Friday, July 08, 2005



Sunday morning, the rotary phone on Grace Vincent’s nightstand doesn’t ring. The black-handled receiver rests in its tarnished cradle perched atop the antique base while the pearl face and black numbers below gape out over the edge onto the brown shag carpet. By Friday, a layer of dust will have replaced the clean spot left by fingers on the receiver’s handle and even Grace won’t be moved to take rag and cleanser to the antique phone.

In a cabinet under the kitchen sink, the clairvoyant rag is stirring. Folded end over end like two fervent hands, it anxiously prays above a bottle of lemon-scented furniture polish awaiting Grace’s call. And feelings of neglect build with each passing moment it does not come.

In Grace’s room two oak rocking chairs sit empty in opposite corners. A blue afghan trimmed in white hangs neatly on one, giving the nearby bureau a skyline to admire in the dim morning light. On the other, a pair of brown work boots stands on recently washed blue overalls and a beige, buttoned-down shirt, pressed and ready. Framed pictures creep quietly over the paneled walls. Rays of sunlight, filtering in through curtains like soft fingers, caress a frayed, yellowing portrait of a balding man with a thick mustache standing next to a woman with upswept hair wearing a plain dress. Both gaze at the empty space on the wall to their left, staunch and unsmiling. Out of their view are newer frames, whiter portraits with gleaming smiles showing under eyes looking strait ahead. Children fade into parents into children once again and finally into young adults in the footprints of a family left clinging to old walls. The bed is large but not high. An icy blue comforter and matching sheets spread across a single, cool mountain range and its lumpy foothills then run headlong into the valleys on both sides before careening over flowing falls to the floor below. The house is enveloped in an unusually calm silence. In the kitchen, a red-handled broom nervously looks at the dustpan below. A bottle of dishwashing liquid by the sink tries to bubble into lather, fails and resignedly sighs. A vacuum cleaner in the closet nibbles at its cord, powerless. But Grace doesn’t emerge from the hallway leading to her room as usual today, waddling in her orthopedic shoes, round and barking along the way. She doesn’t greet the kitchen like a lieutenant to troops at reveille as she has every morning for years since Joseph passed away, calling her platoon to arms for the daily battle against dust bunnies and dirty dishes. At six O’clock the enemy is already charging the battlefield, settling on any surface and breaking the spirits of the leaderless resistance.

* * *

“Your grandmother wants to talk to you, Grace,” her mother says.

“But momma,” Grace whines.

“Don’t talk back, young lady. Now go.”

Grace sighs and dropping the rag doll she had been playing with slowly creeps past her mother. She walks timidly into her grandparent’s living room and approaches the rickety old rocking chair where her grandmother sits. The house smells like wilting flowers mixed with that unmistakable old lady smell that can only be found in conjunction with doilies and knitting needles. Pillows are arranged neatly on the blue couch next to the rocking chair and a large white afghan, crocheted to look somewhat like a spider’s web is perfectly aligned on its sloping back. On a small oak table sitting in front of the couch are two small porcelain figurines. A shiny but teary-eyed clown with a painted smile holds a single flower while his closest friend, a gray owl perching on a cypress stump, looks on, its eyes wide and frightfully clear for mid-morning. Their reflections in the table make them seem less lonely.

Light breaks through the window in rays that fall to the floor between Grace and her grandmother. The illuminated air is smooth and transparent against the darker outline of the walls on the other side of the room. It fills the space like a giant block of molten glass, growing without blemish and melting slowly around both women. The pristine silence of the room hasn’t been broken with the booming echo of a sneeze in decades. Grace tiptoes on the bare wood floor, inching closer. The woman in the chair looks up and slowly smiles. Without the spectacles, Grace thinks, she would bear a horrifying resemblance to an old, sun-dried prune.

“Hi, Granny.”

“Lord, child you’re gettin’ so big I hardly recognized you,” the old woman or the rocking chair creaked, “How old are you now, dear?”

“Five and a half, Granny. You saw me on my birthday, remember?”

“Oh yes, it seems like ages ago. You’re gonna be a young lady soon, and so pretty. Why don’t you come visit your Granny anymore? You’re old enough to walk across the field on your own now, you know. You can come see me anytime.”

The screen door slams shut from the front of the house and Grace’s mother shuffles into the living room impatiently.

“Come on, Grace, I have dinner on the stove and Daddy will be in from the field soon.” Her mother says, “Give Granny a hug and let’s get back to the house.”
“Coming, Momma.”

The old woman’s arms curve into an empty basket to receive the little girl’s embrace. But as soon as her mother turns to the door, Grace backs away from the old wrinkled woman and follows.

“Bye, Granny,” comes billowing from the other side of the screen as she breaks into a run to catch up to her mother.

“Wait, Grace…Goodbye…” her grandmother’s voice trails and quickly fades.

“Did you give your Granny a hug?” asks Grace’s mother as the child joins her walking down the dirt path to their home. Grace looks up without hesitating.
“Yes, Momma.”

A silence passes between mother and daughter as they walk along until Grace turns and asks a question.

“Why don’t we go see Granny anymore, Momma?”

“Well, she’s getting old, sweetie, and she hasn’t been doing so well these days. Besides, she gets tired easy and we can’t be bothering her with long visits anyway.”

“Oh,” Grace pauses and then, “She smells funny, Momma.”

“Now don’t be saying that about your Granny. One day you’ll be an old lady too and you wouldn’t want anyone saying that ‘bout you.”

Grace walks along the path saying nothing, thinking over her mother’s words. Then almost by accident she speaks.


“What baby?”

“I didn’t give Granny a hug like you told me to. She’s all wrinkly and I just couldn’t, Momma. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I know baby. And I’m not going to get mad at you. Your Granny loves you and I’m sure she understands. It’ll be all right. We’ll go visit her again next week and you can give her a hug then.”

* * *

Skin pulls and tightens, wrinkles, and subsides on Grace’s hands. The dust rag yields to every push and pull beneath her lingering force. Fridays are always dusting and vacuuming. A face peers back at Grace from the bureau’s surface, weary and pained. The antique phone sits on the nightstand like a big black cat, its tail hanging over the edge. Airborne dust particles drop from invisible planes and sail toward their target. Simultaneously satisfied with the gleaming bureau and sensing the sneak attack, Grace mounts a full defensive on the nightstand. The would-be paratroopers never have a chance, landing in a minefield of furniture polish with a sweet smell of disinfectant death.

Rose is coming visit today after work. And little Elizabeth is certainly making the journey to Granny’s with her mother. She’s such a sweet child and looking more like her mother in every picture arriving in the rotting mailbox perched precariously on the rusty pipe-stand Joseph has long since ceased tending. In the picture attached to the last letter from Rose, Liz stands near the altar with Father Dubois in the cutest little white dress and shiny white shoes and stockings. Her hands are folded around a Children’s First Communion Book and a rosary with pearl-colored beads hangs down through her tiny fingers. She looks just like an angel.


Grace reassures herself and nods at the sparkling phone and nightstand with the weary rag clenched between the wrinkled and arthritic talons like prey being taken back to waiting young in a mother bird’s nest.

“Now it’s your turn. I don’t want my babies coming here to see such a mess.” Grace glares at the carpet and reaches for the upright vacuum cleaner. It shudders momentarily at her touch then whirs to life tugging hard on the shag carpet, its inhalation seldom interrupted by so much as a lost lent ball or straggling dust mite. Grace glances up at the mustached man and plainly dressed woman staring off at the empty wall. They seem to be searching for something, someone.

What, Momma? Tell me.

The little angel in a pure-as-snow white dress hovers over Grace’s shoulder, interrupting her wandering thoughts. Grace flips the red button to the “ON,” position and the vacuum shudders once more before resuming the futile attempt at filling its belly.

“God, Almighty, almost noon already! We’ve got work to do, Hoover. Let’s go.”

* * *

“Rose, put your coat on honey. I wanted to leave half an hour ago.” Grace calls out the order to her daughter who is still trying with difficulty to master the art of shoelace tying.

“Isn’t Daddy coming with us to Grandma’s?” Rose says as her mother helps to pull the blue, tattered coat over her short arms.

“No, sweetie, he has to work today but we’re going to tell Grandma hello for him. Now button up tight, you don’t want to catch a cold.”

The old Chevy pulls out of Grace’s driveway and soon mother and daughter are on their way. Grace knows that she missed her mother’s birthday last week and the belated phone call was short and anything but sweet. So she’s rushing, as if driving faster might reverse the Earth’s turning, spinning the hands of time with the blue and green sphere until she arrives on her mother’s porch with a “Happy Birthday” smile brimming from ear to ear. And her mother stands on the front porch smiling back and happy. But as every mile passes the minutes seem only to fly away into oblivion faster than she can push the speeding car. Rose sits in the back seat playing with two dolls. Grace can hear her speaking for one and answering with the other in a different voice. She doesn’t want her child to grow up not knowing her grandmother but the last few visits seemed to put a strain on the aging woman. Soon weekly trips turn into bimonthly trips turn into monthly trips turn into every-couple-of months trips, which then give way to even less frequent phone calls.

Grace pulls onto the dirt driveway and looks up to see the house standing, old and unkempt over the Chevy’s hood. She could see the curtains drawn in the windows, yellowed and unwashed. The blue paint is chipping in places, revealing the darkened signs of rotting wood beneath. A pair of brown work boots sits outside the front door, dried dirt still clinging to their soles. Her mother does not come out to meet them. Grace gets out of the car and walks over to open the door for Rose. They walk up the cracked cement steps leading up to the porch, hand in hand. Through the screen over the doorframe Grace can see her mother hunched over an ironing board. Her gray hair is thinning and shocks of white twist and sway in a wispy halo above her head. The skin on her arms and legs hangs loosely in bunches, looking all too much like dough before it’s kneaded and shaped into a loaf or rolls ready for the oven. Fuzzy puffs of steam billow up as the iron presses down over the beige shirt and on the other side of the door, a knot wells up in Grace’s throat as she reaches for the handle.

“Oh, I didn’t expect you so early.” The older woman says as the door opens.

Grace peers into the kitchen where her mother stands, still bent over the ironing board. On the dinette, four places are set, dishes, soup bowls, forks, knives and spoons – all shining and spotless. She walks slowly, deliberately, barely noticing four glasses for their transparency, lined neatly on the counter near a pitcher of iced tea.

“Well, I didn’t want to get caught in the weather later so we left a bit earlier than usual. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course it is, now come in and sit down. I’m almost done ironing Edgar’s shirts. Can I pour you some tea? Milk for Rose?”

The lump drifts upward in Grace’s throat.

“No…Mom, why are you ironing Dad’s shirts?”

“You know he likes them pressed, Grace. What on Earth would make you ask such a silly question like that?”

Grace covers her daughter’s ears and speaks softly.

“You know Dad hasn’t been with us for twelve years, Mom. We go see him every year on his birthday and bring him flowers. Don’t you think it’s time you put his clothes away? And for God’s sake, take those damn boots off the porch!”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Grace. I’m still your mother and you’d do well to remember that from time to time. You…you don’t set foot in my house for months or even pick up the phone to call. And when I call, you never have time to talk for more than two minutes. I don’t even get a chance to talk to my own granddaughter. And now that you’re here you treat me like this in front of her!”

Grace pulls her hands away from her daughter’s ears, still staring at her mother holding the iron, her brow slowly straightening at the realization of the child’s presence.

“Give Grandma a hug, Rose, we have to go now. We don’t want to get stuck in bad weather on the way home and Daddy will be worried if we’re late.”

“But Mommy…” Rose scans her mother’s face, childish fear and confusion on her own. She looks at her grandmother still holding the iron, her eyes sunken as if a great force willed them to cave inward seeking refuge deep in their sockets. Her lips form a taught and perfectly horizontal line in rigid defiance of the failures of her own flesh.

Grace turns to the door and steps onto the porch. Before her foot comes to rest on the bottom step, Rose is at her side.

* * *

The bottle of dishwashing liquid erupts violently, sending a thick yellow stream jetting into the sink where it quickly mixes and foams in the hot water. Two clean plates, forks, knives and glasses join a single dirty plate and fork already bathing there. Saturday morning is always kitchen work, always dishwashing, sweeping and mopping. Grace presses the dishrag into service and grinds the few bits of food from the dirty plate and fork then turns her attention to the remaining two plates. She lifts each out of the sink, first one then the other, glaring at them like disrespectful children in need of punishment. When she places the last fork and knife alongside the other dishes in the drain board she drapes the dishrag over the shiny metal divider between the sink basins.

With the dishwashing done, Grace walks to the utility room where the afternoon’s ironing awaits. She hobbles over to the closet and retrieves the large, folding ironing board. She sets the board in the middle of the room and plugs the iron’s power cord into the electrical outlet near the washing machine. Three sets today. The blue blouse and slacks are hanging neatly with a pair of black trousers and a white, buttoned-down shirt opposite a worn, but altogether similar, beige shirt and blue overalls, Joseph’s work clothes for tomorrow. From where they hang in the doorframe, the blue and white shirts seem to be holding hands; the sleeves touching lightly like an old couple walking in the country after Sunday dinner. Grace draws the blouse tightly over the board and presses firmly with the iron only to wince from the pain in her hand as it jumps away from the iron’s handle. She looks down at the matching blisters on her thumb and index finger, baffled, and then her eyes shoot across the room to the kitchen. Without willing to do so, she finds herself moving in the direction of the sink. And there, draped where she left it is the weeping dishrag, still damp and limply hanging over the metal divider. She lifts the poor rag, stretching it between both hands, until it frames the window above the sink. With the wet rag in her hands eclipsing the sky on the other side of the glass, her fingers begin to throb where the red blisters are rising and a short gasp sneaks into Grace’s open mouth as two new eyes filled with mourning sunlight peer back at her from the square and drooping face.

Grace drops the rag and quickly starts down the hallway to her room. When she enters the room her mother is waiting for her, staring down from the wall in silence. Grace brushes her away and heads to the nightstand where the big black cat is sound asleep. She claws for the handle and plunges a bony finger into a circular hole then spins fiercely. The first digit gouged, she releases and the contraption recoils, spinning in the opposite direction until coming to rest once again. Grace fingers another and another and then the wrong one. She slams the handset on its carriage and tries to steady her shaking hands. She can’t wait any longer. Her fingers frantically poke and spin once more, cursing the antique dust catcher. After an excruciating battle, the phone concedes and Grace brings the receiver to her ear with the sound of ringing.

“Hello?” a little girl’s voice asks.

“Elizabeth? This is Granny.”

“Oh, hi, Granny. Mommy’s right here.”

“No wait, Eliza –“

“Hello?” Rose says.

“Oh, Rose, I was just talking to Elizabeth and she –“

“Yeah, one of her little friends is over here and they’re playing.”

“Oh…well listen, I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”

“Mom, look, I’m sorry we couldn’t make it out there but something came up at work and I had to stay late and when I got home I had to get dinner started.”
“It’s all right, R –“

“And then I had to go pick Lizzy up from practice and stop at the store on the way home ‘cause we were out of milk. When I finally got back I thought it’d be better if we just stayed home.”

“Rose, it’s –“

“And I didn’t call ‘cause I know you go to bed early these days I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Rose, listen to me, it’s all right. I know you’re busy, dear, I understand. And I know you can’t visit every weekend. But I just wanted you to know that you can come any-“

“Uh huh, Mom, look, I think my turkey is burning in the stove and Lizzy’s little friend needs a ride back to her house before dinner. I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we can talk o.k? Gotta go, Mom. Bye.”

Click, silence…beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…

Grace set the receiver slowly onto the base and looks up at the framed picture of the angel on the bureau, an angel that has hovered above her shoulder before, an angel already blending in with the ceramic cherubs and seraphim, trumpeting and watching from their polished oak clouds. Grace straightens as much as her bones will allow and turns to leave - she has to finish pressing her husband’s work clothes, blisters or not. Her mother stops her before she reaches the door and this time she follows the unblinking eyes to the bare spot on the wall. She looks back at the yellowed portrait and sees an old woman standing over an ironing board, the wispy halo sighing and falling in strands to her forehead. Grace welds her eyelids shut, damming the river before it floods the house. Waves of crimson and white light crash in her mind, flailing wildly, searching for an outlet. But only a chosen few rivulets escape, which soon branch and dry before they ever have a chance to empty into the carpeted estuary below. When the waves subside, an infinite and silent blackness is all Grace can discern, but something is being born, taking shape, forming in the void. She strains to make it out, wrinkles folding and overlapping on her brow. The black fog slowly clears, and in the crystal darkness sits a gray, porcelain owl, its large eyes, round like the dishes drying by the sink and frightfully clear.

* * *

Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005

an epitaph for Steve, the diminutive janitor

"an epitaph for Steve, the diminutive janitor"

i seem to be short
on words or worth
but now i'm sure
God sees my stature

i wish i hadn't watched
all that porno
but even God had to
point and click a few times

i probably should have gone
to church on Sundays
but i'm certain formality
means little in heaven

oh, and about that dead hooker
i swear i found her like that
but i really should have
left her top on

June 24, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

sick wombat

"sick wombat"

i'm dreaming TV
i'm loud on the can
i'm tired easily
i'm easily tan

you're dreaming of me
you're proud of the man
you're able to see
you're able to stand

May 9, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

country moo-sick

"country moo-sick"

i'm tired of being lame
you're tired of the same
let me meet you in the middle
and beat myself with a fiddle

April 24, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

sub-serious I

"sub-serious I"

In a certain light nothing
Moves like reptile skin,
Fog and quiet breath
Inhaling just to let in
Night and drugs and subtle
Exists lost on highways
Imperfect for all the
Seasons no one loves
When trees bloom in
Estuaries like all shellfish
And guppies planted to
Replenish redwood forests

April 12, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

it's getting hauter

"it's getting hauter"

angel headed hipsters -
oh wait, that isn't mine
without Ginsberg none of us
would be doing just fine

and moths might break
flannel and tweed
to get us closer
to what we need

and what is that?
what really must we
have to quicken us
to make us be?

it's suits and socks
and ties no doubt -
it's money and war
and policy and clout

it's greed and lust
and babies' breath
it's the contour of hate
and lies and death

April 8, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

a breathtaking view to nowhere

"a breathtaking view to nowhere"

the self-conserving right
of individual plight
breaks on sandy beaches
cold and dark as night
together with mushrooms
and hotel lobbies - rooms
altogether suffering for
lack of refrigerator light
so throw-rugs teach
morals we never reach
the dark side of candles
and contracts breach
the horrible acne truth
of fossils with single tooth
disparities and coffin-like
failures in sweet vermouth
back to angel-hair lies
bent on world appraisal ties
before the worms bother
to hear open-wound cries
on sand-village phone calls
and whispy coming out balls
seeing through night gowns
to break over waterfalls
and do what we all must
for California or bust
sink deep in the soul loot
to falter in heart trust

April 4, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

in a corner of heaven

"in a corner of heaven"

a solar powered muscle
banking on a cloudless day
fought to raise a finger
- the bird... anyway,

soon the angels had glasses
and no one knew math
but who cares? just follow
the righteous rat path

and bake like potatoes
in easy bake style
with pure satisfaction
that God wears a smile

in the corner of heaven
while He sits on high
smoking mary jew huana
and not wond'ring why

April 2, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

did someone find a pine cone?

"did someone find a pine cone?"

ocassionally, the beavers tell
me to spark - but
not to speak - and
not too weak

the angels cover their tracks, or
so to speak - but sew to seek - and
so too meek

are wanderlust and hungerstrike
grow to break - but
grow to leak - and
grow too weak

so follow need, the evermonkey
see to borrow - but
see tomorrow - and
see too, sorrow

March 31, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

Thursday, July 07, 2005

just in case anyone actually comes here

a reminder for the brave

and the quite possibly criminally insane

confuse the copyright office

"confuse the copyright office"

if you come across
this, burn it
but videotape someone
reading it first

August 29, 2004
(referring to the original print)
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

smoke over Dublin

"smoke over Dublin"

i'm sending a prayer
i'm sending a signal
i'm lighting a candle
i'm crossing my fingers

i'm building a fire
i'm holding the light
i'm preparing the way
i'm starting a fight

i'm big among mice
i'm biting my lip
i'm looking for answers
i'm shooting from the hip

i'm careful in bed
i'm fearful of dating
i'm bored with the words
i'm patiently waiting

i'm patiently waiting
i'm patiently waiting
i'm patiently waiting

April 5, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

the devil and my bowels

"the devil and my bowels"

hot damn i would set the world free
if only my shit didn't run like pee
that's all i got - diarrhea
whether you like it or not - fuck me!

April 5, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

american dreams

"american dreams"

a pillar of light and puppy dog tales
a circle of jerks and perfume-built whales
a loop of holiness and blackflag sails
all of which are American Dreams

March 25, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

just forget

"just forget"

a prediliction for affliction
can be justified
by a want for addiction
just typified

so cross fingers twice-crossed
throw off the cloak
of lifelong lust lost
and weakness revoke

shut off the engines tonight
cut candletips burning
and kill all the lights
just sit in darkness yearning

there's nothing left worth thinking
so get rid of thought
there's nothing left worth learning
so forget all that's been taught

March 24, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

definition of

"definition of"

a starlight contraption
all burst and fulfilled
but wanted
and that is the difference
between the golem
and gem
the celestial firestorm
breaks and loves
but only in intervals
of question and time
subdue the lonely
helicopter another

questions are only
as good as the
traffic together with
poignant smirks
and disbelief with
nothing but
tidal relief
severe and fatal
and awful and rigid
and tawdry and
awkward and insightful
believe me
deceive me
relieve me

March 23, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

all lights fucked

"all lights fucked"

the spent stars all clouded
an ugly rail station
but high-speed mutants
thought better of the god-plan

no, no lights would fuck on
the hairy amps
but there will be
explosions in the sky

a triumph blurred on edges
found lightly touched
like butterfly wings that
never left the ground

grew until it had a tail
and a tale to tell
but who would listen
who would listen indeed?

stick to what can be heard
but don't listen to much
and don't listen too much

March 23, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

a slippery topless criminal

"a slippery topless criminal"

a slippery topless criminal
the very slight attraction
of large hadron colliders
to finishing schools and
pocket protectors

a distracted difficult love
the applebite confection
of small atomic particles
diminishing pools and
soul reflectors

a farcical blissful burning
the papercut contraption
of careful fuzzy logic
celebrity drool and
disk infectors

March 22, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

a dead flag souvenier II

"a dead flag souvenier II"

the trick is to tickle
the squirrells
or fall into the daydream

or a fever.

March 21, 2005
Copyright J.S. LeBoef 2004

prelude to a schematic of a broken machine

"prelude to a schematic of a broken machine"

the satellites are falling
in orbits dropping
like sunsets and daydreams

a cradle will rock
on aluminum junctions
built by machines of love and fear

the terrible past is beneath
where lovers crawl
and secrets tell all

a simple factory of thought
went out of business
for want of employment

the fall was beautiful
yesterday i saw flowers
but i didn't smell a thing

the TV sold me a home
somewhere in reality
just the way i paint it

here comes the machine
here comes the dawn
God must be pissed off.

March 25, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

what a relief

"what a relief"

is it wrong to want to break something
every once in a while?
is it wrong to want to fight someone
just to break a smile

how do i know if i'm normal
when i want to
how do i know if i'm normal
when i can't do

anything to help the nerves and
severed blanket intervals
tomorrow will be different
of this i'm sure

scare me once in a while
with a doorknob that won't turn
and a room with a view
so i can start rubberizing walls

but i just want to break shit
on Tuesday mornings mostly
hey, why would i pass up a meal -
as long as it's vegetarian.

March 20, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

Friday, July 01, 2005

a dead flag souvenier

"a dead flag souvenier"

Seventeen fire engines
lifeless gowns and
mother's milk
elegant towers and
stardust bleeding tomorrow's
Failures to light the way
gnash their teeth
seething in winter
Pork belly sunsets
Burst into oblivion
amnesia or insomnia
I can't remember
When to go to sleep

March 19, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

the glass falling window

"the glass falling window"

photogenic freaks
bastard children
trampling upon a metropolis
of thieves blaring
mouth megaphones
encindiary devices of war
pigs look like lovers
look like lawyers
look like look alikes
look like cherry blossoms
upturned in dry creeks
toward lovely dowries
choice and plug-ins
enter stage left and
falter schematics right

something falls off

the shelf tomorrow or
picks me up between shifts
at the restaurant
where i am a chef
or a cook, if you want
to be an ass about it.

March 19, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

Thursday, June 30, 2005

an uncontrollable whimsy

"an uncontrollable whimsy"

an uncontrollable whimsy
today leaped out of my chest
my ribs aren't altogether flimsy
mere nuisances at best

it drove me down like pools
that circle down the bowl
to where the earth is cool
missing the light we stole

and frantic fuck-ups best describe
how loathsome skeletons rome
keeps the wand'ring strangled tribe
from guilt and fear and home

it's not that i find myself that dim see -
dull would pale and bright confess
but still an uncontrollable whimsy
is a whimsy nonetheless

so pack your bags off to the moon
although i cannot take you
i would pray you there and be your boon
and just as soon forsake you

so don't trust men with constitutions -
stalwart, sound or flimsy
Free shouldn't balance on resolution
of an uncontrollable whimsy

March 18, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

rock star

"rock star"

in another life i might have been a rock
too tired to move
too big to be ignored
and someone painted me blue

in another life i might have been a star
too bright to die
too far to see
and someone overlooked me

in another life i might have been a rock star
too high to come down
too loved to ever love
and someone painted over me

March 17, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

a prayer

"a prayer"

God is a machine in the sky
wondering why we don't wonder why
and angels sing somewhere on high
proliferating the savage lie.

A shielded beach for withered seeds
waits for roses and the weeds
to praise the Sun with bitter creeds
'till seafoam cures their purest needs.

The crazy happy walk the street
selling smiles to those they meet
their soles are red beneath their feet
from sores that science cannot treat.

And this is how i find the lie
that tells me that i'll never die
just send your money with a cry
to God's machinery in the sky.

March 17, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

let's find them husbands

"let's find them husbands"

let's not set them free
let's not let them be
let's not let them see
let's not give them me
let's not give them hands
let's not give them land
let's not take demands
let's give them a man
let's not give them much
let's not give them touch
let's not have it such
let's give them a crutch
let's give them a stay
let's give them a way
let's give them away.

March 16, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

i have a dog

"i have a dog"

i have a headache
in my shoe
i have a dog
or at least i used to

i have a stick
in my hand
i can hit you with it
i am a man

i have a god
in a book
i can close it whenever
i don't want to look

i have a devil
in my pants
i let him roam free
when i get the chance

i have a head
in between shoulders
where God and the Devil
sit and get older

i have a headache
in my shoe
i have a soul
or at least i used to

March 16, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

an office for a cow

"an office for a cow"

creation and dilution
the arbitrary solution
counterweight a dictatorship
with dollar signs and citizens
cool the pot that's on the fire
let's all build the funeral pyre
will a phoenix rise from the Bush
and begin anew with nature's rush?
can we find an Atlas in burning brooks,
oil-slicked beaches and empty crooks?
can we build diseases for remedies?
prosthetic legs for broken knees?
can we hire killers to fix the poor
and rewrite history we should ignore?
can we give until the rich are sore
or take until there are no poor?
can we make smiling, burning new inventions
smarter bombs with good intentions
and talking monkeys waging war
to get us where we were before
where peace is seldom, thank the Lord
and Love, more than we can afford
i think i thought that yesterday
i heard my television say
"Don't worry about all that today.
It doesn't affect you anyway."

March 16, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

a beautiful amber dream

"a beautiful amber dream"

it seems like a simple task
just being
and is it so much to ask
just seeing

but sometimes i find it hard
to be
that person so heavily scarred -
it's me

a beautiful amber dream
a loving mother's touch
disintigrating into screams
we come to love so much

bring an axe and a table
so you can get along
i'll help if i am able
let me sing a song

thank you Jesus
thank you God
forgive me all my sins
wash away my iniquity
so i can start again.

March 16, 2004
Copyright J.S. LeBoeuf 2004

introductions, disclaimers and other errata

This blog was created in 2003 and was originally intended to be a sounding board for various accomplishments and miscellaneous tombfoolery.

I'm reclaiming it effective immediately and re-dedicating it to warehousing my literary works. I'm more than happy to let it serve the dual function of being a sounding board as well - so if anyone has an opinion about anything posted here, please feel free to share. Constructive criticism is, of course, always welcome, but if you feel the need to just flat out flame me, please only use the most offending language, slanderous challenges to my manhood and talents as a writer.

Most of the works I will be posting will be short works, poems and the like. These are artistic works (or at least they arguably are - hehe) of an oftentimes somewhat troubled young person. That said, they may contain language that parents might not find suitable for viewing by children, so there's my disclaimer.

Moreover, my original works that I post here are subject to copyright and consequently I reserve all rights to any of my own works of authorship posted.