About Me

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I am mundane and magical, Silly and serious. I am an underachiever who suspects that someday in the eternities I may yet blossom and even fruit. I am a collector of spirits and essences, a studier of mood and nuance.I have many many faults and yet I've always been loved. I am a good friend, but I will let you go if you so desire. I believe in Somewhen. I laugh easily and cannot often cry, which I know is a Flaw. Like You, I am a work in progess.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Shake the Box
(with gratitude to Bruce)

For desperate days now I’ve petitioned for poetry
All I get is the image of my Grandma’s strawberry smile-
The one that rivals Mona Lisa for mystery, but twice as impish

So I say,
 “What about you grandma?
Shall I tell the day you packed us up in The Grey Ghost,
old silver Cadillac with the showy fins
and like a shark in pursuit
followed that biker with a fishing pole sticking up
all the way to the beach and left us there,
me, barely pubescent, and in a tank top?
I burned to blisters shunning the smelly leather jacket offered
by a kind Hell’s Angel.”
I always wondered how you spent that day.

How about the time I splinted my lover’s spectacularly broken finger
with a quarter teaspoon and a yard of ripped up rags
in the middle of an anonymous night
after he really punched that guy
for saying something nasty to a street woman he cared for.
For days, he discreetly searched the paper for news of a body,
But she died first.
Antoine. That was her name.

“Shake the box,”
my current lover says.
And he plays Burroughs and Bukowski,
Ginsberg and Kerouac for inspiration.
I think, Baby, do you really want me darker than I am?

My box has a rich tumble
But it’s all stuck inside
Not wanting to be shared.
Not now.

Unrequited love laps up against
the joy of driving an old green schoolbus
on deserted Wyoming roads- making love and pie-
and Pink Floyd, the flamingo, not the band.

Disney Eyed Dudie, my most loyal dog gazes adoringly at me
from a bed four pads thick to ease his old bones.
He’s shrinking and most steps cause him pain but neither of us wants to let go.
Certainly a poem in that.

But not now my recalcitrant brain voices say.
I have nothing I can get on paper
But plenty in the Swirl around me.

Last night, I asked the Muses and do you know what I got?
Dream of a one legged mummy
In the ordinary opulence of some American house.
A mummy who knew lighting.
What kind of dreck is that, I ask you?
My Muses are only rarely serious.

Roll the bones, shake the box
Just live.

LeAnn Cole

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