Happy New Year Everyone

Submission guidelines

We bare ourselves – down to our easily assailable and accessible frail frames to be known in the biblical sense as well as the primary sense when we (writers) create a new true being – a character who others relate to. Everything I spit is born two entities, how the other sees himself and my vision of that person. Since childhood my visions of the world has been very adult having had my parent’s bitter life view force-fed me since my birth. The way this affects me is that I relate to the world by constantly studying everyone around me since we are all cast in our own life drama novels anyway. No one wants to live in a drama but we often do even when it’s third hand or when we are just all “watchers” like in the fringe or living inside Jackson’s Lottery.

A long time ago – in two separate universes – one undergraduate writing class at Columbia University General Studies and the other two decades later in the Master’s Degree Creative Writing Program at The City University of New York City, A comment/ question was made regarding my style.

A fellow student said, “her characters lack any empathy; for my part they’re completely lacking. Why should I care about them?”

Basically both professors said the same; “The point is not whether you like them or not, but that you feel something about them. You may not like her characters, but they are real enough to tick you off. I care about what her characters will do next and that’s more important than liking or not liking them because that will keep me reading!” After this the class calmed down about my characters’ personalities. All I can guess is that they led more conservative sheltered circumscribed lives than me.

Not to disappoint but I also had the opposite happen with a weak instructor who later stole a few lines from my writing. He asked for my complete novel and I stupidly gave it to him. The class said I’d already presented enough when one of those times was an assignment no one else did – we were asked to choose a character from history and write a page or two about them. I read mine since no one else had one. Ah well, I was disappointed he didn’t defend me since I clearly hadn’t presented my two short stories. It bothered me but I pity him too as he hasn’t written anything worth reading in a while after he stooped to a new low. No one else from there gained name fame either so ... onwards all to a new phase and forgetting the past!

Creative people often set a standard and in that standard social commentary is included. If you don’t like a character I’ve made, that character has already served his purpose because he has provoked your dislike and judgments.

Writing is all I know and the only way to show true purpose. I’m also part of my own commentary emerging from a consistently frightful analytic mind. That said, like everyone else, I only want to be my best.

Ta Da!

Back to where we began:

May your new year be all that you wish it be; blessed be.

BEING JEWISH

The plague of my life has always been
I’m not Jewish enough to be Jewish
Although over the years I’ve had several
Jewish girl friends, I can count them on one hand

No Jewish man has ever wanted me except
for some really despicable Jewish male perverts
and I’ve never figured out the reason
why I’ve always been an outcast among my
own people, and then, even my therapist told me

“It’s all because you don’t know the difference
between a schlemiel and a schlimazel,” I said
to my therapist, “Andy, don’t be a schlemiel,
a schlemiel is a jerk and schlimazel means
an inept jerk who’s persistently luckless.”

“No,” he said, “you’re wrong and even Ellen
knows the difference,” “Oh com’on” I said,
“what is there to know, you’re making this
up to tease me,” “Oh no I’m not,” he said,

“a schlemiel is someone who
is Jewish who doesn’t know
how to tie his tie properly
and the other is what you said.”

I do wonder what Andy’s going on about
My mother was Jewish orthodox and
my father was Russian Jew and how
much more Jewish can you get than that?
The point is, ... I’m still not Jewish enough ...

Then he said “Even a Jewish atheist would know-
-but the gist of it is, that you don’t know enough
about the culture to be with a Jewish man
who gets pleasure from being around other Jews
who can understand the language they speak.”

What can I do?
Being an outcast
is difficult at best!


© 2005 More of my "jewish" poetry can be seen at http://joyleftow.com

MORE ON DAD’S ABILITIES, Part 5

My Dad was a music man. He played the violin
like his father and grandfather before him
stroking it for the breath of an angel
He played everything by ear
He could compel any violin to his will
Dad wasn’t allowed to be a violinist
instead, he was forced to leave school to
work as an apprentice in a drug store
And he became a pharmacist
bitter to the core, never learning
what it was to express himself freely
to enrich his spirit by playing music
He only played his violin to gain
relief and solace from his burden
of helping to support his family
Pity, because Dad should’ve been a
musician giving life to a violin


©2002 re-edited 2009

HOLIDAY CELEBRATION

I keep trying to tread water in quicksand sinking faster in disgrace in the face of disaster

Life is a carousel of dreams

The famous radio therapist armond demille wrote me his words linger in my head get off your carousel of pain

allow me to help you

as a fellow therapist with professional courtesy due you, I’ll charge you only three hundred a session, a concession in my normal fees, I’ll cure you of your anomaly, your obsessions, give me your confession sacrifice your worldly possessions give up your attachments there’ll be no regression, I’m so darn good at my profession – no more transgressions no more depression

no more digression back to the blues tonight

I can’t be perfect I can only be me

A man stopped me at target all smiles, making eye contact, he nods.

merry Christmas to you. I don’t celebrate Christmas. I respond, you’re smiling so much you’re so happy why?

Ah happy with family at Christmas u must celebrate something too what r u

I don’t know what I am Call me Jewish Buddhist if you want –

But you look happy he said Looks are deceiving I said You joke he said you’re happy I see you smile really I said I’m always blue I don’t believe you

I don’t know how to limit myself to one religion

Dubblex is confused they always pick you – why your pretty face in a store full of women- there are so many women around why do they always come to u - he accused

Innocence devious claim to name fame our goals

The “all religion” ~ old religion

all religions are one – the word shall be one shall be done in heart space mind prevails so many travails hate to fail no bailing out I wail in my own jail hit the nail on the head

the world shall be one

one one one (((((((((oneoneoneoneoneoneone))))))) the one and one Irie

lightening and thunder

one nation under god indivisible with liberty and justice for all

one people united by love with peace and justice for all

I want the world on a string to spin in my my my my my my heart’s spin in a gleam with a ream of justice in economy for all full of bull

A wedding ring an office slur poetry in the afterlife

nose too big stomach too flabby

It’s inflatable unpredictable accounts payable receivable I’m not accountable for your bills my assets are not bequeathable retractable to your psycho babble circumscribable to your collectable circumstancial financials I’m familiar with the details

Fastidious and obsessive compulsive a hidden insidious agenda oblivious to the truth

I keep up with doctor ruth who lives in my hood

Embracing brotherhood understood under the fresh scent of cedarwood tree

The world will imbibe truth like a newborn with a new milk tooth

forsooth my youth I search like a sleuth

for the word shall be the truth

and the truth will set me free

I Am ...

I am a woman who’s had a hard life,
a woman of great lust, a survivor of strife
a woman graced by starlight and the morning star
a woman of delight nourished by dreams from afar

I am a woman who’s soul has been drained
drained and replenished again and again
a woman wrenched fiercely from all
that I’ve loved
who’s had moments of satiety, sobriety,
wonder and lust
a woman who rarely experiences trust

I am a woman who is secure and insecure
I know what I have and how to use it
but also fear its loss
I am a woman who possesses
great energy and insight
who owns potency as much as any
man I’ve ever met

I am a woman of great determination,
initiative and skill
Some say I’m opinionated, afraid I’ll bend
them to my will

they ignore my flexibility,
concentrate on my fear,
not seeing my ability
to metamorphasize,
to go with the flow
I am a woman not easily beaten
I have stamina for sure

I am a woman who will never give up
Who will be eighty and be active sexually,
still growing, mothering and loving

I am a woman who will always be strong,
it may continue forever, if I have another life
I will never give up - will never give up - never give up

I am a woman who works hard for all
that I have and all that I’ve lost
A survivor, a winner, a mover, a lover,
and someone’s mother
when threatened in her lair
a woman of strong suspicions, angers and fears

I am a woman who loves many people
who’s chosen profession is proof of love’s power
I am a woman who will fight ferociously

I am a woman who possesses great power
with ability to bestow great love
I give to all who have been disavowed,
hurt, abused and neglected

I am a woman defined by desire,
a risk taker by choice,
a woman with large sensitivity,
charm, and proclivity,

I am a woman who will always do more



© 2005

city bus intrusion

The young brunette on my left turned to me
donned a pair of huge square shaped red rimmed sunglasses with green lenses
the price tag still hanging from the frame
How do these look, she asked.
The bottoms of each rim slid smoothly over her cheekbones almost reaching the end of her nose
what’s the point I said unless you need to hide your face because you’re a famous movie star or you want to fool people into thinking you’re one.
I don’t see why you’d want to cover up such a lovely face.
She enigmatically pulled another pair from her purse
How about these she said enthusiastically
Putting on a translucent purple-rimmed frame with gray lenses
a slim lined cats’ eye wrap around shade
exposing high cheekbones and smooth skin
Hmm I said I like these better, you look mysterious
plus your pretty face isn’t hidden away
The matronly lady on her other side scolded me
how rude you are to say that
Those red glasses are perfectly lovely
they fit you divinely
she said to my seatmate smiling
Well I prefer the violet and she did ask my opinion
Would you have rather have me lie?
I see many women wearing those big framed ugly glasses and it doesn’t do much for them either
You asked my opinion didn’t you want to know it?
The young lady put the mammoth red framed glasses back on and turned to her new BFF
Those look very nice dear, the old lady said, I like these best
They suit you just fine
Ah me too said the young girl putting away the violet ones
I like these best too she said, turning away from me
I think I’ll wear these

© another true story by violet

Kick These Blues Around - bluetry #11

Vanilla frost skies roll thunder tributaries to another universe from my inner space continuum
peace into practice, activ -ity verily elemental I say unto you fred while I inadvertently turn my head

Got my flow on the rhythm of the down low joe if you know where to go to catch my drift

Ejaculation crashed against shores of revolution still seeking solutions in slow jerks instead of bred he offered her concrete proposals and requested favors for which he gave her candy.

No worries, took the devil’s deal and he even refused my original proposal.

I’m that bad - hear your belly laugh.

I’m a kind-of lonely kind-er-garten-er longing for laughter. Humanity’s incipient recipient spiritual guide hovers near offers incise insipid bites of one size fits all incrementing advice for what it’s worth – let the dogs out - cash out on lock down blues let loose to see what they do, a trombone’s misery, the down home blues conspiracy

Poetry thunder back in the day in a smoky cafe in east Harlem reading next to alan ginsberg, no go, not the me you know the one I was back then when I met him.
All right it’s a downright lie. Met him at a dark dank theatre in the east Village with his 20-year old boy toy. Which version do ya’ like better?

Poetry, networking, writing editing posting - promoting, poet @ poetry poetessing protesting being me, do you do what I do every day ~ do I do enough to satisfy you madame ginsberg, establish exacerbate emolliate emancipate your rage, engage you in becoming your age. Do you no write from wrong? Are you worried I’m not free enough of need to write like I’ve come undone, my fury unleashed turned fairy into solemnity Mary in May when I tried to wine and dine her, she made me dismantle my soul instead.

Soul inspiration you’re too old to decay before the sunset light my fire outside your soul’s window while I sing my blues to you.

Aching all over wonder how long I’ll survive to a hundred and five maybe eighty five wtf I don’t know what to do when I do what you do when I become you in my flurry frost forsaken fury lust lettered red. Memory records voices run on in my head on elemental disk space in my brain. Penis in my hands, a dandy thing, a dick & pussy. Silly putty pussy, eye-scan. Penis inside brain scan

desire ~ diaries she told me the history of her pussy it made me want to join the line.

Strangle out negatives no undo’s to become undone- progressive linear faith while awaiting with grace won in non linear to do getting done - proceed in all directions at once abstractions go back and forth with a new mazed dawn suddenly seeing new energy forms, intrinsic instinctual inhabitable happiness, death a no go to provenience

Liberty the right to pursue happiness peace hand held evolution a solution dedicated to the handstand I stand on end about to implode explode my spaghetti solutions to allusion gut solved evolutions pour out my ass-ness with sassiness a little fruitfulness

Lettuce find the source of the force lost in series of unfortunate masquerades of delusion, an allusion to who I am, an illusion, illustration for the children my minds been set a fire.

Catch a fire you’re gonna get burned.

JOY'S COOKING tribute to hal sirowitz

Come on over here I said
You keep typing
and ain't paying
attention to me
Now that you're a poet
you're torturing me
making me wait to be with you

I’m a sensitive
new-age, macho-man
So, I'll be
through very soon
and be free to satisfy you, he said
as soon as I finish this

O.K. I said, I'll get
ready for you
An hour later
he was still revising when
suddenly he yelled out
Perfect, it's perfect now

What is I asked
You and the poem he replied
I'm not perfect, I denied
just the best
I've ever been
and the best
you've ever known

© 1994 Joy Leftow

Neils great interview experiment

Neil Kramer from Citizen of the Month Blog does this Great Interview experiment which I jokingly agreed to participate in. As usual, the writing took a long time and then the editing of course took time too. In fact I edited my answers without knowing Cissa had already posted!

I thank Cissa Fireheart for thinking up such creative questions and for posting on her blog.

My interview of Alicia D. Beth follows here.

1. Your blog has a great deal of personal writings and photography. Do you primarily share on your blog?

My blog is definitely meant eventually to be a record for my children, both of their mother and of their lives growing up. My father died when I was 11, and I have this sort of nagging worry, always, that they may not know me as adults. I wish I had access to this kind of record about my dad and my childhood.

It’s a constant tension, though. I do want to write things that will interest other people, but I know this isn’t usually the case with the mundane details of life. I read a lot of mothers who are able to strike this balance – always engaging, including when writing about their children – but I don’t feel like I know how to do it yet. I’m not sure I ever will, but I’ll keep trying.

As far as the photography goes... Uf. This is a point of contention right now. We bought a *fantastic* camera when I was pregnant with my first son, and it lasted about seven years. When I went to buy a replacement, I thought an expensive point-and-shoot seven years newer would surely surpass in quality the SLR we were replacing. Not true. I definitely learned my lesson. I hate the piece of shit I’m using right now. I have a long-held interest in amateur photography – I took classes in college and thought about majoring in it – so it’s just not something I’m content to do poorly. I do have my eye on a couple DSLRs, though.

2. You’ve been blogging for 4 years. Has it changed since you began?

My first exposure to blogging was actually in 2000, during my pregnancy with my first son. My husband, Bradley, started what amounted to a “blog,” although I’m not sure we called it that then, at http://beth.cx (now defunct), to keep our families updated about the pregnancy and baby. A lot of bloggers start this way, I think, although it was definitely uncommon back then. Brad was a programmer, and he did all the code himself, so the site itself was pretty slick for 2000. :) We kept that site updated for two years or so, less and less frequently, before we let it lapse in 2002 or 2003.

Then, I started reading Allie Scott’s story (http://www.scotthousehold.com) in July 2004, shortly after my daughter was born. I read all the archives and kept reading beyond Allie’s death, Maggie’s birth, and Jenny’s startup of Heroes for Children (http://www.heroesforchildren.org/). I was so transformed by reading that blog, but it didn’t occur to me to start writing again myself until two years or so after we shut beth.cx down.

By then, February 2005, everything was a lot easier. I started a blog on blogspot (http://brownglass.blogspot.com, now defunct but all content has been integrated into Bethsix at http://bethsix.com), and I began hearing the word “blog,” both as a noun and verb, more and more frequently. There still wasn’t the sense of community, though. Many of the blogs I read now started around that same time, but I didn’t know about them. I wish I had; I probably would’ve been more consistent and stuck with it if I’d felt less isolated. The one blog I read religiously back then was Dooce (http://www.dooce.com). I thought she was brilliant, but I had no idea that such a community or such a multitude of voices would emerge from blogging the way it has.

I kept up the blogspot blog for a couple years before I fell off the wagon again. I started Bethsix (http://bethsix.com) shortly after another transformative experience, this time with Matt Logelin’s blog (http://www.mattlogelin.com), in December 2008. It was obvious to me then that I needed not only to engage with writing and stories like that, but that I needed just as much to express my own stories and engage with this community that had formed when I’d looked away.

3. I noted that sometimes you’ll blog as much as a dozen time a month and other times only a couple of times a month. Is there a reason for this, or is it simply a matter of when you have time?

It’s a function of time. I have four small children, a full-time job for which I travel quite a bit, and another part-time job. Writing frequently gets pushed to the bottom of the stack.

It’s also a function of my attempt to aggregate everything I’d written at different sites in one place. Bethsix (http://bethsix.com) now includes everything I wrote on blogspot, myspace, facebook, and wordpress.com (before I switched to a self-hosted format). The only thing not included is that first site we had in 2000. There was a non-trivial amount of time that I did not have a “blog,” per se, but I did post sporadically on my personal myspace and facebook accounts. Those months show up in my archives as very lean.

4. What is your motivation for your posts? Does the motivation change, or do you try to keep the blog on a theme of sorts?

I don’t try to keep up with any kind of theme, although I sometimes think my writing would be better if I did. I go through cycles. There are times when I’m so turned inward that all I’m doing is thinking, and those times lend themselves to writing. There are other times when I feel so taxed that all I feel I can do is stay afloat. Writing doesn’t seem to happen then, which may be a good thing, as I’m sure it would be poor and scattered.

That said, parenting is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done on a daily basis. I tend to write about my children and my parenting because they challenge me, always.

5. Does parenting inspire you or were you always creative and therefore your blog is a reflection of creative parenting?

Parenting is extremely difficult for me. I assume it’s this way for everyone, but it’s so damn isolating that it’s hard to even know. Conflict and struggle inspire me to think deeply and to reexamine assumptions, so, in this way, parenting inspires me. It forces me to consider difficult questions and to see my world in constant shades of gray. This kind of reflection lends itself to writing, I think.

6. Do you feel your blog will provide a history for your children and family that you can refer back to later?

Absolutely. This is one of my primary aims with my blog. I hope that my children will be able to look back and know me more fully through my words and the feelings I choose to express publicly.

7. What encourages you to continue blogging?

More than anything, it’s the other blogs I read. I have always appreciated excellent writing (this is not to say I’m able to pull it off myself!), and there are some writers in this new medium that have deeply complex stories to tell and profound words and ways to express them. I’m constantly finding blogs that are written by master storytellers, often people who have “real” jobs and lives well beyond their keyboards. Reading these keeps me engaged with the craft. Beyond that, it’s my own need to express. I’ve only recently realized that everyone has stories worth telling, including me.

8. Is your blogging and parenting intertwined?

Not intertwined, exactly, but parenting my children definitely provides fodder for my posts a lot of the time.

9. Has your blog lead to a lot of interaction with other bloggers doing similar things or different or both?

I only became re-engaged with blogging at the beginning of this year. Before Bethsix (http://bethsix.com), the last time I really wrote in earnest, the community surrounding blogging hadn’t really formed, at least not as cohesively as it has now. I’m trying to engage with other bloggers and the surrounding community, but it seems like it developed just as I turned my head. There are already all these alliances and friendships, and it’s just like real life, in that it’s difficult to insert yourself in already established relationships. These interactions will happen, I’m sure, but I’m kinda a new kid on the block right now.

In general, I tend to read other mothers, simply because that’s a huge area of experience to have in common with someone else, even if you see it and do it vastly differently. There are women I respect immensely, more so than most of the people I know in “real life,” women who *live* the principle of blogging as a radical act (Alice Bradley, http://www.finslippy.com), and those are the women from which I most want to learn.

10. What is the most important thing about blogging to you?

Writing, reading, expression, and community. These are the things that come to mind immediately. I’m not sure I can separate or prioritize them. There’s definitely the craft of it, the writing and the reading. But there’s the creative, expressive part, that’s just putting yourself and your thoughts out there, into a public forum to which you remain accountable. And then there’s the community.

In the end, I guess all these things are about relationships: writers and readers interacting via texts, writers and readers negotiating themselves via texts, and communities of individuals developing both online and in meatspace, all throwing stakes into the ground and committing themselves to ideas and dialogue and relationships.

SEQUEL TO SUICIDE

It's difficult to circumspect
and or/to hypothesize
that life exists beyond our death
and SO WHAT if it does?
My point is ... sometimes there's ...
a sequel to suicide

Remember Maria
whose luck with MEN ran dry?
Every man she had abused her
verbally and physically
Each relationship left her agonized,
Until she threatened suicide

Maria claimed she had a vicious tongue
She said to me, I just have this special skill
I can do it the way no one else will
and any man who feels my tongue
falls helpless to my prowess
ready for my kill

Since I'm a great BELIEVER in therapy
I said, Please go and get you some
But, Maria wasn't THAT concerned!!
She slit her wrists, took some pills,
said she'd jump off the G.W.Bridge.

But she didn't succeed in getting out of here
And as the years wore on
Maria continued more and more
to threaten to end her misery
And things got worse and worse

Until she met Christina
an amalgamated personality
of masculine and feminine
Maria suddenly changed her tune
a flip-side to suicide,

In her forty second year
life became more gay
and I mean that
literally and figuratively

I called Maria this past Tuesday
Said "Why are you avoiding me?"
She laughed and said,
I've got a crush on my
best friend, Christina
I chase her till she catches me.

And ever since Chrissie said
she would COMMIT -
I felt like that was all it was about anyway -
You know, the BIG C,
COMMITMENT

So then I gave her my legendary tongue
And Lordy, ... Lordy, ... Umm, Umm, Umm ...
you don't know what that did to ME.
I mean, it was the most exciting
thing I've ever done
Um, Ummm, All that tongue?
Well, ...It just came naturally

Shit Maria, I don't care
if you're a lesbian
For me it's more important
not to worry you've gone
and committed suicide
or homicide, maybe even genocide
Besides, ... Now I've got a new poem:
A sequel to suicide.


© Joy Leftow 1994
edited by JL for the upteenth time 2009

Heroes and Superstars

February nineteenth, 1991, at 1 a.m. I met him. He’d been singing for thirty years and I would’ve known his face anywhere. The sixties was my era. I caught on as the sixties was running out of steam. Being slow to bloom, I simmered then suddenly sprouted as the seventies began. Bob was my idol, a hero to all of us who wanted to emulate that Rolling Stone and have One More Cup of Coffee with Queen Jane in Mozambique.

I took the plunge, strolled over and said, “Hey Bob, how are ya?” We were at Kennedy waiting for our luggage. He stared at me deadpan. “You are Bob Dylan, aren’t ya?” I said.

Bob narrowed his eyes, and glared. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s dangerous to talk to strangers?”

Maybe he was only joking. “Well,” I continued, “that’s the only way to meet anyone!”

He growled, “Strangers could cut out your liver and kidneys.”

“Hum,” I replied, smiling and refusing to be put off, “A bit hungry, Bob? Perhaps we can arrange that.” That almost worked! He fleetingly grinned, (it could’ve been a sneer), then he scowled again.

I only wanted his autograph and a few kind words. I figured I’d start over. “They sure keep this terminal hot!” I said, pulling off my black down coat, exposing the purple with yellow trimmed lining. Bob had on a thick and heavy white cotton hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. On top of this, he sported one of his legendary leather jackets and over this, hanging from his head, hung a heavy gray woolen overcoat that fell to mid-calf. I didn’t quite understand why no one else had noticed him. I would’ve looked twice at anyone with a coat hanging from his head.

“Luggage is taking a long time,” I said. “Something's up.” Sure enough, at that precise moment the announcement came over the loud speakers informing us of a delay in transporting the luggage to the terminal, but not to worry, it was on the way.

Someone from Bob’s entourage brought him a luggage wagon, then left after exchanging some words. Bob stood alone. I peered at him curiously, “You must be sweltering with all those clothes.”

He leaned on a luggage wagon with both arms, stared unwaveringly into my eyes then past to some bleak horizon which only he could see. “I have all my things here in this bag, cause I like to travel light,” I chattered on while he remained unimpassioned and uninterested, “except this one thing,” I held up a finger, “that I found cheaper in England than anywhere else; a decorator’s table.” He wasn’t my captive audience; he could just spin his wagon away at any moment.

And now I had finally gotten his attention! Weird. Why would he be interested in my talk of a decorating table? His steely eyes scathingly pierced mine. “Don’t think twice Bob, it’s all right.”

“Whaddaya you need to know?” Bob said.

I wondered if this was this a trick question, or could I ask him for his autograph?’ I began slowly, “Aren’t ya Bob Dylan?”

He squinted his eyes.

“I’m not planning to advertise,” I added reassuringly.

“Ask me something else!”

I was thinking, Get that autograph, but I hesitated. As I opened my mouth to speak, Bob reached out with his black leather-gloved hand, grabbed my chin, and shoved my face in the opposite direction.

“Stop doing that!” he said.

I moved a few feet away and gave up the autograph idea. What had just gone down? I surmised he’d been uncomfortable with my eye contact and friendly overtures. The man lacked social skills. Guess Bob has no appreciation for the high regard in which his admirers hold him as hero and stupid star, oops, I mean, superstar. But that’s o.k. Bob isn’t known for his graciousness, he’s known for his songs.

Ten minutes later I caught him staring at me. I stared back but no change registered. I wondered why now he’ was staring at me. I averted my eyes after several moments. If he had gotten what he needed by my withdrawal why was he now provoking me beckoning me, challenging me, with his stare?

I was tempted to tell him off, to say, This is a hell of a way to treat the people you make a living on.

A man to my right stood nearby, watching. “That’s Bob Dylan,” I said, thinking it likely he had observed the entire encounter.

“Big deal!” he said. “The world doesn’t shake for him anymore. Who cares? You could sue him for pushing your face!”

Later that day, totally jet lagged after so much traveling, I fell into a deep Bob Dylan sleep. My lover and I were attending a meditation retreat in the countryside. A sea breeze caressed me and the foliage was green and full. We walked, holding hands, through the French Doors of the beautiful palatial home where the retreat was being held. Bob Dylan lay awake, stretched out on a sofa.

I said, “Hi, Remember me?”

He answered, “How could I forget?” I thought he was being romantic because his posture and voice were seductive. Then I realized he meant how could he forget someone so crazy.

I said, “I’m so glad to see you again. I didn’t know you were into this,” meaning into meditation. I felt happy he was behaving so personably.

My lover and I retired to the bedroom to sleep, but the bed was very lumpy so we decided to try the big bed in the living room. It was very comfortable. I couldn’t take off my clothes because I was afraid someone would see me and there wasn’t a big enough blanket to cover myself. I wanted to get up and go to the bedroom to retrieve my bag, which I’d forgotten. I was afraid someone would steal my comfortable sleeping spot but I also needed my bag. I walked down the long hallway and suddenly there was Bob, holding something out to me.

“You forgot something”, he said and I’m like, “Oh did you find my bag in the other bedroom?” He held up a plastic see-through baggie and I saw my liver and kidneys inside.

another true short story © Joy Leftow, 1991
published previously 2005 by author - publisherPatrick Dent
currently published NYC Jewish Currents fall issue 2009 (get your free issue by clicking here)

SESTINA OF LIFE

Crisis is either way you lose
different from win some lose some
Gotta keep plugging along
light at the end of the tunnel
a new moon wilderness
my heart, a song of desire

my psyche is brimful desire
momentarily mine, a life lost
new spring & full moon wilderness
Just a little more, more time some
times life is like winding tunnels
gotta keep plugging - moving along

I don’t follow others, I move along
to my own beat, why admit what I desire
Is it there at the end of this tunnel
If I can’t see I’ll surely get lost
again even if sometimes I win some
This city is just like a wilderness

wild flowers, blue birds, mosquito wilderness
and danger lurks so best choice all along
not always clearly heard say some
Pretend to have or not have desire
There are only painful losses
hidden away in underground tunnels

skin deep vicissitudes tunneling
to surface; a wild card in a missing wilderness
of light, Ye of little faith, you can’t lose
I’ve known it my entire life, all along
Finally, the truth! My heart’s desire
I’ve come into my own; I’ve come into some

O.K. I’m content it’s this much, then some
Found there while digging an underground tunnel
solidified in old accomplished signs of desire
on the sun’s desert moon of the wilderness
scent of bergamot trailing along
Nostalgic gazes fazing ambitious loss

loss doesn’t mean I don’t have some
left like our lives tumble along a tunnel
of love and encompass a wilderness of desire

© 2007 Joy Leftow

Graffiti tag

I received my National Association of Social Work renewal and put it to good use.
Wouldn't you agree? Artistically?
Apropo too.
I called them some time ago, said I'm a retiree now and have been for some time so I want to pay the retiree fee.
They replied to me: pay the retiree fee after you pay the regular fee for one year since you're a lapsed member.
Hmmm....
Don't quite see the logic in that.
I'll probably try again this year to speak to them otherwise I'll have to continue on being a lapsed member with lapsed membership.
I want to pay the retiree fee.
Pity we can't have what we need for free.
Have to pay for it all on call, pay it all
again and again everyday.
As you see I need income and being a natural whore, my skills are available for sale as most of you ascertained from a pre-ordained sale of ads aimed at higher ed.

THAT WORK THAT IS SO FINE

My painting invested
with four months of life
oil colors on canvas three feet wide
interpreting the artists’ studio

The room burnished
with earthen colors
the ceiling high and wide
represented as a clear blue sky
with clouds of varying shades
from white to grey

Using colors to reveal my feelings
inspired by my master
investigating my strengths through
his wisdom, usurping his vision

How do you get this effect or that
Make a cloud look billowy and soft
Train your hand to make an image
and still relay your feelings with
training, craft and skill?

While I shyly bowed my head, the master
declared my work showed great strides,
my growth in perspective was a triumph for him
He was astonished how I used
colors to accomplish these effects

Four months, three hours a day,
two days a week I slaved

to nurture my untrained abilities
to complete my still life

My lover was fascinated by the color,
the depth, the room where the ceiling
became a sky with no limit,
the inner space that stretched
to meet the cosmos of time

Please, my lover begged me
Give me that work that is so fine
that piece of you, your mind,
that inner space that I can claim is mine

Please give me that work that is so fine
in which you invested great
quantities of self and time
I gave him my work of art
because I believed he loved me

There came the day I stood outside his door
found that he had gone away
I stood pondering and saw nothing amiss
Then suddenly I looked up and saw

Atop the lamp post that stood outside
his door, my cherished work of art,
its insides crushed and torn,
the lamp post protruding through my blue sky,
my grey white clouds, my heart

Alas, another sad true story by Joy © 1998

more props!

Written up in the neighborhood paper, a little over 2 weeks ago and I just learned about it yesterday when 2 friends saved the blurb for me. Taken from Cala Zanoni's weekly column Neighborhood Blogwatch . She took the included quote from Turntablebluelight.com.

Dreamcatcher


Dreamcatcher is a corner of the Internet where writers, poets and dreamers explore the universe. In this posting we find Joy Leftow, the writer whose partner coined her Washington Height’s poet laureate (which gets me thinking individual neighborhoods should have poet laureates, but I digress), musing on Washington Heights as her home, comfort and place of constant change. “I still live in the area where I was born in Washington Heights,” she writes. “I wonder if it's like at the end of the galaxy where the further away you live from where you were born, the more chaos you create in the universe.”

turntablebluelight.com

Thanks for the love Carla. I'm loving it and you.

recognition -

Wonderful to have recognition for doing what you love...

This blog was listed by online colleges under 100 Great Web Sites For Poetry Lovers. I'm proud and honored, especially since they only listed 20 blogs!

Today for the first time I noticed HilariousNYC.com listed this blog and dubblex's on their blog roll. This is also a very entertaining blog. The editor first discovered DubbleX's flyer and wrote about it here.

Another surprise, found Joy's Poetry Blog on litkicks through my statcounter this instant and am dancing in my chair!

Also got an email yesterday from an online adult learning resources site that wanted to post an add in my archives under a short post titled Changes and paid me $200 for it. This particularly suits me as I am a great believer in the power of education.

This is heaven!

PSYCHIC ABILITIES, PART 2

Mother told me she descended from Moors
Said she prayed to her ancestors
to heal our sins, relieve her misery,
turn our misfortunes to joy,
for her pain to disappear, go elsewhere,
Please, ... we’ve already had more than enough of our share
She prayed her days away
Upon her bed she lay the entire month of March
until one night her soul hitched a ride on the full moon
A decade later Mom visited the day I birthed my son
Begged for forgiveness for all she’d done
in love, she said I'd understand, I have a son
We two. Her words. Farewell.
Her breath. Fresh flowers. Her scent made my heart sigh.

© 1995

PSYCHIC ABILITIES, Part 3

Jesus came to me one misty moonlit eve
arms outstretched, beckoning me
I came to him cautiously,
Jesus nodded his head, looked me in the eye
“Come to me,” he said lifting his head, “I am the way.”
I looked into his young dark Jewish face.
and nodded slowly in recognition.

Indeed! Jewish, like me? He is the one.
How apt. How compelling and ironic! For me, a Jew
to know He is the one whom still the Jews await
In response to this, a fellow Jew quoth the bible
to me; “It is foretold, Messiah will come when
peace reigns and the universe is one.”
Wisely Jesus chose to come in Chaos.

© 1995

It Takes One

On the south island sea shore of my mind
The new world order hasn’t been kind
killed six million jews, many others of us too, trillions of future denizens world wide yet they say the holocaust doesn’t exist –
tried to eliminate the rest and best of us to avoid future feuds
who’s in charge?
the annihilation never occurred - not permitted in school curriculum - they want our children to be dumb
it never was
A revolution is the answer after which we’ll have lasting peace until they set the next new world order in place – a dissertation regarding a confrontation – a fray creating disarray
Stand up for your rights! Don't give up the fight!
an ablution a solution to evolution of the pollution of human souls set us back a million years
for the dissolution of abasement
danger in darkness a sadness shadows lurk disaster dawns as the poor get poorer – the slice of the pie allotted to health and human welfare so small it can’t feed no one

Promotion of peace is my contribution to the solution – it’s the question of limitations and trepidations of our government-controlled minds
our persecution and liberation, the designation of a new world government
in whispers the sound spreads

How many presidents emerged from city slums?
They want you to believe you can be one –not a simple deed to achieve
No president descended from poverty – Lincoln’s family was propertied too
We’ve never even had a Jewish president ~ probably never will.
We’re told global warning is a conspiracy but we’re not told about conspiracy deals behind closed doors where bankers pay themselves off
Abort our mother’s insides–her hidden jewels are her organs = our resources -they claim it doesn’t affect her health

Free will or coincidence? Perverse connections or random selection
Get a grip on the order of the universe – adverse curse of transverse reverse

I thought before the new world order was a cruel joke, now I see, finally awoke
See the growing economic threat of the euro– we fret while
puppets run our government –onset of another Tibet prevails while we raise the guardrail for the rich to high tail, regale us with stories
How can we have peace without a fight for rights? They won’t just give us ours
Another large cup of java - forget I ever said this.
Promote peace friends tell me revolution is blowing in the wind
Caught in a tailwind spin, we’re blind on a work grind stabbed from behind.
Everyone knows being taxed this way is illegal and was meant for corporate America not us poor working class shmucks who can barely pay our rent.
more desperation blooms exasperation looms for our great nation needs a resolution

photo & art post

First pic is violet & dubblex collaboration.
sketched by Joy with sharpie marker from beginning to end, no pencil used.
Dubblex writing and words.
http://dubblex.blogspot.com

















All the photos below by Joy - view from her window

I Sing The Blues For You Today

I want to do poetry like Billy Holiday singing the blues
I want to do poetry like Ella Fitzgerald
I want to be me singing my holiday blues
Billie’s songs are poetry so fine it makes me think I’m her doing rhyme
Thoughts about Billie make me go off line, hook line & sinker; she puts me back in time
I sing to my lover, I want to make your poetry mine because you spout rhymes
Observing my life become an unending grocery list of things to get done
Your life or mine, yours is on my mind - the list of to dos keeps growing exponentially
Number 1, try out a mattress, 2, buy it, 3, buy new locks to keep someone out number 4, find someone to install it, make 10 million calls. Keep writing lists. What did you say? How many sessions, any lessons in storage? Will the Divine power of intervention help?
I don’t want to bore you with the details and derail you from my song.
Damn, wonder if I’ll ever see Willa Dean again– oh man, you know the women I mean
Kept her head wrapped up like an African Queen with her creamy coffee looking self.
Willa said the secret to good potato salad is to go heavy on the mayo
Willa Dean days, they’re all in a haze now. I was so high back then.
The memory lingers, listening & watching while she told stories. She’d whisper, her voice barely a breeze, tell me about her lovers, say, “I’m gonna get me some.” … I’d get confused & asked, did she mean her husband or lover. Willa’d have dinner waiting when her husband got tired of driving a cab & came home to rest. She’d show me wilted lettuce and bring it back to life telling me about her lovers, drugs, & children while making potato salad.
I thought - she’s a woman of many talents, a stoned cold junkie and a working mom combined
The nose that knows, her preference was coke, good moist coke at a good right price too on the upper - upper west side in Washington Heights, 162nd street to be exact
Willa had class & style combined; she took me to dress models at the Ritz one time. Got paid for it too. It was such a pleasure to do. I even got a pair of designer gloves out of it.
People accepted Willa everywhere we went –
Willa was friends with a famous New York jazzman and his wife, a New York City teacher. We were at jazzman’s apartment, small tight crowded living room upper west side 90’s.
Willa’s friend sat across from me staring at my big breasts. I can see how tight your muscles are.
Let me massage you she said aggressively
hurting me so bad physically we had an argument instead.
Passing through hundreds of lives so many colors
Let me take you back to what we share - strivings for love – wanting to go somewhere –
Wanting to discover who we really are ~
see ourselves through the eyes of others and – finally see who we really are.
Extend this power to the umpteenth degree. We still wonder who they think we are ~
Uncover recover to turn to return to who we want to be
Dreams are reality - stop thinking, dreams are the color of my true love’s hair
Beyond the color of my true love’s hair, his dreads caress my bare hands
A whole-years grocery list pressed into a foggy mist of autumn red
turns bright chartreuse before bleakly the list dissolves before my eyes
True colors make my heart sneeze amidst a perpetual mist of violet-blues
a dream more real than a memory


I realize many people don't have time to stay so I wanted to take this poem, the first of the bluetry series and put it up front for people to see.

© December 2008

MAYBE I’LL JUST SUICIDE OUT

Maria tells me, “He’s a chancre sore in my life.
He’s probably with some other woman anyway.
I gotta get outta this depression
I put on 20 more pounds I can’t seem to shed
Maybe I’ll just suicide out”
She’s sobbing and she’s crazy.
“He’s not home yet and it’s half past ten.
He said he’d be here at five.” God damn!
What a scene! She’s screamin’ at him.
He’s drinkin heavy. Tells her, “Get Lost!”
She finally gets him out the bar door, home to the waiting bed.
“He has a hard on,” she cries, “but he won’t fuck me.”

Peter says, “It’s the way Maria’s shaped by nature or fate.”
“Look at those two,” I say to her, “playing with their fruits.
That guy with that girl got his hand on the other girl’s butt.”
“She’s just no good,” Maria says, mad, hands on her hips.
“She’s messing with some other girl’s man.”
I say “You just feel bad cause you’re thinking
of your man messing with some other woman.”
“Maybe I’ll just go for a pedicure,” she says,
“get my hair blown out straight. I wanna lose that 20 pounds.
I’m so upset I sold my gold watch for 5 bucks worth of crack
Maybe I’ll just suicide out.”

“I need to call him, see if he’s at home.
I gots to be with him right now. Otherwise I’ll die.”
Maria goes in my room. She uses the phone
All private like in hope and pain,
Almost like a prayer
“Write about me,” she says, “bout me and my man.
We’re talking just like poetry, you know.”
“Yes, I know. It’s all poetry you know.
Your outfit’s perfect, coordinated so well.”
“Thank you very much. I think I’ll have another go.
Or maybe I’ll just suicide out”

© 1993

new book review posted - hey o!

Review of Yamrus’ latest book New And Selected Poems, reviewed by Joy Leftow is up at bookstove.com.
I hope you'll visit and even if you don't want to read at least click on it as I will get paid pennies for each hit. Please come back and let me know whether or not you like it. I think you'll like it because Yamrus' poetry is hysterically funny. I plan to post the interview shortly too. After I read his book and laughed all over the planet, ... ok - only my little small universe - I wrote and asked was he up for a phone interview, and you know how us sluts are, anything for attention.

Folks, peeps, whatever - go and take a look and let me know if you enjoyed.

Mwah! That's me throwing you a big wet one!

MEXICAN DELIGHT

Simmering sun
Suspended at the world’s edge
smooth as gilded iridescent silk
On la montanas de Isla Mujeres
Staring at Mexico’s sun set behind her
Like a man behind a woman
he sits behind her mainland

The sea glistening with day’s last rays
flamboyant neon colors
slowly sinking from view
An immense fluorescent ball
Radiant orange, scintillating fuchsia
like my tunic of cross woven silk

We savor the hues with delight
feast upon this sight tonight
It will never be this again,
not exactly like this moment
in time with each other even if
we were together again watching
another luminous setting sun ...

Beseeched by his eyes
Absorbing the sun’s ripening glow
before mellowing occurs
And all is gone


© 1993 This poem has been published 6 times so far and I don't consider it one of my best but it's nothing to sneeze at either.

Wow! I'm verklempt!

I can't believe it! I am so pleased surprised and proud. My poetry blog - where you are right now- is listed in the 100 Great Web Sites for Poetry Lovers published by Online Colleges!

Please go and check it. I think you'll enjoy the variety included here, something for everyone!
Lists online sites for lovers of classical poetry, contemporary, war poetry, writing tips & tools - the how to's hammers and nails, where to go for support and sharing,
follow twitter feeds to poetry
and last but not least ...
us hard-assed working determined bloggers
who write because we're driven to it
we don't know what else to do or how to do anything else
it's not a choice
it's like a love affair you don't want to have
when you meet someone and feel your uterus pull
and you evaluate
how you came to be where you are and then consider where to go
i isolate
turn my soul into a poem
can't isolate yourself from everything I say turning into a poem without me wanting it to be
it's me doing my famous brown rice honey pudding and prolifically spitting and writing lines while cooking
I can't help it - i didn't ask to be a poet - it asked to be me
I can't separate myself from me and so
ultimately now matter where I go
I can only be me

and now I've turned an advertisement into a celebration of poetry
have no doubts about it
it's a love affair I share

LOVE AND LIFE INTERSPERSED

A bird flew across the slate gray sky
fluttered gently by my sight
then suddenly soared into a dive
behind lush green velvet vines

You’re allowed to say you love me if you do
And you don’t have to say it if you do
but you can’t say it if you don’t mean it
Love and life interspersed

The sky is turning a brighter blue
Another woman’s watching you
Don’t send her any mental messages
To further her designs

By now it should be obvious
who it is you’re really with
Awake, waiting on your call
a stagnant threat presides

Pregnant behind these thoughts
maybe it’s just too late
no one person can do it all
Today I didn’t see the sunrise

The sky turned fluorescent blue
the moon, a silver glowing crescent
they appear a fantasy
drawn from fountain pen ink

Look quickly to the horizon
Now, see that same bird hovering

© 1993

WHO’S A JEW

All Jews Are liberals and communists I’ve heard
I cud tell you my parents were communists
but what good would that do, it wasn’t true
they weren’t even very liberal
Not either one of them, I could tell
you all about them, and it’s all very sad
and no one wants to keep hearing how bad
it was anymore anyway, i mean what’s the point
Get over it, we’ve all been there done that

Although I’m not a typical Jew
and other jews don’t recognize my Jewishness
still I’m jewish through and through

My mother bragged she was descended
from a long line of philanthropists
and rabbis, her family permitted
her to learn the skill of bookkeeping
because she was supposed to be an old maid
instead she fell in love, and married my Dad
and so really, all she ever did
was care for and raise us four children
She struggled as much as she could
after the trials & tribulations of her cancer

My father was a violin player who at age 11
was forced to be a pharmacist’s apprentice
and his claim to fame was thrown away
so he could help support his family
My dad played his violin under an angel’s gaze
the notes were pure, sweet and desolate
Portraying his spirit longing for escape

Dad was a dreamer when he met mom
and charmed her into marrying him
Her family disowned her then and sat shiva
An orthodox Jew doesn’t marry a man
Who’s been married before and had a son
Even if he is a Jew too

So in spite of my being a full
blooded Jew on both sides
and growing up going with Mom
to synagogue and hearing all the prayers
on every one of the big holidays
and listening to all the yiddish euphemisms

I don’t know much about being a Jewess
since I’ve always hung with Schvartzes
and all the other goyim and such,
who seem to like having me around
most times, anyway, more than my own kind

All non Jews always consider me Jewish
and wish me “Mozel Tov” in my ventures
while fellow Jews just look at me strangely
It’s now become a theme in my life

©Joy Leftow 2006

HIS WOODEN SHACK

I sat in a wooden shack
in a chair of wood,
at a wooden table
and thinking of wood

In the middle of some undetermined
location somewhere on half an island
in the middle of no-where
where we would know anyway

I simply picked up the book
that sat right there on the wooden
table, like me, it sat
speaking, reaching out to me

I turned to the page inspirationally
all about how he felt about me
He grabbed the book from my hand
realizing I knew
he was upset that I knew that he was

still involved in thinking of me
So you ask, is he happy, content?
No he’s a certifiable alcoholic
lost in dreams of the man he used to be

before he got lost in these
nightmares that came before
dawn became dusk, then again
Nevermore quoth the raven

But it was just the same as before
and more of the same old values
which had held him prisoner for decades
Indeed, now it was clearly a pattern

I wish I could help him improve
make life a little bit better,
Reviewing his past is strange
and doesn’t change his future



© Joy Leftow 2005

Getting up

dubblex on the flex by violetwrites

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

Most didn’t see Carmen as pretty
with her big framed self,
but I saw her as pretty
Her lips were slim and shapely
Radiant dark brown almond eyes
danced with amber lights
Her words were a river of throaty
melodic blues, she was beautiful

I listened contentedly, submerged
in her words cascading over me
Eyes rich, pleasant to stare into
not fat, big and tall,
she stood 6 feet 2,
Some mighta’ called her husky
She had dark brown frizzy hair -
In those days - they said ‘kinky’,
her face was soft and oval

Carmen was Nuyorican in 1963
before the word had been invented
a Puerto Rican New Yorker

I stared into her pools of liquid irises
while we rambled on,
sharing, baring our secrets
selfishly, selflessly and eloquently

Carmen had high cheekbones
a sweet engaging smile with a
big fro creating a halo
She seduced gay men
Back in the day Carmen was my best friend

Both of us were outcasts
She didn’t fit in with her kind
I didn’t fit with mine
We hit it off - hung together,
no boundaries anywhere
We sure made a strange pair

MISGUIDED LOVE

Things were different when I was young
and looking for love I met Harry Darmenjion,
the actor who went out to the west coast who
was offered a contract by a major motion
picture production house which he refused
screaming at them that he wasn’t a sell out
and they didn’t understand his artistry

I didn’t understand any of this,
the only explanation is he must’ve been high
I found it amazing that he could get an appointment
at all, All I could fathom is that
his family had money, and money is connection
It was all crazy anyway because instead
of making it with his talents
he was a stoned out drug fiend,
busy emulating Bob Dylan, singing his songs,
getting together with friends
using heroin, and plucking a guitar

None of it made sense to me
He ceaselessly pursued me until he got me
he had a small dick, so conquering females
was very important
after which he lost interest

Later on Bob from England reminded me of Harry
He too had a small dick and was very theatrical
he’d pull my head gently back by my hair
and kiss me long and deeply
he was very similar to Harry
except there were no drugs
just asthma and emotional weaknesses
which he used to control his lovers

Tarot Card Readings

Available for $20 by Pay Pal
experienced and accurate

Call me ms blues tonight ~ Bluetry #18

Blues and jazz play a blue soul cruise inside my head 

day after day those blues play like a sensei screenplay, 

a gateway to John Coltrane 

Eyes closed I watch him riffing ~ up and down the scale he goes, the quartet flowing – 

I join making it a quintet – we’re rolling on Soultrane 

McCoy Tyner, Sonny Rollins, Ornette Coleman – 

jazzy blues drifting into the sunset 

I wish I could relent - an ascent to another world 

my intent bent on a scent, a new advent, a dent in the rent, 

I’m totally pent up, tormented and spent, 100 percent 

I depend on an upward trend 

these blues feel my heart penned into a new poem 

send me off the deep end, all I can spend 

Amy Winehouse went back to black I stayed where I am - same jack shit 

Stack those blues up for a snack attack I’m taken aback ~ 

that wooden shack – a lilac, a payback 

Those blues blowing off into the distance - their cadence feels my sadness 

Chords extend I make amends it’s rosh hashanah 2009 … transcend the outcome, 

it’s a godsend, I dread bloodshed while I dream my life away 

I downplay doomsday building in my head 

Conceiving a notion I make a motion to idealize the commotion 

I sit and visualize the resolution hallucinate formulate and sublimate 

Words so profound they keep me spellbound 

I can’t hear where they end and I begin ~ words turn me inside out 

Burn some rocket fuel, don’t drool it’s too cruel, 

destiny is not a coincidence of scrutiny 

There’s no escaping the blue’s impending energy 

I fend them off daily only to feel them revived again and again 

They’re making new hearts these days from clay reborn I want a new one – 

I stand in sunshine yet rain falls on my head 

Everyone merry I’ll take the next ferry try to catch up to you 

got to get out of the cold my life’s not on hold 

I’m singing the blues until I fold 

old time jazz, that razz tazz blues 

I’m gonna get bankrolled lo and behold 

coast a while to labile– send me another mango, 

it’s a new lifestyle Introduce me to myself 

I’ll have my way with fate 

I’m ms blues to you from now until I say I do 

Rock them blues back, 

like a kudzu they infuse me and abuse me, 

reduce me and seduce me I ain’t looking for an excuse, 

don’t confuse me like a weeping spruce 

I can’t give up the fight love’s light in sight this night, 

I recite in stage fright another back bite 

Luddite go fly a kite 

Put my soul on a hook and draw a needle through it 

My blues rip through me 

Singing the blues under a translucent snow-white moonlight

 I ignore my plight in musical delight 

Blues on steadfast order of rewrites - 

My trays too full of holiday blues 

A pure Semite emerging like a sprite from a cu⋅mu⋅lo⋅ nim⋅bus 

nonplussed by genius at twilight igniting like phosphorescent pyrite 

I’m torn in two call me ms blues tonight

difficult shmificult how bad can it get

October issue will be coming out soon but probably not the first of October. I'm doing the best I can while the world keeps crumbling around me. Gone to shit! I'm scrambling to keep this Cartier going but it takes several hours per day.
I am also trying to get together my column for the October issue. I plan to review and write up a phone interview with John Yamrus and you can bet you'll see it here too as well as Birthdays of Poets and Blogcritics.com!

On another note, if anyone would like to buy A Spot Of Bleach and Other Poems & Prose, for 10 bucks plus $3 shipping give me a shout and send through pay pal to violetwrites@nyc.rr.com. They make great holiday gifts.

Don't forget to visit dubblex diaries.

Yamrus' style and humor inspired me to come up with the following little write.

In reverie of john yamrus permit me to say

I’ve put up with my fair share of despair and let me downs -some hard - some easier
It’s all the same, my disappointment about disparaging remarks about my pink hair. It’s gone and faded from bright red I admit
to hearing insults from important poets known on the scene about my poetry not being “real” poetry
My poetry is not authentic; it’s eccentric
I don’t know how you can get more real than me
My poetry is me and then some more
It has room for me and you in store
You find yourselves in here, inside a poem
Be careful what you say round me
I will quote you
in a poem
It’s no good to say I should delay
You say you pray I won’t consider putting your words in a poem even though you know that’s what I do
repeat after me – I forbid you to put this in a poem
so if it’s not goose for the gander stop feeding me
Give me some respect for what I do
I spill my blood and guts for you
I receive letters from people who read what I write
I received one today from a very nice girl.
She said she’s sorry for my life, she feels so sad for me, she’s just glad she’s not here where I am, she wouldn’t know what to do if she stood here where I stand in my shoes
She doesn’t know anyone who’s had it this bad
She just don’t know how I manage to survive a life this sad
I told her suicide’s a waste of time
I spend my energy writing poetry
She said you suck at poetry
You can’t write “real” poetry anyway
You think I’m pulling your leg?
Then whose leg am I pulling -
Mine?
Damn if I had my legs pulled a little maybe I wouldn’t feel this hip pain so bad
So I’m an old fool who writes poetry –
What did you say you do?

September 11 commemoration

I wrote these two poems below in 2002. I'm adding Neil Young's lyrics for Let's Roll and Impeach the President, after my poems because when I read his poems I cried.

IN THE WAKE OF THE WTC

The sun so bright, blinding me
Can't see a foot ahead ...
the future so scary, blinded by sun
Can't see where I'm stepping
The air’s turned so suddenly cool
The sun’s so bright, blinding me
glittering on the concrete

Can't see a step ahead
Must trust in God
Can only see American Flags
waving boldly everywhere
So proudly we stand
So proudly we die
Sacrifice loudly hailed
from both sides

Our ears hear new words
Jihad and Muhammad
ancient words and holy wars
No one knows what to believe
or think anymore
So many deaths ... So sad
The fear is so compelling
more chilly than the fall air



WAKE OF THE WTC - 2

In the wake of the WTC
everything seems so very gray
yet brighter than it’s ever been before
strange lights and hues have settled over my city
like a cloud, a heavy smog, a depression
Yet life is now more precious
than it was before the WTC

Not one day passes that I don’t
consider the value of life
think about how it’s too short, how
long it may last and all the hurts and
wonders we experience while alive
I awkwardly weigh the balance
Honestly, I can’t see what’s left


Lyrics for: Let's Roll by Neil Young

I know I said I love you
I know you know it's true
I got to put the phone down,
And do what we gotta do

One's standing in the aisle way
Two more at the door
We got to get inside there
Before they kill some more

Time is runnin' out, let's roll
Time is runnin' out, let's roll

No time for indecision
We got to make a move
I hope that we're forgiven
For what we gotta do

How this all got started
I'll never understand
I hope someone can fly this thing
And get us back to land

Time is runnin' out, let's roll
Time is runnin' out, let's roll

No one has the answers
But one thing is true
You got to turn on evil
When it's comin' after you

You got to face it down
And when it tries to hide
You got to go in after it
And never be denied

Time is runnin' out, let's roll

Let's roll for freedom
Let's roll for love
Goin' after satan
On the wings of a dove

Let's roll for justice
Let's roll for truth
Let's not let our children
Grow up fearful in their youth

Time is runnin' out, let's roll
Time is runnin' out, let's roll
Time is runnin' out, let's roll



“Impeach the President" by Neil Young lyrics below...

Let's impeach the president for lying
And leading our country into war
Abusing all the power that we gave him
And shipping all our money out the door
He's the man who hired all the criminals
The White House shadows who hide behind closed doors
And bend the facts to fit with their new stories
Of why we have to send our men to war
Let's impeach the president for spying
On citizens inside their own homes
Breaking every law in the country
By tapping our computers and telephones
What if Al Qaeda blew up the levees
Would New Orleans have been safer that way
Sheltered by our government's protection
Or was someone just not home that day?
Let's impeach the president
For hijacking our religion and using it to get elected
Dividing our country into colors
And still leaving black people neglected
Thank god he's racking down on steroids
Since he sold his old baseball team
There's lot of people looking at big trouble
But of course the president is clean
Thank God

something new

As most of you folk know, it's hard to drag ass and do things when it means you got to go away from de big screen- my computer's like a tv it's so big- so mostly we do a lot of indoor activities. And yes DubbleX is even worse than me about isolating and staying in. You know he gets into his garageband and chess and it's hard to move him anywhere. I do make it out about 2 times a month though and am trying to stick to that and it's easier since I am trying hard to support neighborhood events in Washington Heights. The last time I went someplace else and was supposed to read I forgot my papers and even when i know something real good, I still need my papers.

I read this morning on Wikipedia that now my Washington Heights, where I was born and have lived my entire life is now called Hudson Heights - this is what they're trying to call my neighborhood folks!-

Hudson Heights is some creation from realtors trying to boost up the monied connection in Washington Heights where now you can also spend a million for a co-op or a condo. Washington Heights is my hood...

I digress Sherlock... read on

Well some months ago some dude wrote me a note asking me to go to his blog - and I did because I usually try to do that when someone writes me and asks me too. You know, it's really hard too when only a handful reciprocate. See I'm not talking about the people who come to see the crazy white lady, and I admit I'm crazy. I come by it naturally. They locked my Dad up in Bellevue's psyche ward. My mom was totally drained and bereft; sick on a daily basis and all she did was try to raise her four children. Actually neither one was ever well during my lifetime.

What the fuck does this have to do with the bigger picture? Well nothing except that some dude wrote me some time ago and asked me to look and read his stuff about his travel ails - and continued to send me updates. Now this same dude sent me this fantastic musical he wrote and directed. Damo Bullen didn't pay me to say this but I think if you want to be entertained - harmonica hip hop and standard sounds mix in an updated musical for a new generation, just check this.

I guess what this has to do with the rant above is that sometimes we all need distraction and entertainment. It's a radical evolution.

It's called Alibi - The Musical

Be entertained and get happy.

There are several different versions or parts and it's not clear what that is either, nor is the cast clear which it should be. My only complaint except for needing subtitles in part 8 because I couldn't understand hear the dialogue because I can't understand english spoken in some parts of england. An englishman told me it's because english is spoken properly there. That's a joke - a joke. We got some heavily accented folk here too and if you heard me speak before you know I'm all new york jewish style ~ in your face and funny.

Good show folks! Thanks for looking out...

new old bluetry #7- Bluetry Flowing Coming & Going

Mad Swirl Girl 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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

The entire poem was reorganized and made new