[L.E. Leone tells me this poem is based on a true event, to which I responded that she & her gal friend must really have loved the titular brick. Intrigued? Read on!]
Bitch stole our brick. It’s true
we have a lot of bricks, but
still. Who does she think
she is, taking that one
out of our wall &
carrying it around the
corner to her car, into the
passenger side window. She
dropped it on the seat, & drove
off. I saw this all and didn’t give
chase but now I wish I would’ve
…is the title of this poem, and the body goes like
this…
One way of looking at it: She must
have really really needed that brick
pretty bad, to take it from under us
and in broad daylight. Another way
would be you fucking bitch, you
skinny skirted student of schooly
shit, goddamn it! Punk, you left a
hole in a wall like war does. Fuck
you. And your gold Toyota Camry,
license number VLS306, Louisiana
If I find your car I’ll jimmy into it &
throw that brick from the inside back
out.
L.E. Leone
© 2012
Showing posts with label LE writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LE writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
ANOTHER HAUNTING CHILDHOOD MEMORY
[A prose poem—& existential cooking lesson—from our very own Chicken Farmer Poet in Residence, L.E. Leone!]
ANOTHER HAUNTING CHILDHOOD MEMORY
My dad in an apron at the stove, cooking the pots and pans.
“You just don’t get it, Dad, do you?” I said. “You’re supposed to put stuff inside of them.”
“Like what?” he said.
“Supper,” I said. “Lunch. I don’t know. I’m a kid. What time is it, anyway?”
My father looked at his watch. “Holy smokes. The chicken is done!” He opened the oven door and a fully plucked chicken jumped down from the rack and started walking around the place, scratching the linoleum, pecking at Cheerios, and saying, in a word, “Cluck.” It seemed not only not cooked, but not put out in the least.
I couldn’t stop laughing. I was so happy. So entertained. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re supposed to turn the oven on.”
“Holy smokes,” my dad said.
He turned the oven on, but then we couldn’t get the chicken to go back in.
L.E. Leone
© 2012
ANOTHER HAUNTING CHILDHOOD MEMORY
My dad in an apron at the stove, cooking the pots and pans.
“You just don’t get it, Dad, do you?” I said. “You’re supposed to put stuff inside of them.”
“Like what?” he said.
“Supper,” I said. “Lunch. I don’t know. I’m a kid. What time is it, anyway?”
My father looked at his watch. “Holy smokes. The chicken is done!” He opened the oven door and a fully plucked chicken jumped down from the rack and started walking around the place, scratching the linoleum, pecking at Cheerios, and saying, in a word, “Cluck.” It seemed not only not cooked, but not put out in the least.
I couldn’t stop laughing. I was so happy. So entertained. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re supposed to turn the oven on.”
“Holy smokes,” my dad said.
He turned the oven on, but then we couldn’t get the chicken to go back in.
L.E. Leone
© 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
“FACING THE MUSIC”
[Soup & music, past, present & future, all from LE Leone—enjoy!]
FACING THE MUSIC
She used to say, “Where do you see yourself five, ten years from now?”
I used to say, “I don’t.”
I never thought I would be dead, that wasn’t it. It was just all I could do to taste every single onion in the soup we were eating, just then, to see the colors on the coats blurring by outside the café’s rain-rivered window, to dance to each individual drop as it plonked our umbrella afterwards, walking away.
Do I miss those times? Nah … It’s starting to cloud over and get cold. Everyone’s got a new coat now. And the call just came from the kitchen:
Soup’s on!
L.E. Leone
© 2012
FACING THE MUSIC
She used to say, “Where do you see yourself five, ten years from now?”
I used to say, “I don’t.”
I never thought I would be dead, that wasn’t it. It was just all I could do to taste every single onion in the soup we were eating, just then, to see the colors on the coats blurring by outside the café’s rain-rivered window, to dance to each individual drop as it plonked our umbrella afterwards, walking away.
Do I miss those times? Nah … It’s starting to cloud over and get cold. Everyone’s got a new coat now. And the call just came from the kitchen:
Soup’s on!
L.E. Leone
© 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
“Science Fiction”
[L.E. Leone says: “I thought I would just go out and get something, and this is what I came back with.” & I say, “That’s the way to do it!”]
Science Fiction
The world's largest ball of twine. I forget
where that was but we liked the smell
of it. Put our hands on, and took pictures.
It was many times bigger than a cow, yet
smaller than the sun. In New Orleans
the sidewalks are evolving. They crack,
climb, crumble, drop off, disappear, re-
appear, move under your feet. Soon
they will lift off and carry you to work, or …
Today, the giant dumpster on my way
to the gym contains nothing but cardboard
boxes containing nothing, unbroken down
and empty. So Zen I could scream, or cut
myself. Or open a store and sell cigarettes
to children. I love it here, and life, the beads
hanging from branches and wires along
St. Charles. They've lost their color, but
sparkle like mud. Nobody recycles, never.
L.E. Leone
© 2012
Science Fiction
The world's largest ball of twine. I forget
where that was but we liked the smell
of it. Put our hands on, and took pictures.
It was many times bigger than a cow, yet
smaller than the sun. In New Orleans
the sidewalks are evolving. They crack,
climb, crumble, drop off, disappear, re-
appear, move under your feet. Soon
they will lift off and carry you to work, or …
Today, the giant dumpster on my way
to the gym contains nothing but cardboard
boxes containing nothing, unbroken down
and empty. So Zen I could scream, or cut
myself. Or open a store and sell cigarettes
to children. I love it here, and life, the beads
hanging from branches and wires along
St. Charles. They've lost their color, but
sparkle like mud. Nobody recycles, never.
L.E. Leone
© 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
"ENGINE, ENGINE"
[Hey, folks, time for an L.E. Leone poem—but not just any L.E. Leone poem: an L.E. Leone poem about trains! How cool is that?]
ENGINE, ENGINE
Two of my dearest dears wrote
poems about trains last week, so
I thought I would jump on board
But
One featured the clatter
of the tracks, while the other
touted the toot-toot of it all
So
That leaves me with steel
on steel. Or the tick, electric and
loud, between cars in the station
Or
Silence. Hmm: This one
is way up there somewhere
in the mountains, buried in snow
And
To think, just last week I learned
that shhh is spelled with three h’s,
not sssh! . . . I am ready now.
L.E. Leone
© 2012
ENGINE, ENGINE
Two of my dearest dears wrote
poems about trains last week, so
I thought I would jump on board
But
One featured the clatter
of the tracks, while the other
touted the toot-toot of it all
So
That leaves me with steel
on steel. Or the tick, electric and
loud, between cars in the station
Or
Silence. Hmm: This one
is way up there somewhere
in the mountains, buried in snow
And
To think, just last week I learned
that shhh is spelled with three h’s,
not sssh! . . . I am ready now.
L.E. Leone
© 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
“WHERE EVERYBODY IS”
[haiku/by L.E. Leone/enjoy it!]
WHERE EVERYBODY IS
Like half a cherry
tomato on an iceberg
salad, I wonder
L.E. Leone
© 2012
WHERE EVERYBODY IS
Like half a cherry
tomato on an iceberg
salad, I wonder
L.E. Leone
© 2012
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
"THE GRUMPIEST MAN"
[L.E. Leone assures me that her poem "The Grumpiest Man" was essentially found by her on a random sheet of paper that was originally some sort of non-poetic school exercise. If so, we must congratulate her unerring poetic eye, as it's a truly delightful poem!]
THE GRUMPIEST MAN
(a found poem)
1. The man didn't like people.
He didn't like cats. He didn't
like dogs.
2. A man was working on the street.
He made a noise.
3. The little girl went to the store.
Her father told her she could have
a new game.
4. The little girl didn't get a game.
She saw some earmuffs that she
wanted.
5. The grumpiest man was happy when he
put on the earmuffs.
L.E. Leone
© 2001
THE GRUMPIEST MAN
(a found poem)
1. The man didn't like people.
He didn't like cats. He didn't
like dogs.
2. A man was working on the street.
He made a noise.
3. The little girl went to the store.
Her father told her she could have
a new game.
4. The little girl didn't get a game.
She saw some earmuffs that she
wanted.
5. The grumpiest man was happy when he
put on the earmuffs.
L.E. Leone
© 2001
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
"STOCK"
[Our favorite Chicken Farmer Poet in Residence is taking stock, & not chicken stock neither! Another delightful dead-serious/comic romp with L.E. Leone!]
STOCK
Then it was time to stand back and take stock of my life. I had reached "the age." So I did, I stood back and took stock. I went outside, at night, in just a shabby sleeping gown, and stood on the sidewalk. If anyone asked, I would say that I was taking stock. Of my life!
A street person walked past. His face, set deep inside his oversized hood, was darker than night itself. In fact, he might have been death. “Aren’t you the one keeps chickens in an old RV?” he said, without even stopping to hear my answer—which would have been that I was not, I was the one who was taking stock of her life at three in the morning, in a shabby gown.
For distance I went to Paris, France. I don't speak French. My first morning there I met a fellow American who said, "Have you been to Paris before? This is my third time, although: it's the first time I’m spending real time here. The first two times I was more like passing through, touring Europe and such. But Paris is the one city in the world I always want to come back to. Except in winter." And he gave me a look that said, I know you know.
“Me,” I said, “I'm taking stock.”
“I think I understand,” he said.
“You do?”
“I think so,” he said.
For distance, I came back home.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
STOCK
Then it was time to stand back and take stock of my life. I had reached "the age." So I did, I stood back and took stock. I went outside, at night, in just a shabby sleeping gown, and stood on the sidewalk. If anyone asked, I would say that I was taking stock. Of my life!
A street person walked past. His face, set deep inside his oversized hood, was darker than night itself. In fact, he might have been death. “Aren’t you the one keeps chickens in an old RV?” he said, without even stopping to hear my answer—which would have been that I was not, I was the one who was taking stock of her life at three in the morning, in a shabby gown.
For distance I went to Paris, France. I don't speak French. My first morning there I met a fellow American who said, "Have you been to Paris before? This is my third time, although: it's the first time I’m spending real time here. The first two times I was more like passing through, touring Europe and such. But Paris is the one city in the world I always want to come back to. Except in winter." And he gave me a look that said, I know you know.
“Me,” I said, “I'm taking stock.”
“I think I understand,” he said.
“You do?”
“I think so,” he said.
For distance, I came back home.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
"CARMELLO"
[L.E. Leone is never afraid to tackle the big questions in short poems—one of the many reasons we love her & her work both! Enjoy!]
CARMELLO
Apple falls exactly under
the apple tree, rolls a little
Stops.
Bees get into it.
You see a rotten apple, danger
dead dog, and say, “Amen.”
I see the light, a future tree,
and say, “Shit.”
Man, what’s the difference?
L.E. Leone
© 2011
CARMELLO
Apple falls exactly under
the apple tree, rolls a little
Stops.
Bees get into it.
You see a rotten apple, danger
dead dog, and say, “Amen.”
I see the light, a future tree,
and say, “Shit.”
Man, what’s the difference?
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
“THE TOAST”
[Hot off the press, & with best wishes from L.E. Leone to y’all—enjoy!]
THE TOAST
The chicken farmer’s husband, a carpenter, is building her a new coop. People crave chicken and her business is expanding.
But that’s in France, where I left my dirty boots, in a region famous for butter.
Here, in Century City, the word on the street is: “Dentistry.” Yes, the dentists of L.A. can (and will, it is said, for a price) turn you into a Christmas tree. Flash, blink, gleam, you’ll be the belle of the ball, and once a year small children will run to you.
“What happened? Who is he?” your girlfriends will say, while meanwhile in the buffet line lead guitarists and lesbians fight for your hand.
A tin of ziti is overturned, almost without you even noticing.
“My dentist!” you will shout, over the racket and with a twinkle, to your girlfriends. You will put your fingers on their arms, in English.
From now on . . .
Wherever you go, even France, you will be the toast of the party. Nay, you will be the part of the breakfast that toast longs to be dipped into. Only white, instead of yellow.
And gorgeous instead of over, or easy.
Imagine: you don’t need braces, caps, or bridges. Your smile is whole milk, honey; your bite, the best! Everyone says so. You’ll be eating spare ribs at ninety. More to the point, you will be able to sink your teeth, finally, into poems like this.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
THE TOAST
The chicken farmer’s husband, a carpenter, is building her a new coop. People crave chicken and her business is expanding.
But that’s in France, where I left my dirty boots, in a region famous for butter.
Here, in Century City, the word on the street is: “Dentistry.” Yes, the dentists of L.A. can (and will, it is said, for a price) turn you into a Christmas tree. Flash, blink, gleam, you’ll be the belle of the ball, and once a year small children will run to you.
“What happened? Who is he?” your girlfriends will say, while meanwhile in the buffet line lead guitarists and lesbians fight for your hand.
A tin of ziti is overturned, almost without you even noticing.
“My dentist!” you will shout, over the racket and with a twinkle, to your girlfriends. You will put your fingers on their arms, in English.
From now on . . .
Wherever you go, even France, you will be the toast of the party. Nay, you will be the part of the breakfast that toast longs to be dipped into. Only white, instead of yellow.
And gorgeous instead of over, or easy.
Imagine: you don’t need braces, caps, or bridges. Your smile is whole milk, honey; your bite, the best! Everyone says so. You’ll be eating spare ribs at ninety. More to the point, you will be able to sink your teeth, finally, into poems like this.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
“BROWN RECLUSE”
[Hi friends! A new month brings the return of a dear old friend, L.E. Leone, who herein contemplates love, sleep, spiders & light—enjoy!]
BROWN RECLUSE
Spider on a lamp
next to my sleeping lover’s head
so big you could hear it
almost
breathing. Shhh. Keep sleeping
dear heart, I said, unplugging
the lamp, lifting it like
a torch. There is too much
light in this world
as it is
L.E. Leone
© 2011
BROWN RECLUSE
Spider on a lamp
next to my sleeping lover’s head
so big you could hear it
almost
breathing. Shhh. Keep sleeping
dear heart, I said, unplugging
the lamp, lifting it like
a torch. There is too much
light in this world
as it is
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
"354 Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s Grave"
[In which our intrepid poet L.E. Leone channels Bukowski with startling results]
354 Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s Grave
Standing up on buses is
my new favorite way
to travel. Sometimes I hold
on to something, sometimes
not. I close my eyes, feel
the city bumping beneath
my feet. Gentlemen offer me
their seats. “No thank you, thank
you though!” At the dollar
store called The Dollar Store, corner
of Fillmore and Geary, everything
is a buck fifty. I made
this poem in my head, busboarding
to a doctor’s appointment on
the 22. Scribbled it down
on the back of my co-pay receipt, waiting
for the doctor to see
me. I did not sit down. The title, “354
Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s
Grave,” I got from the dollar
store. For a buck-fifty. Took a wild
guess at the distance
between Bukowski’s grave
and me. Didn’t even know until
later, back home, where
he was buried. Then, my ass
problem seen to, lanced, ‘wick’ed
and oozing into a folded gauze pad held
between cheeks by my tightest,
sexiest panties, I looked it up:
357 miles. Missed
by three.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
354 Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s Grave
Standing up on buses is
my new favorite way
to travel. Sometimes I hold
on to something, sometimes
not. I close my eyes, feel
the city bumping beneath
my feet. Gentlemen offer me
their seats. “No thank you, thank
you though!” At the dollar
store called The Dollar Store, corner
of Fillmore and Geary, everything
is a buck fifty. I made
this poem in my head, busboarding
to a doctor’s appointment on
the 22. Scribbled it down
on the back of my co-pay receipt, waiting
for the doctor to see
me. I did not sit down. The title, “354
Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s
Grave,” I got from the dollar
store. For a buck-fifty. Took a wild
guess at the distance
between Bukowski’s grave
and me. Didn’t even know until
later, back home, where
he was buried. Then, my ass
problem seen to, lanced, ‘wick’ed
and oozing into a folded gauze pad held
between cheeks by my tightest,
sexiest panties, I looked it up:
357 miles. Missed
by three.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
"WHOSE IDEA IT WAS"
[Oh my, I do love L.E. Leone’s latest poem! Hope you do too!]
WHOSE IDEA IT WAS
We rode our bikes on a country road. Mine
had a sissy bar, of which I was proud.
When a car came from behind, we'd pretend
to lose control, my California cousin and me
swerving into the ditch, flying and tumbling
because we could. No one got hurt.
We got poison ivy. Who knows what
the drivers thought. None honked or stopped.
We laughed as we flew, the joke on them. Now
my cousin is gone. Now I live in California, have a long
distance lover. Our love, exactly like this.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
WHOSE IDEA IT WAS
We rode our bikes on a country road. Mine
had a sissy bar, of which I was proud.
When a car came from behind, we'd pretend
to lose control, my California cousin and me
swerving into the ditch, flying and tumbling
because we could. No one got hurt.
We got poison ivy. Who knows what
the drivers thought. None honked or stopped.
We laughed as we flew, the joke on them. Now
my cousin is gone. Now I live in California, have a long
distance lover. Our love, exactly like this.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
"OR SOMETHING ELSE"
[A rhyming snapshot from L.e. Leone's world—enjoy!]
OR SOMETHING ELSE
Kids in a bathtub. Cat
On a bed. Dog by the
Fire. Trucks on the road
Rain on a windshield. Lights
In the trees. You in my
Bed. Knee braces on knees
Chickens on roosts. Ducks
In a row. Roast duck in duck
Soup. Critics at shows
Band-aids on fingers. Snot
In a sneeze. A ring on a
Finger. Holes in Swiss cheese
Bad TV on TV. Teenagers
On phones. Cracks in the
Ice. Ice cream in cones
You in my kitchen. Bonnets
On bees. Under the
Gun. Me saying, "Please."
L.E. Leone
© 2011
OR SOMETHING ELSE
Kids in a bathtub. Cat
On a bed. Dog by the
Fire. Trucks on the road
Rain on a windshield. Lights
In the trees. You in my
Bed. Knee braces on knees
Chickens on roosts. Ducks
In a row. Roast duck in duck
Soup. Critics at shows
Band-aids on fingers. Snot
In a sneeze. A ring on a
Finger. Holes in Swiss cheese
Bad TV on TV. Teenagers
On phones. Cracks in the
Ice. Ice cream in cones
You in my kitchen. Bonnets
On bees. Under the
Gun. Me saying, "Please."
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
“WRITER’S PRAYER”
[A pray of sorts from L.E. Leone. Which sort? Maybe my sort. I like it—hope you do too!]
WRITER’S PRAYER
The poem I will hear
tomorrow is already losing
thread, turning
into fear. Tonight:
who leads who, voice
into attics, out
windows, through frames
into paintings where flower
petals equal golf balls
It’s raining outside
leaking in. Take me
L.E. Leone
© 2011
WRITER’S PRAYER
The poem I will hear
tomorrow is already losing
thread, turning
into fear. Tonight:
who leads who, voice
into attics, out
windows, through frames
into paintings where flower
petals equal golf balls
It’s raining outside
leaking in. Take me
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
"QUESTION MARK"
[I have nothing to add except I love L.E. Leone's latest poem - hope you enjoy it too!]
QUESTION MARK
I arrive by plane
at a thought and there
is Meaning, at the gate
waiting with a sign:
Dani, Not Even Your
Cowboy Hat
Can Save You Now
What’s that supposed to mean?
I ask Meaning, meaning,
What the fuck?
A: “Your limbo is waiting.”
L.E. Leone
© 2011
QUESTION MARK
I arrive by plane
at a thought and there
is Meaning, at the gate
waiting with a sign:
Dani, Not Even Your
Cowboy Hat
Can Save You Now
What’s that supposed to mean?
I ask Meaning, meaning,
What the fuck?
A: “Your limbo is waiting.”
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
"HOPEFUL CHICKEN FARMER POEM"
[At times in her life, L.E. Leone has been a chicken farmer. She usually is a hopeful person. This clearly is a poem. Hence, this title makes sense—enjoy!]
HOPEFUL CHICKEN FARMER POEM
So suddenly bugs
make sense to me and
lavendar
smells like lavendar – finally!
Who knew
that a dried up leaf
would sound like that
under a stray cat's paw? So
I planted
a blueberry bush next to
the blackberry bushes. Next
year, if the chickens
don't scratch it out, who knows?
Maybe a pie’s worth, and
if not, well … anyway,
a pie.
L.E. Leone
(2011)
HOPEFUL CHICKEN FARMER POEM
So suddenly bugs
make sense to me and
lavendar
smells like lavendar – finally!
Who knew
that a dried up leaf
would sound like that
under a stray cat's paw? So
I planted
a blueberry bush next to
the blackberry bushes. Next
year, if the chickens
don't scratch it out, who knows?
Maybe a pie’s worth, and
if not, well … anyway,
a pie.
L.E. Leone
(2011)
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
"So you know"
[I'd kind of misplaced my dear friend L.E. Leone, but I've found her again! Here's her latest, a sweet love poem—enjoy!]
So you know
There's a lot of real
Estate between the hippy
Dippy free love ass-
Hole and the clingy co-
Dependent. There’s a doable
Double wide where you and I
Or any other couple can be
Unafraid, intoxicatingly
In love, entertainingly inter-
Twined with still plenty of
Air and outsideness, our
Skinned knees and silly words, heart-
Felt as felt hats with feathers
In them, twice as goofy,
Three times as strong, and half
As lonely, as independent as
Ever, where the distance
Between lips can contain a novel
Or a French fry, I'm just
Saying.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
So you know
There's a lot of real
Estate between the hippy
Dippy free love ass-
Hole and the clingy co-
Dependent. There’s a doable
Double wide where you and I
Or any other couple can be
Unafraid, intoxicatingly
In love, entertainingly inter-
Twined with still plenty of
Air and outsideness, our
Skinned knees and silly words, heart-
Felt as felt hats with feathers
In them, twice as goofy,
Three times as strong, and half
As lonely, as independent as
Ever, where the distance
Between lips can contain a novel
Or a French fry, I'm just
Saying.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
“New Orleans”
[The latest from L.E. Leone—direct from Carnival!]
Nicole
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
possible!)
requited.
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
Nicole
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
possible!)
requited.
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
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
"YOU ARE NOT A SMALL WOMAN"
[L.E. Leone herein examines relationships & portents. Enjoy!]
YOU ARE NOT A SMALL WOMAN
My friend Nancy Krygowski, the poet who is the reason I write poetry, writes to tell me she needs to write a poem and isn’t feeling poetic.
Aww, I say. What gives?
It’s marriage problems. Goddamn. Her engagement ring broke and she’s trying real hard not to see it as a sign.
Nothing is ever a sign unless you want it to be, dear, don’t worry, I say.
And: I am here, if you need to talk.
Maybe later. She’s on her way out the door to see to getting it fixed, she says, at a vintage jewelry shop run out of a converted chicken coop by an old Jewish woman who, according to Nancy, will tell you ‘you are not a small woman.’
OK then, I say. Call me later.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
YOU ARE NOT A SMALL WOMAN
My friend Nancy Krygowski, the poet who is the reason I write poetry, writes to tell me she needs to write a poem and isn’t feeling poetic.
Aww, I say. What gives?
It’s marriage problems. Goddamn. Her engagement ring broke and she’s trying real hard not to see it as a sign.
Nothing is ever a sign unless you want it to be, dear, don’t worry, I say.
And: I am here, if you need to talk.
Maybe later. She’s on her way out the door to see to getting it fixed, she says, at a vintage jewelry shop run out of a converted chicken coop by an old Jewish woman who, according to Nancy, will tell you ‘you are not a small woman.’
OK then, I say. Call me later.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
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