[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
Showing posts with label LE poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LE poems. Show all posts
"EULOGY"
[Another beautiful lyric from L.E. Leone—enjoy!]
EULOGY
He used to be alive, and now
Now: this. Don’t look!
Close your eyes. Some of you
Gathered here may remember how
He
Stirred the molecules in the air he walked through
Or used
words
to convey meaning.
Yes, I loved him too, and it’s hard
to imagine
the word “paisley,” for example,
dying with him. The way
that he said “paisley”—and so
many other words.
So many words, indeed, that it could be said that he
knew a language. That’s saying something!
The way that he reached into his pockets
whenever he needed a thing that he kept in his pockets.
Keys. His wallet. Loose change.
Lip balm. Or, in earlier times, perhaps,
A comb or condom. All of these things he touched,
as he touched our lives.
Sometimes he said, “What time is it?”
Once, I remember, we passed
each other on the street. “How are you?”
he said. We all
Probably, have had similar encounters.
Have a nice day.
I take it black.
Goodnight.
There’s room for one more.
Other examples are of shirts he wore,
Things he read on the toilet and how
exactly
The bathroom smelled afterwards.
What was for dinner? (lunch? breakfast?)
Where he sat on the bus.
Cookbooks he looked at.
A mattress on which he left an
imprint, changed the nature of the springs
Empty shaving cream bottles he threw away.
(recycled?)
Or how about the little lines and specks
that moved routinely across his eyeballs?
And who among us will ever see a shoe
string without reflecting
that his shoes had shoe strings.
Which he tied
every
single
day.
Yes, my friends, his friends,
Life is a gift, it is clear because he made it clear to us, and death
is the ribbon.
He’s dead. You can open your eyes now.
Our friend is a ribbon.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
EULOGY
He used to be alive, and now
Now: this. Don’t look!
Close your eyes. Some of you
Gathered here may remember how
He
Stirred the molecules in the air he walked through
Or used
words
to convey meaning.
Yes, I loved him too, and it’s hard
to imagine
the word “paisley,” for example,
dying with him. The way
that he said “paisley”—and so
many other words.
So many words, indeed, that it could be said that he
knew a language. That’s saying something!
The way that he reached into his pockets
whenever he needed a thing that he kept in his pockets.
Keys. His wallet. Loose change.
Lip balm. Or, in earlier times, perhaps,
A comb or condom. All of these things he touched,
as he touched our lives.
Sometimes he said, “What time is it?”
Once, I remember, we passed
each other on the street. “How are you?”
he said. We all
Probably, have had similar encounters.
Have a nice day.
I take it black.
Goodnight.
There’s room for one more.
Other examples are of shirts he wore,
Things he read on the toilet and how
exactly
The bathroom smelled afterwards.
What was for dinner? (lunch? breakfast?)
Where he sat on the bus.
Cookbooks he looked at.
A mattress on which he left an
imprint, changed the nature of the springs
Empty shaving cream bottles he threw away.
(recycled?)
Or how about the little lines and specks
that moved routinely across his eyeballs?
And who among us will ever see a shoe
string without reflecting
that his shoes had shoe strings.
Which he tied
every
single
day.
Yes, my friends, his friends,
Life is a gift, it is clear because he made it clear to us, and death
is the ribbon.
He’s dead. You can open your eyes now.
Our friend is a ribbon.
L.E. Leone
© 2011
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"GESTURE"
[A beautiful lyric poem from L.E. Leone—enjoy!]
GESTURE
You can love the world
so, so much yet know that
no matter how ultimately it embraces
you, it won’t, can’t return
your box of chocolates
So you hope to find
instead a person
maybe loves the world
as much as you do
or more even, and
you can play together
in a darkened room
while outside, without knocking
the earth sends flowers
L.E. Leone
© 2010
GESTURE
You can love the world
so, so much yet know that
no matter how ultimately it embraces
you, it won’t, can’t return
your box of chocolates
So you hope to find
instead a person
maybe loves the world
as much as you do
or more even, and
you can play together
in a darkened room
while outside, without knocking
the earth sends flowers
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
ENTROPY: Only a Word, Go Back to Sleep
[In this poem, L.E. Leone examines cosmological questions]
ENTROPY: Only a Word, Go Back to Sleep
It’s true that I am not an apple
tree, or wild geese or grass. But if you
can’t see nature shining through my silly
surfaces, Sugar, that’s your failure
of imagination, not mine. Shaved, painted,
pierced, bikini-lined, I call myself
the Chicken Farmer and do not farm
chickens. Let me have my
eyes and big head, wrong as wind,
afraid as dawn, dangerous
as the storm that waters this
orchard, angry as the volcano
that made this island. Sad as fog,
which wrecks a small-boat fisherman, saving
the lives of at least two hundred fish.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
ENTROPY: Only a Word, Go Back to Sleep
It’s true that I am not an apple
tree, or wild geese or grass. But if you
can’t see nature shining through my silly
surfaces, Sugar, that’s your failure
of imagination, not mine. Shaved, painted,
pierced, bikini-lined, I call myself
the Chicken Farmer and do not farm
chickens. Let me have my
eyes and big head, wrong as wind,
afraid as dawn, dangerous
as the storm that waters this
orchard, angry as the volcano
that made this island. Sad as fog,
which wrecks a small-boat fisherman, saving
the lives of at least two hundred fish.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"GOING HOME"
[L.E. Leone herein examines questions of travel]
The road was washed out
The road looped around
Branches in the road
The road was roadblocked
Narrow, land-slided away
Dropped off, climbed straight up
The road was familiar
The road was brand new, paved
Dirt road, moose in the road
The road just ended
The road went on and on and on
I was not on the road
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Going Home
The road looped around
Branches in the road
The road was roadblocked
Narrow, land-slided away
Dropped off, climbed straight up
The road was familiar
The road was brand new, paved
Dirt road, moose in the road
The road just ended
The road went on and on and on
I was not on the road
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"ELECTRICITY EXPLAINED"
[L.E. Leone's latest is a new spin on electricity]
The current needs the cord. Nothing works
or is broken until you plug it in.
Then you know.
Lights, heat...
Perfume smells prettier on pigs, like violinists
in a cornfield. We’re only human.
We work, we’re broke, our ballads
unravel...
like balled-up twang. It’s what
cats love about us, why we love Vivaldi,
Bondage and fishnets are sexy. High
tension...
wires, underground cables, roads, we’re all
of us all tied up. Together. Tugged and taut,
teeth chattering, we vibrate, dream
a sack of rattlesnakes...
wonder why
we wake up
craving popcorn.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Electricity Explained
The current needs the cord. Nothing works
or is broken until you plug it in.
Then you know.
Lights, heat...
Perfume smells prettier on pigs, like violinists
in a cornfield. We’re only human.
We work, we’re broke, our ballads
unravel...
like balled-up twang. It’s what
cats love about us, why we love Vivaldi,
Bondage and fishnets are sexy. High
tension...
wires, underground cables, roads, we’re all
of us all tied up. Together. Tugged and taut,
teeth chattering, we vibrate, dream
a sack of rattlesnakes...
wonder why
we wake up
craving popcorn.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"THE DOORS ARE CLOSING, PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS"
[Hope you enjoy L.E. Leone's latest!]
The Doors Are Closing, Please Stand Clear Of The Doors
I called it a mouse, but the truth was . . . rat. Almost stepped on a pigeon, dead, on my way to the train.
At the Fruitvale Station there were cops everywhere, helicopters circling, and a bright, crescent moon. As I sat there on the platform, admiring it all, and the chill of November in general, the oldest man in the world came shuffling over with a cane and a hat.
I made room for him on the bench. How old are you? I asked.
You see those hills? He said.
They were purple in the slivery moonlight, and there was of course water between us and them, the bay.
I’m the oldest man in the world, my old man said. Oh, I could have hugged him alright. I’m a hundred and fifty, he said. Let’s level the playing field, he said. How old are you, he said, young lady?
How to say? How to say? You see those helicopters? I said.
He seemed surprised, or maybe just being polite. Are you as old as helicopters? he said.
No, I said. I’m going home from work. I’m a nanny. Chop chop chop, went the helicopters. I said, I’m 47, and I’m ten. Older than you. Newborn. I’m working on omniscience.
Ah.
What are the cops about? I said. Do you know?
He shook his head. No.
It was a trick question. I knew, I was just curious if he did. The white cop who had shot the young black man at this very station a New Years or so ago had been sentenced finally. Leniently. Two years, versus a lost life. An unarmed, face-down, already restrained life.
I could see what they were afraid of, the city of Oakland. And why the news vans were all so terribly excited. It was there! It was real! Riot, mayhem, even a peaceful protest. Even if, within my limited field of ocular vision people were, like me, just heading home from work.
The old guy …
He didn’t get on the train, damn it, I would have liked to have sat with him, more poetry, more brain teasers. But he wasn’t going, like me, to San Francisco, so I would have to settle for someone else’s half-finished New York Times crossword puzzle. Fell asleep under the bay. Under the weight of all that water, I dreamed a puddle of blood, the puddle, which I slipped on, fell in, skated over, cooked with, took a bath, and missed my stop.
At the end of the line I woke up, got off, rode the escalator, stepped over a sandwich, up the opposite platform, and boarded a train going the other way. For a while I looked out the window at Daly City, then I fell asleep again and didn’t wake up until the other end of the line. Dublin. Just one of the hazards of my profession! You fall asleep on BART, change sides, fall asleep again, and then the next thing you know you are homeless, huddled under a big coat in the last seat of the car, impossibly old. Day after day, this is all that you have: your coat, your years, your dream, the fluorescent light, the rumble of the track and the crackly voice of a driver. Except between midnight and five, when you sit outside with the pigeons and watch the sky, waiting to eventually be recognized. One of the babies you used to sing to sleep. Drunk but okay, walking home from the bar.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
The Doors Are Closing, Please Stand Clear Of The Doors
I called it a mouse, but the truth was . . . rat. Almost stepped on a pigeon, dead, on my way to the train.
At the Fruitvale Station there were cops everywhere, helicopters circling, and a bright, crescent moon. As I sat there on the platform, admiring it all, and the chill of November in general, the oldest man in the world came shuffling over with a cane and a hat.
I made room for him on the bench. How old are you? I asked.
You see those hills? He said.
They were purple in the slivery moonlight, and there was of course water between us and them, the bay.
I’m the oldest man in the world, my old man said. Oh, I could have hugged him alright. I’m a hundred and fifty, he said. Let’s level the playing field, he said. How old are you, he said, young lady?
How to say? How to say? You see those helicopters? I said.
He seemed surprised, or maybe just being polite. Are you as old as helicopters? he said.
No, I said. I’m going home from work. I’m a nanny. Chop chop chop, went the helicopters. I said, I’m 47, and I’m ten. Older than you. Newborn. I’m working on omniscience.
Ah.
What are the cops about? I said. Do you know?
He shook his head. No.
It was a trick question. I knew, I was just curious if he did. The white cop who had shot the young black man at this very station a New Years or so ago had been sentenced finally. Leniently. Two years, versus a lost life. An unarmed, face-down, already restrained life.
I could see what they were afraid of, the city of Oakland. And why the news vans were all so terribly excited. It was there! It was real! Riot, mayhem, even a peaceful protest. Even if, within my limited field of ocular vision people were, like me, just heading home from work.
The old guy …
He didn’t get on the train, damn it, I would have liked to have sat with him, more poetry, more brain teasers. But he wasn’t going, like me, to San Francisco, so I would have to settle for someone else’s half-finished New York Times crossword puzzle. Fell asleep under the bay. Under the weight of all that water, I dreamed a puddle of blood, the puddle, which I slipped on, fell in, skated over, cooked with, took a bath, and missed my stop.
At the end of the line I woke up, got off, rode the escalator, stepped over a sandwich, up the opposite platform, and boarded a train going the other way. For a while I looked out the window at Daly City, then I fell asleep again and didn’t wake up until the other end of the line. Dublin. Just one of the hazards of my profession! You fall asleep on BART, change sides, fall asleep again, and then the next thing you know you are homeless, huddled under a big coat in the last seat of the car, impossibly old. Day after day, this is all that you have: your coat, your years, your dream, the fluorescent light, the rumble of the track and the crackly voice of a driver. Except between midnight and five, when you sit outside with the pigeons and watch the sky, waiting to eventually be recognized. One of the babies you used to sing to sleep. Drunk but okay, walking home from the bar.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"WHAT’S NOT"
[L.E. Leone's latest, complete with antennae. Enjoy!]
What’s Not
Pine needle in his hair
pointed two o’clock and that’s
what time it was
coincidentally. I didn’t say
but leaning in for one last kiss
saw
a tiny ant on the tip, end
of the line, brave sailor
straining into a windy
empty world, antennae wild
for information
L.E. Leone
© 2010
What’s Not
Pine needle in his hair
pointed two o’clock and that’s
what time it was
coincidentally. I didn’t say
but leaning in for one last kiss
saw
a tiny ant on the tip, end
of the line, brave sailor
straining into a windy
empty world, antennae wild
for information
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"ANOTHER ONE FOR THE CAMPFIRE"
[L.E. Leone's latest is a true bucolic!]
ANOTHER ONE FOR THE CAMPFIRE
I wish there was a word
for the look
on cows’ faces when
a person with a tuba
wanders into their field
of vision. The song
goes on and on and
is not, for a change,
about alfalfa, shit and sky
CHORUS:
See, the dance is in her eyes,
Love, the blood in her heart
“Just cause my tail is swishing flies
That don’t mean that I ain’t smart”
Cows, they know the cars
going by pulling trailers pulling
boats from a cloud in the sky,
although, true, cattle tend toward
hypochondria, thus the constant
chewing
on it. Line of rumination running
as (roughly) follows: Is there grass
between my teeth?
Worse? Whoa, do I have hardware
sickness??? Could this be it?
A corner
iron in my soup? Or a bent,
rusty, nail? Oh, Christ!
Oh & that’s a pretty pill, the magnet they
must swallow for a cure, the size
and weight of my vibrator,
taste of medicine, oof. Yet the one-man-marching-band
punk-rock tubist, never having
tried his hand at cowpoking, wouldn’t
couldn’t understand
the very particular flavor of fear his beautiful human
instrument hammers into their many
many stomachs
as sound assumes shape assumes
sound and the sun,
the sun glistens, as it has for, what, 5,500 years
and counting, off of hard, dented
brass
I wish there was a word
(REPEAT CHORUS)
L.E. Leone
© 2010
ANOTHER ONE FOR THE CAMPFIRE
I wish there was a word
for the look
on cows’ faces when
a person with a tuba
wanders into their field
of vision. The song
goes on and on and
is not, for a change,
about alfalfa, shit and sky
CHORUS:
See, the dance is in her eyes,
Love, the blood in her heart
“Just cause my tail is swishing flies
That don’t mean that I ain’t smart”
Cows, they know the cars
going by pulling trailers pulling
boats from a cloud in the sky,
although, true, cattle tend toward
hypochondria, thus the constant
chewing
on it. Line of rumination running
as (roughly) follows: Is there grass
between my teeth?
Worse? Whoa, do I have hardware
sickness??? Could this be it?
A corner
iron in my soup? Or a bent,
rusty, nail? Oh, Christ!
Oh & that’s a pretty pill, the magnet they
must swallow for a cure, the size
and weight of my vibrator,
taste of medicine, oof. Yet the one-man-marching-band
punk-rock tubist, never having
tried his hand at cowpoking, wouldn’t
couldn’t understand
the very particular flavor of fear his beautiful human
instrument hammers into their many
many stomachs
as sound assumes shape assumes
sound and the sun,
the sun glistens, as it has for, what, 5,500 years
and counting, off of hard, dented
brass
I wish there was a word
(REPEAT CHORUS)
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"BIBLE STUDIES FOR THE ALMOST COMPLETELY DISCOMBOBULATED"
[L.E. Leone once again tackles the big questions: the miraculous in various manifestations]
BIBLE STUDIES FOR THE ALMOST COMPLETELY DISCOMBOBULATED
I refuse to look stuff up. Therefore I might have this all wrong, but I have been thinking a lot about something one of J-man’s disciples is alleged to have said while they were practicing for the greatest circus act of all time: walking on water. J (as I recall) was spouting this line of new-age crap about just having to believe, man, blah blah. And Whatshisname, the disciple—expressing a much more human (and therefore meaningful to me) point of view—goes, “Dude, I do believe. Help me with my disbelief.”
We search for words. We think we might know what they mean. As I sit and search for these ‘uns, in 2010, a record player next to my head spins an old Carter Family album of gospel tunes. In my own way, I enjoy their music, but suspect that A.P., for one, was a total asswipe, and am glad (if I accidentally listen to the words) not to be very (if at all) Christian. Joseph Spence, on the other hand . . . I would waltz across water to hold my head for one song next to his sound hole, to dance in his spit and sweat. I would swing from his broken strings, sell my soul to the devil to believe, while I’m still alive, what he’s believing with those bass runs and belly growls.
That his guitar was always out of tune in the exact same way to every other ear but his . . . this is, as best as I can put it, my strongest argument for going on living.
John, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve studied theology, poetry, and music. Help me explain to my little brother Chris about love. How it is both bullshit, and the only thing in the world sharp and hard enough to cut through the bullshit to the beautiful blank space we like to think of as a core. How it can be blind as a midnight chicken, yet still see through walls, layers and layers of winter clothing, and cement-block-fortressed, barbed-wire-wrapped hearts . . . just not necessarily Tupperware. Or wax paper. Or even, truth be told, plastic wrap. How it is worth it.
Without any doubt.
BIBLE STUDIES FOR THE ALMOST COMPLETELY DISCOMBOBULATED
I refuse to look stuff up. Therefore I might have this all wrong, but I have been thinking a lot about something one of J-man’s disciples is alleged to have said while they were practicing for the greatest circus act of all time: walking on water. J (as I recall) was spouting this line of new-age crap about just having to believe, man, blah blah. And Whatshisname, the disciple—expressing a much more human (and therefore meaningful to me) point of view—goes, “Dude, I do believe. Help me with my disbelief.”
We search for words. We think we might know what they mean. As I sit and search for these ‘uns, in 2010, a record player next to my head spins an old Carter Family album of gospel tunes. In my own way, I enjoy their music, but suspect that A.P., for one, was a total asswipe, and am glad (if I accidentally listen to the words) not to be very (if at all) Christian. Joseph Spence, on the other hand . . . I would waltz across water to hold my head for one song next to his sound hole, to dance in his spit and sweat. I would swing from his broken strings, sell my soul to the devil to believe, while I’m still alive, what he’s believing with those bass runs and belly growls.
That his guitar was always out of tune in the exact same way to every other ear but his . . . this is, as best as I can put it, my strongest argument for going on living.
John, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve studied theology, poetry, and music. Help me explain to my little brother Chris about love. How it is both bullshit, and the only thing in the world sharp and hard enough to cut through the bullshit to the beautiful blank space we like to think of as a core. How it can be blind as a midnight chicken, yet still see through walls, layers and layers of winter clothing, and cement-block-fortressed, barbed-wire-wrapped hearts . . . just not necessarily Tupperware. Or wax paper. Or even, truth be told, plastic wrap. How it is worth it.
Without any doubt.
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"ANOTHER RECIPE FOR LOVE"
[L.E. Leone again contemplates love. Enjoy!]
ANOTHER RECIPE FOR LOVE
There’s a kind of wild
Flower grows along the highway
Here, Nebraska, makes me think
Of you. But then: so do weeds
And roadkill. Orange cones,
Construction, so beautiful it’s
Almost deafening. I know, I know:
You don’t say “I love you” to
Someone you’re falling in love
With. It’s like shooting yourself
In the foot. Worse: like hacking off
Your foot with a hacksaw, stringing
It up by the big toe from a tree, and then
Shooting it, nine times. What’s left, form
into a patty. I prefer peanut oil
Five minutes each side … all the while of course
Bleeding to death, I love you.
There’s a kind of wild
Flower grows along the highway
Here, Nebraska, makes me think
Of you. But then: so do weeds
And roadkill. Orange cones,
Construction, so beautiful it’s
Almost deafening. I know, I know:
You don’t say “I love you” to
Someone you’re falling in love
With. It’s like shooting yourself
In the foot. Worse: like hacking off
Your foot with a hacksaw, stringing
It up by the big toe from a tree, and then
Shooting it, nine times. What’s left, form
into a patty. I prefer peanut oil
Five minutes each side … all the while of course
Bleeding to death, I love you.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Float"
[L.E. Leone reports that the Dating Poems series is over; but this new poem is really amazing. Enjoy!]
FLOAT
At the bottom of the anger
At the bottom of the letter
At the bottom of the cough syrup bottle
At the bottom of the stairs
At the bottom of stars
At the bottom of memory itself
At the bottom of an imagined childhood
At the bottom of the dream
At the bottom of a bottomless pit
At the bottom of the mystery
At the bottom of why
At the bottom of the beat
At the bottom of the song
At the bottom of the bed
At the bottom of flowers painted on the bottom of a bed
At the bottom of flowers, real ones, in the ground
At the bottom of hope
At the bottom of ducks
At the bottom of my heart
At the bottom of the feeling in my stomach
At the bottom of that pile of shit
At the bottom of the gum on the bottom of my shoe
At the bottom of the ice cream cone
At the bottom of the world
At the bottom of everything
At the bottom of the bottom of everything
At the bottom of that bag
At the bottom of “it”
At the bottom of another man who doesn’t get it
At the bottom of another man who can’t handle it
At the bottom of another man who doesn’t want it
At the bottom of another man who does
At the bottom of cowardice
At the bottom of lack
At the bottom of failure of imagination
At the bottom of lust
At the bottom of rape
At the bottom of the compost pile
At the bottom of a German author’s unfinished manuscript
At the bottom of the river
At the bottom of my oatmeal bowl
At the bottom of madness
At the bottom of the Gatorade bottle
At the bottom of betrayal
At the bottom of the ocean
At the bottom of night
At the bottom of the bathtub I wring my pillowcase in
At the bottom of morning
At the bottom of coffee
At the bottom of another beautiful lonely day with lots of people in it
At the bottom of the ninth inning
At the bottom of the grave
At the bottom of hatred
At the bottom of breath
At the bottom of misunderstanding
At the bottom of a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes
At the bottom of a pair of brown socks on someone else’s stinking feet
At the bottom of disbelief
At the bottom of fear
At the bottom of the poem
At the bottom of the page the poem is on
I find, incredibly, love, still
and white
L.E. Leone
© 2010
FLOAT
At the bottom of the anger
At the bottom of the letter
At the bottom of the cough syrup bottle
At the bottom of the stairs
At the bottom of stars
At the bottom of memory itself
At the bottom of an imagined childhood
At the bottom of the dream
At the bottom of a bottomless pit
At the bottom of the mystery
At the bottom of why
At the bottom of the beat
At the bottom of the song
At the bottom of the bed
At the bottom of flowers painted on the bottom of a bed
At the bottom of flowers, real ones, in the ground
At the bottom of hope
At the bottom of ducks
At the bottom of my heart
At the bottom of the feeling in my stomach
At the bottom of that pile of shit
At the bottom of the gum on the bottom of my shoe
At the bottom of the ice cream cone
At the bottom of the world
At the bottom of everything
At the bottom of the bottom of everything
At the bottom of that bag
At the bottom of “it”
At the bottom of another man who doesn’t get it
At the bottom of another man who can’t handle it
At the bottom of another man who doesn’t want it
At the bottom of another man who does
At the bottom of cowardice
At the bottom of lack
At the bottom of failure of imagination
At the bottom of lust
At the bottom of rape
At the bottom of the compost pile
At the bottom of a German author’s unfinished manuscript
At the bottom of the river
At the bottom of my oatmeal bowl
At the bottom of madness
At the bottom of the Gatorade bottle
At the bottom of betrayal
At the bottom of the ocean
At the bottom of night
At the bottom of the bathtub I wring my pillowcase in
At the bottom of morning
At the bottom of coffee
At the bottom of another beautiful lonely day with lots of people in it
At the bottom of the ninth inning
At the bottom of the grave
At the bottom of hatred
At the bottom of breath
At the bottom of misunderstanding
At the bottom of a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes
At the bottom of a pair of brown socks on someone else’s stinking feet
At the bottom of disbelief
At the bottom of fear
At the bottom of the poem
At the bottom of the page the poem is on
I find, incredibly, love, still
and white
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Dating Poems" (installment #6)
[Here's the latest LE Leone poem for your enjoyment. Since this was very late posting due to a power outage, this will be the top post thru Wednesday 6/30!]
ZACK
After he left I sat
by the fake fire pit
on the sidewalk outside
that surfer burger joint
and cried. I didn’t think
I could do this anymore,
this people-meeting, even
though I love meeting
people and want to meet
one to love. But the funny
thing that isn’t funny at
all is that I’m not supposed
to be here right now. I was
one of the lucky ones, who
actually met and fell in love
with and was loved in return
by the love of her life and
soul mate and so on and so
forth and so, yeah, I cried a
little into that fake fire pit.
This really has nothing to do
with Zack, who I liked very
much, but who didn’t like me,
which is fair enough
but I thought about how, as
a child, one of eleven, I
used to love being alone.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
ZACK
After he left I sat
by the fake fire pit
on the sidewalk outside
that surfer burger joint
and cried. I didn’t think
I could do this anymore,
this people-meeting, even
though I love meeting
people and want to meet
one to love. But the funny
thing that isn’t funny at
all is that I’m not supposed
to be here right now. I was
one of the lucky ones, who
actually met and fell in love
with and was loved in return
by the love of her life and
soul mate and so on and so
forth and so, yeah, I cried a
little into that fake fire pit.
This really has nothing to do
with Zack, who I liked very
much, but who didn’t like me,
which is fair enough
but I thought about how, as
a child, one of eleven, I
used to love being alone.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Dating Poems" (installment #5)
[Another of L.E. Leone's Dating Poems! Enjoy!]
ANDREW
He’s midwesterner than me,
says gosh, and golly. Once:
“Gol…”
Mennonite,
he loves Christmas tree lights
and Christmas, always orders the same
thing, and never tried pot
Oh but he could go and go! And go . . . (I take time,
and he had it.) If I was lucky one of his drops
of sweat would land on my lip
I like raw red meat, sushi, chicken hearts,
and any kind of liver. In lieu of tampons, or even makeup,
a bottle of hot sauce in my purse. Plus:
I suck the insides out of crawfish heads, with passion and
joy, unbridled. Dirty girl
on a low road, I tried real hard, too hard
not to fall in love.
Goddamn it, Andrew.
I miss your square ass.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
ANDREW
He’s midwesterner than me,
says gosh, and golly. Once:
“Gol…”
Mennonite,
he loves Christmas tree lights
and Christmas, always orders the same
thing, and never tried pot
Oh but he could go and go! And go . . . (I take time,
and he had it.) If I was lucky one of his drops
of sweat would land on my lip
I like raw red meat, sushi, chicken hearts,
and any kind of liver. In lieu of tampons, or even makeup,
a bottle of hot sauce in my purse. Plus:
I suck the insides out of crawfish heads, with passion and
joy, unbridled. Dirty girl
on a low road, I tried real hard, too hard
not to fall in love.
Goddamn it, Andrew.
I miss your square ass.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Dating Poems" (installment #4)
[Another of L.E. Leone's Dating Poems - enjoy!]
JOE
No, I didn’t like the way
you touched my face,
first date, at the counter and
without tenderness. More like
testing
a piece of fruit.
I’m sweet I’m soft
I’m bruised I’m ripe
I’m hard I’m furry
sticky crunchy juicy,
I have a hole in me
from another piece’s
stem, the sticker will
be hard to peel if you
wash me first, and
there might be a worm
in there. True, I’m
nutty buttery bananas
to your waffle, Joe,
but I ain’t fruit,
fuck you.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
JOE
No, I didn’t like the way
you touched my face,
first date, at the counter and
without tenderness. More like
testing
a piece of fruit.
I’m sweet I’m soft
I’m bruised I’m ripe
I’m hard I’m furry
sticky crunchy juicy,
I have a hole in me
from another piece’s
stem, the sticker will
be hard to peel if you
wash me first, and
there might be a worm
in there. True, I’m
nutty buttery bananas
to your waffle, Joe,
but I ain’t fruit,
fuck you.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Dating Poems" (installment #3)
[L.E. Leone's Dating Poems sequence continues!]
MANJIT
Something tells me you
are full of yourself, something
else: now who the hell else
would he be full of?
Planetarium eyes, I want you, want
to watch, gaze, listen, I’m afraid
They say that, musically, you sink
every ship you step into
I say, hey, let’s build one
out of banjos and milk cartons!
You say you don’t dream
No problem! I dream
enough
for both of us, jangle plink
plink toc toc
TONY
I could take it as a compliment I
suppose that men would have heart
attacks and car accidents on their way
to see me. Or:
I could date younger men.
Without drinking problems.
No, I don’t need a note
from your cardiologist, I believe
you. Belief, big man, is not
the problem.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
MANJIT
Something tells me you
are full of yourself, something
else: now who the hell else
would he be full of?
Planetarium eyes, I want you, want
to watch, gaze, listen, I’m afraid
They say that, musically, you sink
every ship you step into
I say, hey, let’s build one
out of banjos and milk cartons!
You say you don’t dream
No problem! I dream
enough
for both of us, jangle plink
plink toc toc
TONY
I could take it as a compliment I
suppose that men would have heart
attacks and car accidents on their way
to see me. Or:
I could date younger men.
Without drinking problems.
No, I don’t need a note
from your cardiologist, I believe
you. Belief, big man, is not
the problem.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Dating Poems" (installment #2)
[L.E. Leone's intrepid Dating Poems series continues!]
KRYSTIAN
The night
I almost broke
your arm coming
and you said after
catching our breath I
was so sexy? . . .
Did you mean it?
Because
you know yours
wouldn’t have been
the first
arm that I broke
Truly,
MORGAN
So, OK, so you couldn’t make it
to my reading because you had a date
with your other lover, but your heart
will be with me? [look up from podium &
around the room for a while]
I don’t see it, I’m happy
to say. Dismemberment
unnerves me.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
KRYSTIAN
The night
I almost broke
your arm coming
and you said after
catching our breath I
was so sexy? . . .
Did you mean it?
Because
you know yours
wouldn’t have been
the first
arm that I broke
Truly,
MORGAN
So, OK, so you couldn’t make it
to my reading because you had a date
with your other lover, but your heart
will be with me? [look up from podium &
around the room for a while]
I don’t see it, I’m happy
to say. Dismemberment
unnerves me.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Dating Poems" (installment #1)
[L.E. Leone's most recent poetic foray is a sequence called Dating Poems; we'll be posting them two at a time over the next few weeks. Enjoy!]
JAMES
Thank you for the reading
glasses. That was one of the
most thoughtful, least romantic
gestures ever made by any man
to me.
I liked your hat, but prefer
my words blurry,
thanks.
CHARLIE
Sorry I didn’t invite you
in. I know
you wanted it, but
would have died
of boredom. One-sided
conversation is not a
turn-on, tropical
fish and auto-
cross: not
my favorite topics.
Our third date, like the
second, will be our last,
but thank you, Charlie,
for the rose, the hamburger,
and all that time
to chew.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
JAMES
Thank you for the reading
glasses. That was one of the
most thoughtful, least romantic
gestures ever made by any man
to me.
I liked your hat, but prefer
my words blurry,
thanks.
CHARLIE
Sorry I didn’t invite you
in. I know
you wanted it, but
would have died
of boredom. One-sided
conversation is not a
turn-on, tropical
fish and auto-
cross: not
my favorite topics.
Our third date, like the
second, will be our last,
but thank you, Charlie,
for the rose, the hamburger,
and all that time
to chew.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Video Kills The Super-8 Star"
[L.E. takes a look at home movies as they relate forward in time to love affairs. Enjoy!]
Video Kills The Super-8 Star
Close your eyes. Are your eyes still
closed? Is it me you see
on the wall or stretched
bed sheet behind
your eyelids? Super-8
black & white, right? Bouncing
too fast, so fast it hurts, like life and
sex a little sometimes, huh? A foreign film
incomprehensible, or
barely so, and carsick. That’s me,
see, cute dress and knee socks, sitting
on the horsey. That’s me, crying
laughing, running from the camera,
running toward the camera running from
the camera. That’s me, reading my
poems at fill in the name of the S.F.
coffeehouse or smoky small room in Berlin
“Focus, focus!” Fuck, do you see
how the image freezes, edges
burn? That ain’t me. That’s
what I call ducks
in the machinery, or time-lapsed
lasagne—a delicacy these video vegetarians
and their digital offspring, if you think
about it, will never enjoy. The
taste, a searing memory, you
over-underestimate me, shrink
crunch
and utter
quack.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Video Kills The Super-8 Star
Close your eyes. Are your eyes still
closed? Is it me you see
on the wall or stretched
bed sheet behind
your eyelids? Super-8
black & white, right? Bouncing
too fast, so fast it hurts, like life and
sex a little sometimes, huh? A foreign film
incomprehensible, or
barely so, and carsick. That’s me,
see, cute dress and knee socks, sitting
on the horsey. That’s me, crying
laughing, running from the camera,
running toward the camera running from
the camera. That’s me, reading my
poems at fill in the name of the S.F.
coffeehouse or smoky small room in Berlin
“Focus, focus!” Fuck, do you see
how the image freezes, edges
burn? That ain’t me. That’s
what I call ducks
in the machinery, or time-lapsed
lasagne—a delicacy these video vegetarians
and their digital offspring, if you think
about it, will never enjoy. The
taste, a searing memory, you
over-underestimate me, shrink
crunch
and utter
quack.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
"Things That Aren't What They Are"
[Here's another poem by L.E. Leone for your viewing pleasure!]
Things That Aren't What They Are
The poem is empty and then
there are words
like
grrrandmama, autumn, and butt juice
Ah, the coffee is on
the drummer’s high hat this
is
only a matter of time, no?
Like, like, my ex-T-shirts and
currently clean panties
one
wonders why the laundry line gave
Two, three, four
Over and over, you
slice
little slices off my lip
Musician!
Maestro of the coffee-
sharp
play room carpet, I miss you
Can I say that? Can I
say this, that
um
you rock, your precision, your
Cannibal kiss, that my poem remains
empty, my mug half-full, a
peck
on my cheek, your pecker
Check that. The cheek is
where the best meat is, I’m told
over
and over, as ever I roll
repeat chorus
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Things That Aren't What They Are
The poem is empty and then
there are words
like
grrrandmama, autumn, and butt juice
Ah, the coffee is on
the drummer’s high hat this
is
only a matter of time, no?
Like, like, my ex-T-shirts and
currently clean panties
one
wonders why the laundry line gave
Two, three, four
Over and over, you
slice
little slices off my lip
Musician!
Maestro of the coffee-
sharp
play room carpet, I miss you
Can I say that? Can I
say this, that
um
you rock, your precision, your
Cannibal kiss, that my poem remains
empty, my mug half-full, a
peck
on my cheek, your pecker
Check that. The cheek is
where the best meat is, I’m told
over
and over, as ever I roll
repeat chorus
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Labels:
LE poems,
LE writing,
poetry
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)