The Time IS Coming ...

They say the time is coming in my lifetime. I want a revolution but there’s not quite enough desperation yet although everyone’s in a state of exasperation – I get the impression through open discussion that there’s been no preparation for any revolution. Our great nation under direction of a new world order. I’d like promotion of peace to be the solution to the problem and I try my best to add my contribution to the plate.

I wonder how we’ll have peace without a fight for our rights? They’re not gonna give us what’s ours because they want it and they got the power. At first I thought the new world order was a joke, with the growing euro the new world order is a threat to our economy.

Puppets run our government. You tell me how many of the current run of presidents emerged from the slums or city streets?

We’ve never even had a Jewish president and probably never will.

Global warning is a conspiracy? That’s what your government wants you to believe. How can all the harm we cause our mother do her no ill? We pull her insides out – all her hidden jewels and resources and tell me this doesn’t affect our earth?

You stop drinking your one large cup of coffee everyday and tell me you feel nothing?

Everything is connected somehow – is it free will or coincidence? I like to meld between the two.

Do you think there are no connections or is it all random selection?

Gehinnon is only 12 months not eternity like for Christians and you have to do so something unforgivably bad – some big sin that most of us won’t do I like to think so anyway

I keep promoting peace in spite of people telling me revolution is blowing in the wind

Caught in a tailwind spin, we’re all blind on a work grind, and 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.

view of washington heights in NYC on a snow day

Shirk A Hard Day’s Work

Night filled with red light energy from softly lit candles all aglow
Smell the spell of delight, a complimentary southern belle
Cell phone perfect in my sight, a knight without his armor – it’s worth another write
No sense being polite when I’m shaking with stage fright
Uptight dwelling in resort new york, my crash pad my quarters my crib
Just because I’ve been a good little soldier all these years doesn’t mean I wasn’t tired of it
Let loose is what I say
As the intruder compels me to my computer
I have the link whaddaya think?
the living never run out of to do's,
only the dead do, got to keep up with the joneses – no flaccidity only morbidity
run the washing machine with some caffeine sprinkle of morphine
I wasn't here - brought the cats to get them care
If you go to jail don’t depend on me for the bail
My new york voice jams with music for free provided by gcast puts me on blast
Hark the herald angels sing – glory to a newborn king
I left my grad degree in Tennessee for all the good it does me
I had my first degree from the school of hard knocks
I’m not suicidal – my life’s a tidal wave – I’m a matinee idol who’s homicidal
My crows’ feet don’t impress, I’ve lost the scent as I bless the winter cress and pray for a stress less success to reassess I won’t confess – I’ll digress again
My bridal suite awaits, no more tweets, it’s not a balance sheet of vanilla velvet draperies
My new wedding dress, the press release went out yesterday
The ring's a perfect fit – diamonds are a girl’s best friend
The noblesse requests to attend, progress to a soft caress, a recess to excess, suppress the acrid taste of fecundity laced with equal parts serendipity and alacrity, laudably posted digested and vested accessibility perhaps a touch of civility blended with acceptability
The North Star, a bright white light providing the spark to find my way home in the dark

ADVANCING ON SATORI

Been waiting all night 

to hear your poetry, I said 

You’re that beat generation 

spewin that heat and light

Pure energy, that scene 

You were on the bus or off it 

I should’ve been there 

with ya’ all back then 

You were hardly born then, you answered 

probably just born in tha sixties 

No, I said, I could’a been there 

I was born in ‘50 

I shoulda’ been there 

But somehow I never went anywhere 

I admit it tho, 

I wanted to Be On The Road. 

And one day I almost took 

The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test 

But on that day, I was absent from life. 

I should’a been there 

But somehow I never went anywhere 

I cud tell you sometime, ya said 

why you never went anywhere 

You, with your omnipotent self 

How would you know anyway? 

I wondered, Did ya really know 

why I never left home? 

It was a prison 

     built of fear 

         loneliness 

             emptiness and despair 

I never had a life 

A child’s needs unmet 

never given what I longed for 

I couldn’t have what wasn’t there 

Fuck it, I’ll say it, it was 

     abuse, neglect 

     comes in so many forms 

        eats away your self esteem 

Made me weak, 

     slow, scared to go 

Robbed me of my faith, 

     my soul, my glow 

My inner harmony, 

     my sanctity 

     my sanity

I was a prisoner of fear, 

     a prisoner of war. 

I met you, read your sixties words 

your suffuse charm 

emanating from your Hobo soul 

I wanted to possess your poetry 

    your style 

         the 60’s and the 70’s 

         poetry of hope 

         An air of romance 

         a taste of escape 

A breath of fresh air 

     from a smog-filled street 

     the smoke and stink 

     rising slowly like gases 

     from the filthy pavement 

I was a prisoner of war 

Your words bring back the time ... 

Words like book, crib, jibe 

a stone’s throw away 

the sun low-fives the trees 

God damn! Your words excite me 

    Sex talk, like poontang, tallywhacker. 

    Wow man, I never heard it, 

But it’s cool, I understand it. 

Your blatantly primitive lust 

your licentious eyes

devouring me 

Staring at my sagging breasts 

cruising over my body 

    smoothly, 

as though it were highway 59 

Resting on my nipples 

    tingling 

like a jellied door buzzer 

my fallen butt and 

orange peel thighs 

Only served to fuel your lust 

my allure waved strong 

snagged by your naked desire, 

    your lust 

as you gorged on my scent 

teasing my libido 

A test in trust 

Your tongue flicked against your upper lip 

What’re ya’ havin’ babe, ya’ said 

No thanks, refused the drink 

Been waitin all night to hear your poem 

a moment abundant with heat 

stifling humidity 

complaints about intensity 

panties clinging damply 

Unbearable, prolonged 

I want to hear the poem 

my date languishing in time Y

our glass passed to my hand 

Contact, your eyes implored 

    lust and soul 

Give me sixties or give me death 

symbols of peace, 

Baby you’ve got heart, 

Go with the flow 

no looking back 

no sorrows or regrets 

resolute to recreate 

a life renewed

reincarnate 

more chances to fulfill the goal 

Don’t hesitate 

Go on! Get on the road 

Don’t worry if the bus is full 

Symmetry of faith 

advancing on satori 

will get you there 

    explore, 

search for more 

no more prisoners of war 

First published in 1995 in Grist on Line one of the first online poetry mags that came into being. At that time several people accused me of being a "post modernist" and I had no idea what that was so or more importantly who it included. I immediately began reading post modernists to understand what I was being accused of.  I couldn't format this right for blogger but on the linked version above, the formatting is correct. This poem is a throwback to the sixties generation

PSYCHIC ABILITIES, PART 1

Both parents had psychic abilities,
I’ve come to see it runs in my family
this ability now passed on to me
I’ve always seen what will come to be
I see people on the other side to say goodbye
In death I’ll meet family once more -
My sister came in a dream to me the night she slipped away
I saw her sixteen again. Farewell Georgette
Shaking her finger scolding me with scalding anger
Although religious she neglected Jewish mores
turned from temple’s door,
In death, she’s left behind her miseries, her disease
I hear her voice lingers on a sweet breeze
I wait to hear her eternally
once again we’ll meet - our destiny

recent reading at La Pregunta

Thanks to Marilyn Thomas King for hosting La Pregunta and a kick ass show. Thanks to Dean Washington for videotaping. Thanks Fred Arcoleo, accompanying on guitar.

Life's Work

I don’t want to work another day
Hear people talk behind my back and say
I don’t work as hard as I ought to
I left early - got caught - lied and said I was in the library
after the children left
My work was done
Why should I stay
Bereft by 3 pm each day
driven to exasperation
complaints follow me
I came late I leave early
They tell me talk to Thomas who is 5, a year older than the others in his class. He picked up a chair and threw it somewhere. Luckily it hit no one. I could talk to him till I’m blue in the face.
Thomas needs to be in a special setting I'm betting they want some magic answer
They tell me call his mother get her in here
The mother comes in
cigarette dangling from her lips she says what can I do I have to go to work I have to make money. The espresso with milk she sips matching her own brown color, a drop drips down her chin
Downcast eyes
She patiently repeats I have to go to work, I have a family of 4 to support
she's got to hold down the fort, it's not for sport -
tomorrow she's got to go to court, she says- and that's another day lost
I have to pay my bills, what time can I go to my job
working working I talk about Thomas
She shakes her head - she doesn't know what to do
I pray I cry for me and others
I want to live free - I watch her sip her coffee, a cold winter day
My energy dissipates I anticipate our fate, acclimate to
another day, another school, a 15 year old girl is hearing voices, she’s afraid of someone in her head, a neighborhood Santera
A plethora of voices in her head make her scream
I hold her head to allay her pain told her to imagine a beam of white light, God supreme protecting her
no one else knew what to do
So they brought her to me, grateful they said Friday was their day for me
She held my hand and prayed
using strange erratic and loud routines
I told her she’d be ok, I'd keep the demons at bay
told her the saints she prayed to would help her
teachers and students were scared they were glad I was there
They called EMS tell me
I should take the girl no one knew was psychotic to the hospital
They called her parents
I got in the ambulance with her
They were afraid she’d go ballistic again is why they asked me to go with her.
At the hospital they say she was only calm with me cause I entered her world so perfectly
Helped her hold on for hope, played her band-aid, her nursemaid
There are times when there’s no place to go but inside someone's head
join them inside to guide them, I do it so easily it’s because I too am crazy
I long for the american dream - as we glide downstream in my capable hands
my sensibilities attacked by another breaker wave
It’s hard out here for a social worker

Poetry of Pounds

My pounds circled me like a shadow of darkness
I wore them like a protective shield
They accompanied me everywhere I turned; I carried them
A labor of self- hate evolving from my prison
Longing to be free from weight and worry
Pounds surrounding and grounding me holding my spirit
Hostage within the layers of fat,
so t’was fate on November 5th
When Mongo insisted we’d enjoy Gay Poetry Night
& I met the love of my life

These pounds were faithfully gained, a labor of distaste which at the time was resentful
I didn’t do it for me – I did it for him but in the end it killed both of us
These pounds were gained over time; it took a decade for me to begin to emerge again
These pounds were made for sitting watching TV and eating,
They weren’t meant to see the world
They weren’t made to write poetry prophetically or prolifically
These pounds were made to enslave and hold captive
They did their job well

Suddenly I was hired for a new job
Recently retired, all the time in the world
The position offered no benefits or pay only love, sex, & inspiration
Would you take that job? I did

Someone saw beneath the layers of fat shielding my spirit
I saw myself in his vision, and began to shed pounds
A different me began to emerge from my shell
I stand before thee and thee and thee and thee
Judge me no more – and go the way of the pounds I discard


© Joy Leftow 2007

Dead Long Ago

All those people? Dead long ago. Most of `em anyway
They ate up all the lead, used so many drugs
Their bodies shot to shit, they’re all dead
Some’s left, see em once in a while
walking down the street,
Standing in the rain, trapped
Stuck on their methadone, loving it, not moving on

Heroin was good in the 60’s, plentiful and cheap,
My friends and acquaintances died from o.d.’s
Me? I never used it. Uhh ... O.K., I tried it once,
You know what they say about birds flock together
I flocked, beats me what for, but I did,
Truth is that flock was better n’ home
What? You want to know if I had a good home?

I thought that flock was better n’ home,
14 years old hanging with the addicts.
So sorry, at 14 it was alchies. Alcoholics.
Yeah, tried that too, didn’t like it none
Having babies for a black man, angry alcoholic
He became a junkie. I saw him not long ago

Asked him when I saw him,
“Why were you so mean?”
“Don’t know,” he said to me,
“Couldn’t hep myself, I guess.”
He tells me, “I’m HIV now, got a hernia so bad
my balls swoll up down to the floor.”
He was a god-damned strong man at 20.
I saw him press 250 pounds. Handsome too,

6 feet tall, 180 pounds, muscular, well built
He had lots of girls. Gave me gonorrhea 30 years ago.
30 years ago I told him about our baby
“Shoe box size,” he said when
I held my hands up to describe
“Coffee color with lots of cream,”
I said about the baby’s skin.
Dead 30 years ago.

In the middle of the night they came, 2 a.m. or so,
Said “Your baby’s gone, you can see him now you want.”
Gone, born 2 days and a half ago,
“You can see him now you want,”
the doctor’s hand resting on my shoulder

I birthed him glimpsing his coffee
colored skin with lots of cream,
They took him away,
never `lowed again another see
“His lungs were half formed,” they said,
“You can see him now you want.”

Begging for 2 days and a half, not allowed.
“You can see him now you want.”
“What for?” I said, “I wanted him alive.”
“Too bad. So sorry. You can see him now you want.
At least let us do an autopsy.
Save some other woman pain like you.”

So Sorry. Trapped in a time warp.
Childhood? What Childhood? Childhood what?
So sorry. Never, ever heard the word.
Can’t imagine what it means.


© 1993 Joy Leftow

Ramblings Of A Dead Poet Revived

I’m your dream that drama queen you wanna be because you’re too damn scared on your own
so you talk about me –
My life shot and framed at every angle, a show and tell story of gory glory
A fit of reality TV evening drama
Me, an item to be discussed while you pine away
dismay pitted against your boring display of ridicule and scorn
a fine young thing wasted by the sideline of fate
a doorstep away
from where I stand
another miserable life invites me in
inciting an indictment in flight with a slight itch on the right side
another spiteful blight, pitiful, truly a fight to recite in the red light district of my mind
be polite do a rewrite be an anchor of light at first sight, sit tight
stay upright, only a bit contrite that my
knight in shining armor is all in my head
I have a legal right so join me in breaking bread maybe
Tempt you to try a
glass of organic Oregon Chardonnay instead
my life can’t be that exciting that you spend your time wondering when I do what I do and how I do it why do you care about my theatre life on the big screen
my life's a Sartre amphithreatre
play and I am the spectre at the center of the fuss
I reminisce I exist
the bliss a swiss- chocolate kiss amiss to a soul kiss
the calypso discussion
I disinvite you to an airtight conclusion