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