Saturday, August 29, 2009

Yikes I keep learning strange things... history of name games on fb

On facebook, people keep telling me my fan page ain't a fan page - it used to be and started out like that but now it's a group or a club. I originally chose to use the words fan club but a close friend vehemently told me he "is an artist too and he's not joining anyone's fan club; we're all in this together son!"
A peculiar phenomena; people who tout togetherness are often not our best artistic allies although I still like to consider it so. I often help writers get published and this is before I became editor at Cartier. I help by providing useful information to get them started.
Anyway, back on subject, I then changed the name to Joy & DubbleX admirer's admiration society as a joke. We left it like that for a while. Then I changed the name to the Joy & DubbleX Admiration Society and then we became Joy and DubbleX Club and now we are simply, Joy&DubbleX.
A couple of people refused to join at first because we were a fan club and now they won't join because we're not a fan club and dig this - now some people are letting go their profiles and only having fan clubs. I'd like to know what is the difference between a fan page and a fan club anyway?

What a dilemma - damned if I do and damned if I don't!

Should I start a fan club and let the individual posting go?

What about for The Cartier Street Review - should I begin a new fan club for them too and let the old listing go? And what about the hard work involved or is it simply a fresh start?

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

GIVE PEACE A CHANCE ~ Bluetry #17

I have a dream to spread world peace among lands and nations
World peace unfurled released upon future generations
Voice of world peace is blowing in the breeze, please baby please
Hear its cry forswear and be anti war declare peace
Peace ~ blowing in the breeze
Thunderbolts of peace strike us like lightening the truth of it’s frightening,
Baby I’m begging you please
Comply, meditate open the floodgates on making peace reality
Begin with community - extend to humanity - cleanse the world with peace
Open the floodgates
Cogitate, hear my pleas for peace, deliberate, drink, eat peace
Breakfast lunch and dinner, PEACE on all menus please
I dream of world peace, wars to cease, no more fights about energy and resources hidden behind religious prayers and sentiments
No more armed forces invading foreign soils
Everlasting peace for mother earth I breath peace unto thee and me instead of stealing your oil destroying your soil –
I want to power the Mohave Desert with miles and miles of solar panels
So our children will inherit the earth, so they will have a planet on which to reside to survive
Make peace a new way to breathe
inhale exhale peace
I want some peace a piece of peace
Increase peace; buy a new lease on your life and mine
I'm joining the conspiracy theorists regarding there being a world plan among the monied and powered...for a new world order. Breathe peace visualize a new universe

I don’t have to be a Rastafari to enjoy their music
I want a world ruled by peace not caprice inhale exhale peace
The priests don’t have all the answers
Release judgments, forget treason, peace is the answer

One day at time - stick to art speak your heart - promote peace amplify and aggrandize
no more guns, increase love tenfold, world peace will be the new world order universe
breathe peace respire inspire inhale exhale peace
it’s delicious it’s nutritious ~ peace

Here in the matrix - peace -health follows peace as naturally as sunrise follows night
Give me a fudge Sunday delight without a fight
Give peace a chance to turn off these fitful blues
a look through Monday’s peaceful schedule
Tuesday’s just as good
I want to feast on reverence and PEACE
Fast on fear desires and greediness
Don’t you want somebody to love
I need somebody, I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody I just want someone to love
With peace in my holster, I need a little bolster
Just give me somebody to love
God damn, I'll say it again -
Just give me someone to love

Sunday, August 23, 2009

211th Street and 10th Ave and 202nd and 10th

The first is by Shiro, a visiting Japanese graffiti artist, who is kept very busy in our hood. Her work is very recognizable with her signature Asian chick and signature. I dig her work.

The guy who's signature is below, Track, was right in front of Shiro's work - can't recall or read the first part.


Here is Shiro on another wall closeby.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Check this out! Translator available at Joy's Blog!

I don't know if this it's a help or hindrance to add a translator because people all over the world speak English. They do it because the tourist industry requires it and if one owns any type establishment it's a plus to speak in the language of your visitors. It's also plain fun to hang out with foreigners and show them the cool places. I've had very memorable experiences world-wide, thanks to the array of friendly helpful funny and insightful folk I've met on my mind-broadening adventures and journeys. I've hung out with many musicians for hours after gigs and found people everywhere who would direct me to where I needed to  be. In general the world is a friendly place and people want to do right and be good. I think this is true especially among artists where everything is super-powerfully charged and transmitted through us as conduits.

There's an old joke about language that has stuck with me since I was told it, because of its truth.

Q: What do you call a person who speaks two languages?
A: Bilingual
Q: What do you call a person who speaks three languages?
A: Trilingual
Q: What do you call a person who speaks only one language?
A: A United States Citizen

This is mostly the truth for here in our USA. Look around and ask and observe how many native United States citizens speak a 2nd language. I speak Spanish modestly. My neighbors appreciate my efforts. I studied the required Spanish at Columbia for 2 years, and followed this up with 2 more years of conversational Spanish. Then when I studied for my masters degree in creative writing at City College, I took translation to prove proficiency in a second language and got an A for it too.

Anyway sometimes we all need and want a break and that's what I put this here for; your reading pleasure. Please take advantage of the audio and don't forget to visit Dubblex's blog too. We are so busy.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

GCast right up front again

G Cast doesn't work anymore. It was a recorder that played my music and poetry. Now you can hear that right on my front page - click here.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

busy busy busy

Working hard at the Cartier Street Review- yippee.
We're now on Poets and Writers list of Literary Magazines. For those of you who don't want to go; here's the spiel copied below. I included the quote from newpages blog since I was very pleased to see us there too.

CSR is an online quarterly poetry and art publication on Issuu. CSR accepts contemporary poetry, articles on contemporary poetry, short prose, writer interviews and reviews. TCSR is an international literary magazine and will publish in other languages alongside translation. "The masthead of The Cartier Street Review is a testament to online opportunities … opened for literary ventures: Founding Editor Bernard Alain hails from Canada, Principal Editor Joy Leftow and Assistant Editor "Dubblex" from New York, and staff member Thomas Hubbard from Puget Sound, Washington." Newpages blog.

We've been working on redoing our garage band tunes. The first blues tune was very elemental compared to the tracks we put down today. Featuring DubbleX playing back up blues guitar and melodica in the background. I'm tellin' you people, I'm not tryin' to lose ya'll - I want to share ya'll with his artistry. Please visit DubbleXDiaries We collaborate a lot so I think you'll enjoy the entertainment. Right now we are working on some poetry collaborations mixed with a spoken word skit with a hook. DubbleX has a lot of ideas.

More news to report; Brad Eubanks has joined staff, Bernard Alain, Joy Leftow and Thomas Hubbard as editorial intern. We are pleased to have his help. I am looking for one more reader and someone who could continue the same level of expertise Bernard provides in doing layout. I am also talking to another person about helping with business acumen as related to carrying on this literary endeavor. The work is phenomenal.

I've brought up readership at Cartier to 2000 hits a month and according to our leader and founder, Bernard Alain, these are no BS hits, many from university and faculty members. Dubblex thinks we need to charge 99 cents per download for the mag and someone else suggested a poetry contest. I was thinking a reading fee; 2 poems for $5, 3 to 5 poems for $10. Any ideas or comments folks? Feel free to email me.

On that same subject DubbleX and I are cutting a promotional disk of 4 bluetry & 4 musipoems and we were wondering if anyone cares to buy one for $5 including the postage.

I also have some paid work for next month so for the next two weeks I will be working hard at this project. It's already half done.

the beat goes on.



Saturday, August 15, 2009

Reality is the Blues Too - Bluetry #9

The Internet blends virtual and living
what’s the word you’re saying I can’t understand u, I keep trying to cope with his accent.
No, emphatically softly spoken writing chat, speaking hurriedly, I write in internet language –
Oh I said, how come I can’t hear or understand you.

U remind me of my gurlfriend hurt voice grouchy deep,
add another rock to the pile of styles I forbid you too,
finally fell silent for my own good.
She’s in love with me too he cood.
Oh well we probably have a lot in common I say with each breath I’m dying.
Well ok beecoz
she thinks it’s inconceivable
I’m friends with a woman frm america
you and I we’ll speak 12 hrs frm now
when its ni8 for u N day 4 me
a strange language in a love embrace
play your blues for me daddy I wont go home
I’ll eat them all night long let your blues loose for me, Daddy
A cool glass; water please. No disease please let me go
You turn me on I’m a radio
you’re driving into town
With a dark cloud above you
Dial in the number
Who’s bound to love you
Oh honey you turn me on
Im’a radio, a country-station broadcasting tower
I’m so in love with me why aren’t you

An outcast misfit living in bluetry- a new word I create my own lexicon, I never refuse a gift I can use; I’m strong or wrong, a poet, not a bully
I just want someone to love.
Respect – the girl next-door walks by my door covered with blue bruises, her baby held hostage by su esposo’ para hacer un esclavo de ella - make a slave of her, no tiene’ respecto’ mis vecino’s concurra.
I’m hungry don’t you want some breast-fast?
(oo) What you want
(oo) Baby, I got it
(oo) What you need
(oo) Don't know I got it?
Cast out from everything, by everyone I know I live outside looking in.
Longing for youthful beauty fading in the distance the moon and stars keep riffin those guitar blues in persistence I hear ya knocking at my door.
I hear ya knockin’ but ya can’t come in
I’m scared you’re more dangerous than me, I’m scared for her, for you for me for all of us I am, my life breath fading in the instance of constantly –
that bottle slide sure does make that guitar riff daddy.
Let it go to my feet wet windy sex in the sax screech of my lungs sound
Like a flower waiting to bloom
Like a light bulb in a dark room
I'm jes sittin’ here waiting for you to come on home
And turn me on

Friday, August 14, 2009

Kate Evans interviews me and reviews Spot of Bleach...

Joy Leftow: Dare to be Different by Kate Evans


I like Joy Leftow's iconoclastic ways and writing so much that I featured an interview with her on this blog. Enjoy!

Please tell us about the genesis of your book.
Spot of Bleach is an organic mix of sensibility and growth up until the time book was printed in 2006, dating back to poetry first written in 1980 when I wrote the sestina “Twisted, A Sestina of Love” at a writing class at Columbia University. As I put the book together, it seemed to choose its own subjects from which I named chapters.

The placement of the chapters took some time to figure out. I took the book apart and put it together several times before being sure the fit was right. Finally it made sense that the very risqué love story should go at the end. I wrote that story in 2001 when I attended the creative writing program at CCNY, where I earned my second masters.

From the very beginning, my creative writings caused a riff in every writing class. Other members became angry about my style and very often argued about my characters complaining that the characters didn’t make them feel empathy. Most professors pointed out that the very thing that the other students didn’t like about my characters, are the things that make the characters alive and real.

What's the one thing you most want people to know about your book?
The book evolved out life experience, creativity, and my powers of observation. There are many stories to tell and within this volume I tell many. You may hate what I write about or how I write, but I promise this book won’t bore you.

I need writing like air and this book is what I breathed out. I call my poems “my offspring” because I have given them life. In that regard, the book is a parallel expression of the years from which the works are collected, an assortment of articles, stories, philosophical meanderings or what may now be called flash fiction along with narrative poetry.

Please tell us a little about the photographs that are included in your collection and how you see them as complementing the poems.

Years ago after I purchased my first digital, people said I had a good eye for showing things in a different perspective. Since the book is very personal, the photos add to this view by showing more about how I see things. For example, the cover section Philosophy has a photo I took while in Thailand visiting the Golden Buddha. The cover for the chapter forms is a famous rock form in Los Cabos. The cover pic came to me in a dream, and although the pic was ten years old, it was an urban pic of me in Central Park with my favorite statue, the Lewis Carroll Statue of Alice in Wonderland.

A Barbara Walters question: If you were a poem by any writer, which poem would you be and why?
I would be “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer. Since childhood, I have loved that poem and trees have always appealed to me. I watch the moon and stars through stark branches. I watch the trees change season-to-season and sometimes fall into ill health or get blown over in a storm. Living in a big city as I do, trees are my opportunity to commune with nature. I’m lucky my building is in the northern tip of Manhattan Island where there are many parks. My apartment overlooks an extended spot of nature near the highway. I have several poems inspired by nature and trees.

Why do you write poetry?
I write because I have to; I don’t have a choice. Writing is my first love. I need writing to survive. My poetry has evolved along with me to do more than only share stories. Sometimes there’s a story within, but it will only be one facet of the entire poem which has taken on existential and surreal elements, especially in my newer bluetry series and other writing which can be seen on my blog.

Do you think the Internet is a good complement to writing—or does it just get in the way?
The internet is made for networking and research or maybe just made for me. I can surf all day and network endlessly and it seems to fit my style. It works for me. Look at all the things I’ve done on Facebook alone; first I made a fan club for someone else then for myself, then for a magazine which published my work. Then I promoted several other groups and people. Afterwards I became an editor for The Cartier Street Review and another editor took note of all this activity and asked me to edit an anthology with her. The internet helps move things along.

The only problem I see with this is for a solitary person like me, it encourages me to stay in the house and remain solitary. Why go out when I can accomplish so much sitting in front of a computer?

Do you believe all poetry is political—or just some poems?
I think all poetry is political to the extent that life is political. Every time we make a statement or write a sentence it has wider implications, unless all you say is pass the butter, and even something like that can be made political. Why not get up and get the butter yourself? So much is a mechanism of social behavior we learn. And why must we follow norms? Who is it who decides what norms to follow?

I have always rebelled against norms. For example, I love to eat with my hands instead of a fork, I love to bring up subjects that could be embarrassing. I often write about relationships based on power structures. Work relationships and the structure of work are also political so if you write about work then, in essence, it’s political. Some poetry is blatantly political, concerning the presidency or human rights. More subtle poetry is about relationships or written from a woman’s or man’s view. Sometimes people don’t consider my work political in spite of the fact that I often address social issues in my writing.

Please share with us one poem from the collection, and then riff a little about the journey the poem takes the reader on.


I’m close with this nurse who works at Presbyterian Hospital. One day she told me this story about this baby who’d been born at the hospital and was so tiny because he’d been born addicted to crack. This woman could not have her own children and had considered adoption but finally gave up on the idea. You know how couples are sometimes, they have so much for each other and there’s no more to go around, and her husband thrived under all her attention. This newborn called out to her in a way that made her move like she’d never moved before. As if suddenly without learning she’d gotten up and could tango. She told me a story and we both had tears in our eyes because I felt her pain and the pain of this infant.

Professional caregivers often suffer and burn out because of our pain. It’s a difficult job to keep giving with no payback in sight except to know you’ve done right by someone, so I related. That night, I said I’m going to write a poem about this baby and JoAnne said, Please do, it would help me to deal with it.
I wrote this poem back in 1994 and it’s as apt today as it was then because the problem still exists. I have friends on the scene who tell me each time they hear the poem they hear different things. People cry when I read this poem. They get it! Sometimes people get angry and tell me my poetry isn’t real poetry. There’s been a lot of controversy around that. I actually have a piece on my blog about this which got a great many responses.

Others who have heard me read this before will request it at readings. I'm actually quite bad at attending readings which is kind of strange because there's this dichotomy; I'm very friendly and outgoing while simultaneously reclusive and shy. The other thing to remember is that when blues first emerged, they said it wasn’t “real” music and the same with jazz. Dare to be different, I’ve lived my life by that code.

What are you working on now?
I am currently working on a series of bluetry poems. I labeled them bluetry (yes I made it up) because this series concerns the common themes of blues. This year has been a year for the blues for me. I was compelled to write these. The first bluetry I wrote invokes Billie Holiday—one of my all-time favorites—and is called “I sing the blues for you today.” This poem took me three months before I knew where I was.

I threw Billie’s lines in the bluetry and they took off. I also have a bluetry poem about a dog rescue and canned hunts, another passion of mine. What I see happening in my poetry and writing is that I mix more elements together and take risks. I take a pinch of surreal, mix with equal parts enthusiasm and passion, add existentialism and observations, throw in some reality and voilà!


Anything else you'd like to add?
The most frequent comment about my work usually concerns its honesty and openness or something about my passion. Absolutely, I write with passion, the way I live. People often write me about my poetry and comment on my life being so sad. I don’t know what to do about that really but passion is evoked from intensity. That is the way I am and the way I was born. Perhaps artists become artists because they do feel things more intensely.

From way back I always have a pen in my hand. Now I mostly sit in front of the computer but if I'm forced to go out, I've always got pen and paper at hand and most often use it. Now, I have very little time, being totally involved with two current projects, editor at The Cartier Street Review, and also for The Smoking Book, an anthology concerning smoke, fire, fog, or anything that concerns smoke. I also write interviews for Street Literature Review, the paper mag. It’s also time to return to that unfinished 186 page novel and just spit it out! I love writing and love reading. Being busy with passion is what I live for.

2 comments:

Andrew Christ said...

Yay Joy!

Lisa Allender said...

Thanks, Kate Evans, for letting us all in on the "secrets" of joy/(Joy) so few authors possess. Even when the material is dark, there can be beauty in the "reveal" of it.


Sunday, August 09, 2009

The eye in my sky is crying - bluetry16

The eye in my sky is crying
See my fears roll down the street
Tears allayed by stares in space
A cell phone in hand, no dial tone, a blues band commands my adrenal glands
Understand it’s my wedding band, not a new brand of incense,
I take a firm stand on a crash land course stuck in the meadowlands of York
Passion fruit seeps from my sweat glands
Swerving into oblivion on the freeway, an alien shaman ~ that’s me
An alligator devoured my right hand – Now I have 2 left feet left
Beauty is nothing but a backdrop for the blues
We all want beauty peace a little food and empathy
I keep trying and failing to decompartmentalize; an exemplary fit
Lost my wit – cut it out stupid twit see what’s writ do as befits,
I observe others fare better
The eye in my sky reflects humanity’s tears their fears that life can’t be any better or go anywhere except to all one place eventually
Do you want to be easily forgot, your family there
A score or two more no one will know you
Damn give your shell to charity
No formaldehyde either, please.
I use the excuse I’m Jewish; bury me green please
I keep saying son it will pass you by before we come noon to sun
Is this how you want to spend your last day
My man loves his drugs
Almost as much or more than me
He gets them easily supercalifragilisticexpialidociouslly,
Tons of prescriptions legally
His drugs do him right
Momentarily maniacal he says he’s feelin’ so tight
I see him in a new light struggling to write
Doctrinally following clinical struggles, a mix of Geodon, Ambien Lamogine,
To name a few - some are noxious others only for allergies
Billy Jean’s not his lover; enervated after meds
no more energy when he’s through throw some synergy into the fray
Walking up Bombay Broadway
Brings me back to tears rolling down the street
I refuse to admit defeat repeat it all again and again
The eye in my sky is crying


Dubblex on Guitar & garageband

Friday, August 07, 2009

Bluetry Flowing

I’ve got the blues real bad flowing from my heart to my hands
My mind feels my heart sing misty blue for you
Heartstrings pull the red river roves of my mind stills
Turns chill as the weather
the trill of the river’s wake
I am here waiting for you to come on home, just come on home

Attached like twins - umbilical cord traveling in space right alongside death,
death and life - 2 ends of the same string.
Fate, energy, beyond a memory, the stars, the moon, some stars make it some don’t, some have to fake it and still can’t make it, some of us have it and never make it from the bottom to the top It’s all in my head I assure you my Bluetry won’t cure you for sure if you’re poor demure obscure, secure or insecure and you got the blues come on and wail with me, baby
You could slow your demise.

All the voices in my head tread lightly the pain is great I got the blues on download in my psyche, I’ma put it on pause take a breath let the light in through
The darkened drapes covering my universe.
My daddy said I was tone deaf, throw that in reverse.
Capitalize on this crazy bluetry ~ sing Nina Simone off key for you
Like a flower waiting to bloom; Like a light bulb in a dark room
I’m here waiting for you to come on home, and turn me on
Living the blues in the intimate language raising the decibel level for interpole,
Internet language – you misheard - dig out the earwax.

You remind me of my x-girlfriend he continues on a roll of faith– she’s in love with her own voice too. I guess we have interesting voices I said to defend us. Don’t know if he heard he’s busy feeling his own world. I remind him of a past love. He reported recorded ex gf thinks he’s crazy because he follows me on the internet all the way from India. Imaginary Legends, I can’t help it. It’s outta focus. I can’t imagine -Time gone, nothing matters anymore. Sex, whatever you need, free from fee on the Internet, no lies, all tried and true.

A constant ache, I ain’t as pretty as I used to be. If only I hadn’t put on all that we8. You say don’t worry, it’s all transitory anyway, I’m waiting for someone - show me the way, on the other end, I’m not myopic – I can’t see that far, I’m water, a Pisces, I shape shift into form then when I understand them - I become more a part of who I am I am I am

Who’s crazy here? You say I’m the prisoner. I say it’s you. History sees the oppressor oppressed by oppressee. Let me break it down. You’re powerful. I got the balls to defy you – you’re no different than me. We got the same wires trapped beneath the dresser. I’m mother earth confessor, my ribs made this nation, I got the sensation to feel you I do. My ribs crush concrete – I perspire with desire light money rains right outside the window my rainbow manifests. Get outta my way I’ma hit the sky today, it’s my time to get me some, you hear me son.

I’m Violet– a wild mad swirl of a girl inside my heart design, grabbed this for a new poetry line. I never refuse a gift of words I can use. Hey isn’t that a line from a poem? If not I’ll make it one. Violet coming at ya’ - from the Heights, born and raised here -so get down with me tonight, cause we’re all good.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

My pussy poem tribute to margaret cho

Have any of you seen Margaret Cho? Not many comedians make me laugh but she does. Usually with comedians everyone around me laughs and I'm like - you're so not funny. At one point I was hysterical. You've got to watch her My Puss on you tube.

I wrote my own My Puss poem. Not quite Margaret Cho's masterpiece yet but it will entertain.


My puss is pretty and pink
Your puss is ugly and stink
My puss is sweet like a flower
Your puss is dirty and sour
My puss is nice and tight
Your puss is loose and a fright
My puss is clean and shaved
Your puss should be hidden in a cave
My puss smells spectacular
There’s no vernacular to describe your ugly puss
Your puss is gaseous and has typhus,
My puss is a precious goddess
My puss smells like a fragrant honey bun
Your puss’s clit is like a Cuban cigar
It’s so bizarre, it chases men from the boudoir
My clits like a binary star
Your puss is funky with zits,
My clit makes men want to submit
My puss is clever with wit
Your puss is like a streetcar
You never know who’s on it
My puss is like wordstar
Made to savoir and fear like a jaguar
My pussy’s like a fresh breath of air
Like a green sweet pear
My puss promotes world peace
Your puss is like dirty used up grease
No sense to compare
My fragrant puss with your
Despairing brown bear
My puss is rare
It’s unfair warfare

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Billie's Blues Dog Rescue #VIII

Billie’s blues on my mind tonight
I’ve morphed into Billie singing my blues to her blues we are one
Your protestations sink into my instrumentals
Everything’s easy to get on the Internet; you can get whatever you want to.

I’m a fool to want you, for heaven’s sake why am I in love, here’s a chance fall in love.

I race up the stairs to face closing doors #1 train, elevated, a second too late. For God’s sake, my breath jagged, voice barely whispers on exhale. A golden red-nosed puppy stands before me, jumps on the bench next to DubbleX. Eye to eye, dilemmas & sadness everywhere.

Dubblex says forget the train roars up the watches drama ensues. The dog shaking, wet & wary furry pretty fur seeking solace and warmth. Train pulls in dog runs for the open doors, crevice between the platform & train. I see him go under. I grab him by the flesh on his neck; pull him away from the closing door. Another moment stolen from death. The pup whines, returns to the bench. My heart skips a Billie holiday beat.

This revolution will not be televised it will not put the shine back on your teeth. How bout the belt from my bag - I greedily grab it. Pup accepts collar attempts to climb into my arms again.

Kneel down Johnny, heel, his haunches pressed to my thighs, crouched beside him, clinches the blended holiness of earth and sky. Pressed to my chest, his tongue sweeps my neck. Paws bleeding raw - ice & sleet on the pavement.
Let’s agree to be in love like a melody. Wet white snow falling huge flakes drop on my face. I can’t go where I want to.

Money you’ve got lots of friends crowding right your door,
but when you’re gone and nothing’s left, they don’t come round no more.

I want to go back when things were changing. Now things are suspended or turning backwards. I don't understand. Race for faith, blood bath, Kent State massacre, more prejudice now then before.

Baby pit follows me whining. I bend to examine torn ragged paws, bloodied from standing in deep salted snow, blizzards outside the station. He covers me with kisses, dutifully remains still a second then jumps on my chest. Here, boy, Here. I crouch down he throws himself in my arms shaking.

Downstairs the token booth clerk says cops are on their way. My heart booms, a gut reaction, not my future. I hold red nose with my make shift collar. He pulls me he’s strong, his attention span like a child’s eye caught by mischief, his shaking visible to everyone. Cops show up, act afraid even when they see him sucking my face. The sgt arrives & doesn’t know what to do. Finally a cage from the station arrives. I take charge, tell them how to put him in there away from my caring arms.

I’m a fool to want you. A red nosed pit bull with tail & ears intact. Will they find a home for him? My heart sings collateral let freedom ring, life on a hinge.