tupperware Clockworks (Inc.).
Among other things, he is ignorant of the fact that while on lunch breaks, a number of his dead employees,
Ever so recently resurrected by the leftovers fermenting for eons beneath their Tupperware lids,
Have learned to dance gracefully, write screenplays, sautÈ onions, and fully understand mahjongg!
And now,
Instead of lazily complying to gravity and the Surgeon General's warning,
Instead of ignoring the intrinsic similarities between their asses and holes in the ground,
Instead of blistering their coats of Tupperware paint with an endless multitude of 'points',
Their receptive depths now flick with concise retinal speed,
Gazing in awe and falling to their knees
While their withered and blackened limbs stretch like Keck technology and multi-gig chips
To mirror the same reflections produced by mountain lakes in springtime
As they're given a push to remember the conversion of high heels into cowboy boots
(although it hides among the alluring scents cologne, garbage, and sex),
the whip cracks, and SQUASH...


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