Shark Shack Redemption

02 May 2013 16 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Drugs Tags: , , , , , , ,

Shark Smack Redemption

In this corner
we have two junkies
(clutchin their insides,
achin for a fix)

And in this corner
a dealer and his flunkie
(carryin’ with pride
the primo mix)

Gentlemen
Come out bargaining

C’mon, Mister Bang
don’t keep us hangin
Last week was a deal
a downright steal

Yeah, that was last week
Now it’s changed
replies Mr. Silk Suit
Buddy carries the loot

Have mercy, Bang
I need it badder’n bad
Cantcha see I’m dyin
One cringe away from cryin

Tell you what, Jake, says Bang
Remember your girl
That blonde was right rooty
and she sure got the booty

You want her, she’s yours
She’ll do what I ask
Just give us a taste
‘fore we go to waste

(Scans the room in panic
Isn’t it romantic?
He motions for Jill
to join in the thrill)

Mr. Bang offers three
One for him,
one for his co-horse
Third to prime “First Course”

Go on now, Jill
I’ll see you back here
Just give Mr. Bang
a little that thang

But Jill shakes her head
Tells him she’s not for trade.
You can’t redeem this girl
like Green Stamps for a whirl.

Off go Mr. Bang and ass-
istant to find other buyers
No jack, No Jill for Jake
just sweats and a bellyache

No redemption
Smack preemption
Simply two losers
who, tonight, will be boozers

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For dverse Poets, Victoria Slotto wanted a piece that describes our passions. I give you the opposite, in a way. I’m still fascinated by how far people will go to get high, to self-medicate, and that much further away from love, from God, from peace. I have known women who would give their bodies for the sake of a fix for themselves and their old man.  In the Old Daze, I could have witnessed a scene very much like this, when it was LA and everyone thought they were immortal. Then a junkie died in my lap, and I saw things differently indeed. Peace, Amy

Dive Right In

10 Feb 2013 21 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: , , , , , , ,

DIVE RIGHT IN (from the mini-series, “Amy: The Lost Years”)

I know it’s a dive but
I dive right in anyway
Thigh-high boots first and
black silk bustiered boobs
not far behind

A drink; I start to shine; a
dim bulb sidles over, his
best pick-up line the
cobwebby question
of the truly unhip:

“What sign are you?”
After all these years,
you’d think it would
no longer be laughable
to answer, “Virgo”

But sorry-ass dudes
who think they can
get you with a ‘lude*
also seem to think it’s
hilarious to say “virgin”

Now he’s making fun
of my birth sign
“Hold on, Jack,” I snark,
“who’s the one with the
fake tan and a wink

that tells me you watch
WAY too much old
Magnum, PIs? Let me
illuminate you, buddy
I may have been born Virgo,

but I’ve a Gemini eye:
I can see Taurus rising
in your attitude, cuz
you’re way past horny
and full of B.S.”

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

*Back in the day, a “lude” was a Quaalude. It not only put you into a dreamlike state, it also cured constipation and shyness.

For Poetic Bloomings, Marie Elena and Walt wanted poems about our astrological signs. Since a whole poem about the anal retentive, positively OCD nature (OK, some people call me “meticulous,” but that’s because they’re trying to avoid my hypercritical, snarky attitude) seemed like a bore, so I put it within a salacious story. I mean, how much can I say about arranging your bookshelves by age of the volumes, then rearranging by subject, then again by author…

Also, Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem using the word “illuminate,” and I dare say this guy may have achieved some enlightenment. Man, I was caustic back then! Peace, Amy

“You’re…” EEEEEK! uh…

25 Jun 2012 29 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Health Care, POETRY Tags: , , , , , , ,

“You’re…” EEEEEK! uh…

Mammograms are the only day
when it doesn’t suck to be moi
I take ‘em out, I flop ‘em on
the glass, and they squish like foi gras

Then came two voice mails
on the same choice day
from the same office.

And suddenly my world morphed
from “as controlled as possible with meds”
to head-spinning dread, fed by
one freakin’ phone call.

All I must do is careen
back to the scene of the crime,
primed sans deodorant and scent,
rank with my own odor and fear.

It may be one mammo;
it may need more ammo.
a big needle thrust
to left of my bust.

“They’ll take the sample
with ample drama, mama,
and a big-ass needle, so
close your eyes and tell them
you have PTSD,” my beloved
survivor friend says.

“Then set phasers on STUN -it sounds
like a staple gun or Pac-Man as it
chomps in search of tissue.
Make them issue enough painkillers
to knock out a horse.”

“Of course,” I reply,
she laughs, knowing I
am immune to OTCs*
thanks to the 70’s…

…during which I imbibed
enough pharmaceuticals to
peel the cuticles off
a gorilla’s thumbnails.

It’s this Wednesday, folks,
please pray it’s a hoax,
and Old Leftie is “clean,”
if you know what I mean.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

* OTCs are “over the counter” drugs like Advil, Tylenol, and aspirin. I could take a whole bottle for a headache and it would do nothing for the pain… but the Advil would trash my liver!

Sunday Scribblings asked us to come up with a poem about a “Eureka moment.” This is the down side of that concept, and we’re hoping and praying it has a happy ending! Will keep you posted. Also at the one office where nothing ever hurts… Poets United! Peace, Amy

TWO Wordles: Recruited and Day 38

19 Jun 2012 7 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY, War Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

This is when I realized that I was, indeed, THAT far behind. Here is the Wordle from the current week’s Baker’s Dozen, followed by one from last week’s words. Brenda Warren, you are a creative source and very much loved by this here sharp little blog!! This is also at my poetic meeting place, Poets United.

Ironically, the two poems could be a “before” and “after” sequence. But as it is, I’ll pray for peace. Amy

RECRUITED

Ain’t no draft in this war
‘sides, the rich folks’d
pull strings so their kid’d
be son-of-a-Bush Leaguin

We got through Boot,
crack troops, they say.
Yeah, there’s crack for sure
here, and some good weed

Bad meth got Duffy in
a zombie trance then BOOM! he’s
beatin his chest, temper real high,
hell, he was real high, making a

racket, kickin over the table
beer makin soup outta my
Lucky Strikes. Now Duffy, he’s
locked up, latch like a dog.

Recruiter, he says at the BK,
“Currently (yeah, they talk like that)
we require troops who refrain from
drug use and talk straight, you know?”

Yeah, I can hear him now over the bombs.
Straight, but you know that ain’t about talk,
it’s bout the showers. And somethin bout drugs.
“Hey, I can do that,” I say, “sign me up.”

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl: Draft, Crack, Spare, Refrain, Strike, Temper, Chest, Blend, String, Racket, Trance, Latch, Current.
——————————–
DAY 38

Crawlin to another meeting
in my rust-stained Corona.
Dirty jeans and the same shirt
I wore overnight in the back seat.

Parkin in the shadows, near
little bluffs where prairie grasses
brush against the very air,
I swear, it’s a real trip.

Now the willow slaps the roof
of my car, dippin low to whisper:
“Here we are again, my friend.
Remember the first time, you
trembled, decaf in one hand,
12-Step book in the other.
Three days out of the mud then,
not stoned, not wasted?  One nerve
short of suicide?”

Damn if the tree ain’t right.
I remember that night,
I was sure enough that scared,
cause the meeting was downstairs
in a church. Only sacred vessels
are in there, not homeless guys.

The willow creaks and sighs,
“Don’t forget the man
with a nail in each hand.
Never a pillow for his head,”
the weeping willow said.

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For LAST WEEK’S Whirl: Crawl, Shadows, Nail, Corona, Vessels, Brush, Stain, Bluffs, Trembled, Stones, Willow, Mud.

Far Away From Home (exile)

17 Jun 2012 18 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: , , , , , , ,

Far Away From Home

She moved as far away as she could
from the parents, the school
her entire, pathetic former life

Reinvented herself on the Left Coast
so her folks wouldn’t be embarrassed
when she turned into a slutty pothead

Lucky she had some talent
and a knack for “right place, right time”
Associated with some up and comers

But all bad things must come to an end
including the sore nose and some shaky
“business” opportunities, best to avoid

The road home seems longer when
your tail is between your legs and you’re
detoxing on the cross-country bus

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse: Exile. Follow the link down the rabbit hole to some amazing poets!

Billie Holiday

09 Apr 2012 40 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Music, POETRY Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Billie Holiday

Her story, stuff of legend
Hard to believe a girl
who scrubbed the whorehouse steps
was a child of destiny

Louis and Bessie’s songs, a balm
wafting through the brothel windows
(masking commercial commotion upstairs)
That jazz summoned magic buried in her very marrow

At seventeen, at dusk, she entered a club
The audience, the first witnesses
to a staggering talent, unbroken by
the sorrows of her childhood

Finding her soulmate in sax man Lester Young
Coursing through their veins and blended history,
their addictions: Jazz and heroin
First gave life; second led to early death

Too young, a deathbed. Money taped to her thigh?
A filthy lie, as befits urban legend
The collective force of Lady Day and Pres?
The real deal – raw truth pressed on vinyl

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For The Sunday Whirl: Destiny, Dusk, Mate, Marrow, Staggering, Buried, Songs, Blood, Addiction, Story, Sorrows, Broken. These words began singing choruses of “Lover Man” to me before I knew what I was going to do with them.  Also posted at the Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Image courtesy of www.jacklawrencesongwriter.com, in his photo files. Thanks, Jack!

Although the rumor of money taped to her thigh was false, police did arrest her on her deathbed for possession. Lester “Pres” Young, who nicknamed Billie “Lady Day,” was in fact nicknamed by Billie as the President of Sax Players. Wish I could have included the video on YouTube of her TV session in her later years on “Fine and Mellow,” but the cut was too long. Look it up; you’ll spot Gerry Mulligan, Coleman Hawkins, Pres on the second sax solo, Mal Waldron on piano, and more.  When Pres Young died of self-abuse (alcohol and heroin), Billie was not allowed by Young’s wife to sing at the funeral.  Billie said bitterly, “I’ll be next,” and she was, four months later.

Post #420: Stoner Poem!

28 Mar 2012 20 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: , , , , , ,

Yes, indeedy, for all who remember the “420″ reference (which is still used, but no one remembers why because they were too stoned when they heard the story). Anyone who knows the story and DOESN’T Google it, please mention when you comment! A true story, from my time in California dubbed by my BFF John as “Amy: The Lost Years.” (ED. NOTE: If we can carry Smart Phones and get run over in traffic because we’re texting, why can’t we legalize pot? At least it would keep us in one place!)

BEST. WEED. EVER.

Al’s homegrown pot came with
a guaranteed sweet spot.
“Play ball!” A homer every
at-bat; no rain delays.

Sun never shone as brightly
nor cohorts giggled so spritely
as when Al pulled out his bag of
Mendocino County One-Hit Wonder.

Sage green and ruinously resinous,
it rendered rolling practically impossible.
So smooth on the intake – and
zero-to-sixty in seconds flat.
One joint could turn a mob
of tired, cranky, post-shift waiters into
drooling zombies in search of Cheetos.

Al went off the radar years ago,
but the memory,
the melody lingers on.
A cloud of laughter, profuse swearing,
groan-worthy punning, sexual innuendo,
and whispered promises forgotten by morning…

All sent up years ago as a scented offering
to Bacchus (who probably got a contact high).

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Wherever you are, Al, you are missed. Not just for your weed, either.

Crystalline

14 Feb 2012 48 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: , , , , , ,

Crystalline

The perks of being a backup singer
were the free drugs supplied
by folks who’d tend to linger

after the show, back in the hotel room
Finest weed from finest seed
Took her right back to the womb

Times change, from rage to new rage
Thai to cocaine, then rock in a pipe
First hit flew her to an infinite stage

The saddest moment she’d ever know
was a bright shining synapse pinging
Gogogogogogogogogogo

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore

The Door To Deceitful Delights (dverse)

21 Dec 2011 66 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in POETRY Tags: , , , , , , ,

The Door to Deceitful Delights

The door to deceitful delights
she discovered within as she was
plied with that first fizzy fun punch
Pried open wider by a toke of particularly prime pot
Finally flung open with the abandon possessed by
twenty-something Immortals

This same door had dwelt
in her mother and others long passed
Smothering, smoldering smoke and
various places to place opium
by hookah or
by whodahthunkit

Twenty-something was wise
She grew tired of wasting time
Time to grow up
We can’t all be Peter Pan
or Tinkerbell, even

She shoved her full weight against the door
Forced it shut and with it all the shit, shove-stored
She knows she could open it again
on a whim or over a heartbreak

But she willingly tossed the key
into a pool of other bad memories
where she chooses not to swim
knowing she’d only sink like a stone

© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mike Night (check out the links!) and my poetic hearth and home, Poets United.

Zithromax (Think Before Lighting Up Indoors)

15 Jul 2011 31 Comments

by Sharp Little Pencil in Activism, City Life, Health Care, Poets United, Prompts, Social Justice Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter, “Z”! (Do we start on the Cyrillic alphabet now?) Also at the poetic collective, Poets United.

This poem is based on the phenomenon that effectively destroyed my piano-bar career… Amy

Zithromax (Think Before Lighting Up Indoors)

A smoky club, the trapped wait staff
take your orders and get the shaft.

While you puff a cig or two,
others do just as you do.

You can leave and breathe fresh air;
singers, barkeeps, stuck in there

Low-wage job with no insurance;
Z-pac samples help endurance.

When you blithely light that match
think of what the workers catch.

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

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