[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 writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LE writing. 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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
"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
Writers Talk with L.E. Leone
Any hoot: L.E. Leone, in addition to being my very good friend & one of the regular contributors on the Robert Frost Banjo blog, is a successful writer & musician. She has published two volumes of short stories: The Meaning of Lunch & Big Bend, as well as a collection of restaurant reviews titled Eat This, San Francisco. L.E. is also the regular Cheap Eats restaurant reviewer for the weekly San Francisco Bay Guardian. Musically, she was a founding member of the band Ed’s Redeeming Qualities, & has also performed with the Buckets & Lipsey Mountain Spring Band. L.E. currently has a solo music thing going under her nom de guerre of Sister Exister. You can check out her album Scratch on CDBaby here.
You can also check out her poem, “Licking Knives”, on the Writers Talk blog. I should perhaps point out that the poem is "NFSW."
Most importantly to me, L.E. has been a tried & true friend since the early 90s. She has always been supportive of my creative endeavors, be they writerly or musical—& I must say, whatever musical endeavors I have these days were greatly inspired by L.E.’s own serious “can do” musical attitude.
& so: here’s L.E.!
When did you first realize your identity as a writer?
I think I was six. I was walking on the playground behind Immaculate Conception school in Youngstown, Ohio, looking at my little shoes moving across the asphalt, hearing grasshoppers jumping in the dry weeds around the perimeter, and thinking that in spite of all evidence to the contrary, I was Agent 99 from Get Smart. It was my first exercise in point-of-view, and as soon as I realized that I was one (a point of view), and that that was about all I was … it was over.
Around maybe fourth grade I started making poems, which I self-published on scraps of paper and passed to the kid I had a crush on. He passed them to his cousin, and they made the rounds. And I made my reputation—which I still have—as a kind-of literary clown. These poems were usually two simple, rhyming lines about something predictable (such as snow or tree frogs) designed to lull my little classmates into a stupor, and then a third line which—by design—had nothing to do with anything (such as Miles Standish). The goal was to get them to laugh out loud in the classroom. Really, I’m still doing almost exactly that.
Describe the creative process involved in any one piece you’ve written—this could be book, a story, a poem, an essay, etc.
My short story “Spinach,” for example, started with a line from a song that a friend of mine wrote: “I have a photo / from the first day we met / it helps me remember / but I usually forget / I keep it in my shoe / in case I get lost” … Six lines, I guess, which I thought were brilliant, and which sprung me into one of the longest stories I ever told. For no good reason, really, I told it in a kind of a made-up dialect. Something southern-ish. And I set it in Alma, Arkansas, and Tucson, Arizona, really because those were two of the places I had just played on tour with my old band, and they kind of stuck in my head. Because the shows went pretty well, or something.
So happens, there was also a point, during that tour, where I got in a huge fight with one of my bandmates while we were driving through the Sonoran desert, and I fantasized about leaving him behind when he got out of the car. The story “Spinach” has nothing to do, really, with any of these things. Yet they’re all there, in the story. It’s a twisted, three-way love story that’s sad and funny. After that tour, my bandmates, with whom I lived, dispersed for the holidays, and I stayed behind in San Francisco and stayed up late, and wrote, and wrote and wrote.
A couple of editors at the Paris Review really helped and encouraged me with the dialect. I remember them saying: “Go all the way. Take it to an extreme. Really get inside of this character.” And I did, through several rewrites, until it eventually worked. I came to love the way that particular narrator spoke, so much so that I have adopted some of his made up words and malaprops for my own. Years later, when the story was published in my book, another editor, my friend Mike DeCapite, had the bright idea of adding a couple of wigs onto this desert-days shopping list, and now that is my favorite thing about the story. I laugh every time I think of it, and it wasn’t even my idea, or words.
So, this all probably sounds pretty patchwork-y by now, but I think it’s one of the most cohesive and complete things I ever wrote. And all I’d wanted to do, initially, was try to imagine a reason for a guy keeping a photograph for years and years in his shoe.
Could you describe your relationship to the publishing process (this can be publishing in any form, from traditional book publishing to blogging, etc)?
I do well with deadlines. Stop laughing, John. Really, though, I wrote a regular column for my high school paper. I was the editor of my college paper, and had to crank out editorials twice a week. And ever since graduate school, where I focused on fiction-writing, I have had to produce a weekly column under deadline pressure. I love being in a newspaper, because people read it. It’s local, immediate, and in my experience butters more bagels than books do. But really the bottom line is that more people read newspapers than books. Right? I might be wrong, and in any case it is of course changing. I’m told print media will all but disappear. It’s been pretty good to me, but I’m not going to dig in my heels. Wherever people are reading what they read, that’s where I’ll go because that’s what it’s about for me: my words, and your eyeballs. Or ears. I have loved writing (and recording) for this blog. It gives me a deadline (which I missed this week, that’s why John was laughing) … and a voice. The truth is, I don’t eat a lot of bagels.
How has being a writer affected your relationships?
That’s a really good question. I can tell because I don’t have any idea how to answer it. I have fucked up and lost friends because of something I wrote. It hasn’t happened often, but it has and I hate that and would love a do-over. My weekly column is tricky because I write about my life, and my life includes—in fact, features—my relationships.
Most of my friends seem to get a kick out of being in my column, even though I use nicknames and often make things up about them, say they said things they didn’t say, and in some cases tease them. One of my closest friends, and perhaps my favorite person to write about, has put a restraining order on me, writingwise. But I sneak things in, like this, because I love to say her name: Crawdad de la Cooter.
As for romantic relationships, hmm, I do wonder sometimes if publishing poems and restaurant reviews about bad dates might not be counterproductive to getting good ones. Honestly, if I met me in a bar (for example) and knew who I was and what I wrote, I would be afraid to date me.
On the other hand my writing is what gives me confidence in myself, and therefore (I assume) makes me at all attractive. It is how I flirt. I don’t mean in love letters. I mean in restaurant reviews—and, to a lesser degree, in short stories, songs, and poetry.
So another way of looking at it is: If I weren’t a writer I would never have had any romantic relationships … to be negatively affected by the fact that I am a writer.
How would you describe the community of writers you belong to—if any? This may be a “real” or “virtual” (in more than one sense) community.
I would describe my community of writers as Nancy Krygowski. She’s one of my oldest, dearest friends, and a great poet from Pittsburgh, PA. Every Friday, before the end of the day, her time, she has to send me a new poem, or else. And in return, by the end of my work week (which is three hour later, ha ha) I have to send her three pages of fiction. In this way, we force each other to produce. It’s a great arrangement, because I love Nancy, and absolutely adore her poetry, so when I crank out my three pages, I feel I am earning something way more precious than paychecks, or even accolades: I am earning the existence of one more poem of hers in this underpoetic world. So my inspiration to write, these days, comes from my desire for someone else to write. And this is working, for both of us.
In a broader sense, my community includes writers with whom I have become, through the years, great friends and even soulmates—even if our friendships no longer revolve around writing, as they once did. There are a handful of these special friends scattered around the country at this point—New York, Ohio, Idaho, upstairs—and at one time or another, in one way or another, they have all saved my life.
What are your future goals in terms of writing?
I’m glad you asked. Because, for the first time since fourth grade, I have one. I have a goal! What I want to do is change the world. How? By doing something no one has ever done, to my knowledge: writing a series of stories, each with at least one positive male character who is competent, kind, cool as hell, lucky as fuck, on fire, and (it so happens) in love—madly, openly, and entirely coincidentally—with a transgender woman. Do you see why this is vital? The biggest social, political, or for that matter socio-political issue of our time, as far as I can make out, is that not a lot of people want to go out with trans women, and those that do, tend to be secretive about it, and ashamed. I would like to do something about this.
Bonus Question: If your writing were a musical instrument, what would it be?
Easy. The tissue-comb harmonica.
"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
"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.
"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
"WATCH"
[L.E. Leone's latest for your enjoyment. No post tomorrow, but please check back around on Thursday for Writers Talk with Jessica Fox-Wilson!]
Watch
The watched pot boils. Steam streams and billows. The whistle whistles—which is experienced by the watcher of the watched pot as a whistle. Condensation beads around the lidded rim, rivering down to sizzle against the burner. The air between the watched pot and the watcher of the pot turns to weather: cloudy and humid. Now the watched pot shakes, wracked with boiling, and the noise, this whistle, screaming. Incredible, it’s like nothing the watcher of the watched pot has ever heard, or ever will. One’s brain is actually transformed. One’s brain can for once be tactily experienced inside one’s kitchen sink, like a sponge.
The screaming stops finally, too late for the cat, which has leapt to its death from a third-floor bedroom window. But the watcher of the still-watched pot is stronger than this. Silence, meanwhile, will need to be adjusted to, changing the brain again—even as the watched pot itself shifts slightly in shade, color, gradually glowing. It begins to tick. Which reminds one, after a time, of a watched clock, or watch. How time itself, like a crumpled newspaper, loses its linear tick-tock nature now, as now in no particular order now it crackles and burns.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
Watch
The watched pot boils. Steam streams and billows. The whistle whistles—which is experienced by the watcher of the watched pot as a whistle. Condensation beads around the lidded rim, rivering down to sizzle against the burner. The air between the watched pot and the watcher of the pot turns to weather: cloudy and humid. Now the watched pot shakes, wracked with boiling, and the noise, this whistle, screaming. Incredible, it’s like nothing the watcher of the watched pot has ever heard, or ever will. One’s brain is actually transformed. One’s brain can for once be tactily experienced inside one’s kitchen sink, like a sponge.
The screaming stops finally, too late for the cat, which has leapt to its death from a third-floor bedroom window. But the watcher of the still-watched pot is stronger than this. Silence, meanwhile, will need to be adjusted to, changing the brain again—even as the watched pot itself shifts slightly in shade, color, gradually glowing. It begins to tick. Which reminds one, after a time, of a watched clock, or watch. How time itself, like a crumpled newspaper, loses its linear tick-tock nature now, as now in no particular order now it crackles and burns.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
FATHER, SON, BEDTIME STORY
[L.E. Leone's latest—enjoy!]
On the food chain channel an animal is eating another animal a little bit at a time, taking it in, taking it on, taking its shape. The father, dead to the world on the floor under the television, dreams. In it, the eaten animal is already of course barbecued, slathered in a gurgly red sauce. It’s a snake, cut neatly into snake steaks, and the eater, though a cat, is using a fork and knife.
“Why, Daddy?”
Because that’s the way dreams are, son. Get used to it.
I was fixing to cross a border from one country to another, I don’t remember why. There was a sense of urgency. Of adventure. Like . . . almost . . . like an adventure, yes. Like a rescue. I was going in to get somebody.
“Me?”
Maybe. But it wasn’t you exactly, yet, because you weren’t born. You didn’t exist. Anyway, there were cars lined up, a long line of cars, waiting to cross the border. I was in this line, but on foot. I would look at the people inside the cars because, you see, I needed a helper.
“Mom!”
Maybe, yeah, but my helper was a man. Was going to be a man. I had him all picked out, and he wrote me a check, was going to write, but it was unclear whether he knew what his role would be. Son, sometimes in life we are called upon to do a thing that is not exactly by-the-book legal.
“Book?”
This thing I was going to do. It was very dangerous. There was a voice in my head: the voice of authority. Other-side-of-the-border authority. You see: the government. The other one.
“You were a spy?”
I was spied. The voice said: You are being watched. You are on our radar. We have you. We are inside of you. You can’t possibly do what you are about to do, let alone get away with it.
I knew that, and yet there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to try. I was going in. There was no choice, or decision. No—
“Dad?”
Yeah?
“You’re my hero.”
Yeah, but you would never say that. No son of mine . . .
“What would I say?”
Something else: Come over for dinner. Get up on the grill. There is a blankness in us, a bright white sizzle, pure like the unwatched part of a movie screen, aching to be filled with images. Come alive! Mean something! Sizzle, fizzle, gasp, and, well . . .
Mom, you say? You want your mother? Your mother isn’t your mother, you are old enough now to know. There was a woman with a blank face, not movie-screen blank—more like a billboard, your ad here. She wore a long blue gown and short brown hair, but . . . no nose, no mouth, no eyes, no features. Just white. This woman was inside of me, and that woman was, is, your real mother, son. Don’t cry.
“Mom!”
She can’t hear you. She has no ears.
On the food chain channel an animal is eating another animal a little bit at a time, taking it in, taking it on, taking its shape. The father, dead to the world on the floor under the television, dreams. In it, the eaten animal is already of course barbecued, slathered in a gurgly red sauce. It’s a snake, cut neatly into snake steaks, and the eater, though a cat, is using a fork and knife.
“Why, Daddy?”
Because that’s the way dreams are, son. Get used to it.
I was fixing to cross a border from one country to another, I don’t remember why. There was a sense of urgency. Of adventure. Like . . . almost . . . like an adventure, yes. Like a rescue. I was going in to get somebody.
“Me?”
Maybe. But it wasn’t you exactly, yet, because you weren’t born. You didn’t exist. Anyway, there were cars lined up, a long line of cars, waiting to cross the border. I was in this line, but on foot. I would look at the people inside the cars because, you see, I needed a helper.
“Mom!”
Maybe, yeah, but my helper was a man. Was going to be a man. I had him all picked out, and he wrote me a check, was going to write, but it was unclear whether he knew what his role would be. Son, sometimes in life we are called upon to do a thing that is not exactly by-the-book legal.
“Book?”
This thing I was going to do. It was very dangerous. There was a voice in my head: the voice of authority. Other-side-of-the-border authority. You see: the government. The other one.
“You were a spy?”
I was spied. The voice said: You are being watched. You are on our radar. We have you. We are inside of you. You can’t possibly do what you are about to do, let alone get away with it.
I knew that, and yet there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to try. I was going in. There was no choice, or decision. No—
“Dad?”
Yeah?
“You’re my hero.”
Yeah, but you would never say that. No son of mine . . .
“What would I say?”
Something else: Come over for dinner. Get up on the grill. There is a blankness in us, a bright white sizzle, pure like the unwatched part of a movie screen, aching to be filled with images. Come alive! Mean something! Sizzle, fizzle, gasp, and, well . . .
Mom, you say? You want your mother? Your mother isn’t your mother, you are old enough now to know. There was a woman with a blank face, not movie-screen blank—more like a billboard, your ad here. She wore a long blue gown and short brown hair, but . . . no nose, no mouth, no eyes, no features. Just white. This woman was inside of me, and that woman was, is, your real mother, son. Don’t cry.
“Mom!”
She can’t hear you. She has no ears.
"SOUL"
[L.E. Leone says she's switching to fiction for a bit & is that a problem in Robert Frost's Banjo terms? Not at all, I say. Please check this 0ut!]
SOUL
First I thought—I was taught that soul was something dead people had, how Grandpa Rubino got to be with God even though there he was, plain as daisies, in the coffin, open, closed, down in dirt.
I was a religious kid. I heard a lot of talk, a lot of words, some of which were “soul.” We knelt, we sat, we stood, tried to see things. The dark space between the skin and the fabric, was that where soul was? Or white on the tongue, in the back of the throat, the scream, forming.
For the longest time I thought that soul was what made poetry so goddamn poetic, art artsy, and so on. I read a lot, wrote some stories, and tried in general to be soulful.
Then I was sure that soul was all about music, man. I mean, think about it: the song of the tissue-comb harmonica.
Tried drugs. That was something, but not soul.
Next came soul food, which was a happy, fun, and filling if not fulfilling period of my life. Full-feeling? Not a lot of enlightenment, no but: fried chicken! Biscuits, barbecue, greens, beans. Smothered pork chops. Gravy. This was a happy, fun, and fulfilling period of my life (did I say that?)—only instead of immortality . . . high cholesterol.
Now I would like to have a child. I feel empty inside sometimes. My biology says to have a kid. It’s in you to do this, it says. It’s body chemistry and hormones. Ooga, I will love my child. It will look like me, like us. We will try to be good parents. But is this soul? Creating a body with our bodies, another body with another brain to try and figure out about soul? My body, on my best days, says, “Maybe.”
L.E. Leone
© 2010
SOUL
First I thought—I was taught that soul was something dead people had, how Grandpa Rubino got to be with God even though there he was, plain as daisies, in the coffin, open, closed, down in dirt.
I was a religious kid. I heard a lot of talk, a lot of words, some of which were “soul.” We knelt, we sat, we stood, tried to see things. The dark space between the skin and the fabric, was that where soul was? Or white on the tongue, in the back of the throat, the scream, forming.
For the longest time I thought that soul was what made poetry so goddamn poetic, art artsy, and so on. I read a lot, wrote some stories, and tried in general to be soulful.
Then I was sure that soul was all about music, man. I mean, think about it: the song of the tissue-comb harmonica.
Tried drugs. That was something, but not soul.
Next came soul food, which was a happy, fun, and filling if not fulfilling period of my life. Full-feeling? Not a lot of enlightenment, no but: fried chicken! Biscuits, barbecue, greens, beans. Smothered pork chops. Gravy. This was a happy, fun, and fulfilling period of my life (did I say that?)—only instead of immortality . . . high cholesterol.
Now I would like to have a child. I feel empty inside sometimes. My biology says to have a kid. It’s in you to do this, it says. It’s body chemistry and hormones. Ooga, I will love my child. It will look like me, like us. We will try to be good parents. But is this soul? Creating a body with our bodies, another body with another brain to try and figure out about soul? My body, on my best days, says, “Maybe.”
L.E. Leone
© 2010
"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
"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
"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
"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
"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
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