Tuesday, February 22, 2011

“New Orleans”

[The latest from L.E. Leone—direct from Carnival!]


Of course, of course I glow
more glowingly where there is
hope. Who wouldn't? We
smile wider and laugh
harder for what
we love, like
fire cooks meat drips
flare, but

neverminding the
smoky mope of
rejection, for now
imagine the brilliance
and warmth of a love
actually (it's
Me, in it, as I have

been, before you. My smiles,
then. My laughs, my songs and
dances. I feel old. Now.
When you find real
love, Kemosabe, you will find
that planets revolve

around it. It isn’t what
romance is, it’s more
nowhere, more nothing, so …
so ... so wordy, so … beyond
weight, so much so that it floats
boats, keeps airplanes
in the sky, breathes freight trains, and
yes, bends. It's more than rad.
More than hot, its storms
affect the weather 90 million
miles away and can
bring down
whole communication
systems. Myself,

my preference is for
phone calls, when you can't
meet knee-to-knee, glass
to glass down the bar, due to
distance. Before you, btw, I didn't
text. Since, I have upgraded my plan,
hell, I would learn Morse Code, tap
tap my head against
the wall behind
this bed, New Orleans, all night
long, if
I thought you might
be on the other side, thank you

for clarifying. I'm back! I've got my glow on, it helps
to know. And I can't stay
out of the streets, this crooked
cracked town is overflowing,
for reals,
with music. My poetry:
raw, you are right. Like my heart,
my hamburgers, and everything
else that I do. I love
raw. I am raw. Thank you

for comparing the likelihood
of you
ever making out with a woman like me to
the likelihood of pooping your pants. It gives
me hope. Because I think,
sweetie, there's a pretty good chance
you are going to poop your pants
one day. When you are old
and lost in thought, and see

finally, through the clearing smoke
to what's raw in you. You you, not the you
who wants to meet hotties, whose girfriend, too
is still looking. Young you, who has to add her own
“I love you,” warmly, laughingly
to the
bottom of her father's
letters. I wish

I could hold you. Here,
lemme buy your next drink.

L.E. Leone
© 2010


  1. How strange, as I was reading this fine poem I was listening to Joni Mitchell and somehow the two merged into one.

  2. Alan's comment makes a lot of sense to me. This poem would sit happily with almost any piece of art of high quality.
    I'm going to have to read it again. It's begging me to come back to it.

  3. Hi Alan & Dave

    Alan: How strange & wonderful!

    Dave: So glad you liked LE's poem!

  4. The "smoky mope of rejection" line is great. And I love the Morse Code through the wall with the head tapping. The extremes of love, but also grounded by a sense of humor - first love poem I've seen with pooping one's pants in it, but that makes so much sense here too and it made me laugh :)

  5. Hi HKatz: I definitely agree about "the smoky mope of rejection." The pants poooping "exchange" is rather wild & funny--my original tag line for LE's poem was going to be "carpe diem was never like this," & I was indeed thinking of that section. Glad you liked it!


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