Three Poems

Poetry
Leigh White


Candles don’t necessarily make you a whore

Mark Kostabi paints my portrait
and includes my actual facial features
He says they are industrial enough to stay in the painting

I don’t know if this is a compliment
or an insult

It makes me gushy like Bavaria

The Zen garden is missing a rake
However, I do have a plastic fork
and a tenaciously stubborn mission statement
Inspired by anyone who ever threw like a girl
Or bought the Journey Escape CD

Sleight of hand to hand combat over the telephone
Makes me crumble into fetalness
The thorns are not unexpected
They are like mattress tags
and cannot be removed under penalty of the law.

The heat rises
Hovers in my second floor apartment
I have been waiting
So long
For a condescending gay black man
who uses sarcasm like a knife
to work as my receptionist
but he never shows.

for half a second, it’s anytown U.S.A.
it’s all right.

Then,
I look down
at the manila I.D. tag
tied around my toe
And I wondered what happened to me.
What happened
to me.

 

G minor: information is best processed while laying on a couch

my Achilles heel was sketched by Andy Warhol
and it turned out to be a platform shoe
I slid into second base face first and didn’t care
I knew
I was safe
your fresh made salsa voice tart with temptation and alluvial fandangos
I can’t begin to explain what a good kisser is like
I will just have to show you
a 2 hour phone conversation
is hidden in a silo somewhere in Iowa
when did it get this easy
to slip away
and say what was really on my mind.

 

Jerrycurl

Start by lying.
Make them big lies.
About money, the prowess or efficiency of your genitals,
your intelligence,
and the Archduke Ferdinand
Read Vanity Fair magazine
curled in a fetal position in a coffee cup
that remains on top of a chaise lounge.
The bolt of casino fabric was merely a bonus
An ocean of storms fills me with colored pencils.
Dogs named Otis parade in front of me
Dignified and more than a little flirtatious
They smell like my senior year in college.
I hide in God’s terrycloth right pocket until the world realizes
that I am not Tinkerbell
I never was

pencil

“I was born in the sea of polyester and blue eye shadow known as the Chicago suburbs in 1966. At 6 months, I was dropped… which explains many things. I possess a Bachelor’s degree in Communications with an emphasis in Advertising from California State University Fullerton and have worked as a graphic designer, copywriter and marketing executive ever since. I work for a graphic design firm called p11creative. I read my first poem in front of an audience at the Laguna Beach Brewery in 1998. I have since featured at the Gypsy Den Costa Mesa, Gypsy Den Santa Ana, The Ugly Mugg, Alta Coffee House and Sacred Grounds. My World War II poetry is in the permanent collection at Florida State University as part of “The Institute on World War II and the Human Experience”. I have been featured on deviantlit.com, spokenwar.com, paintedperfectly.com, entropicdesires.com and many more. My first love is fine art. I paint every day. I like my Van Halen with Roth and not Hagar.” Leigh can be reached at leigh[at]p11.com.

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