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