Pink Champagne
Was that the name of
the chalky rose that graced
my 20-year-old lips
Was it a drag queen or
my girlfriend Rickie who gave me
that stick/mystical tube
Cylinder of cotton candy
and chemical confection
that no doubt helped my pout
Yes, it was Rickie after all who
slipped Georgette Klinger into my purse
and said, “Work it, girl”
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
When Imaginary Garden With Real Toads mentioned the color pink, this little memory emerged from the silver tube of my synapses! I will always be grateful that Rickie Lee Jones is my friend… we are almost the same age, but she was always the big sister, more worldly, a bit wiser. And yes, she still has the BEST makeup, hee hee.
She has her first album of all originals coming out in June, so stay tuned. I will write to one of those pieces.
Amy
New York Doll
There was a time in her prime
when she’d mime drink orders
to cordial bartenders who always
tended to her needs. Never one
for thinking while drinking.
She’d haul a Hal to the juke
and dance dance dance
A chance to prance from
Latin to limbo to limo to
blow snow, no dough, only
her willingness to be ill-used
(not abused in the classic sense;
her men’s tastes not leaning toward
the waste of a pretty face)
The pace of the chase
was hasty and tiring, and so,
rewiring back at the flat, we
would recount the bounty
that shines brightest at 2 am
The night, our flight, our fight
to be noticed in an
anonymous
bottomless pit
of a city
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This is why having a roommate in the larger cities is important. Who else will listen to your triumphs and tragedies ‘til dawn? This one will be at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads on Monday and dverse Poetry Pub’s Open Mic on Tuesday. I’ll add the links in the next two days so you can click and read some soulful stuff from a vast array of poets. Peace, Amy
At the Great American Food & Beverage Co., Wilshire at Sixth (1979)
Joe’s behind the keys
Doug, Lisa and I singing backup until
others join the fray, Carolyn on cabasa
This restaurant is like nothing ever
Ever
EVER
Smells mingle and linger
Rib sauce, beer, whipped cream
Sweat and hot chocolate
Sounds bounce and dervish
Music: Tambourines, guitars,
ivories, voices of every color and timbre
It’s late, so Jamie takes to the piano
“Heartbreak City” in the key of frenetic
Climbing on tables, raising hell, crazed
Chuck on “Takin’ It To The Streets”
We gather around him, the army of
musicial pacifists, guitars the only weapons
No mics, just naked acoustics, so I have to
wait for a lull and take the piano with great
intention to render “Skylark” as it should be
People wait for hours outside
Munching veggie trays, waiting for
two hours just to get in
The floorboards harbor stories
of naked piano players, cooks banging
fudge pots, making fun of musicians
Of after-hours massage lines, practical
jokes magic serving starving
The life of a singing waiter or host
Poppy stops in, baby River bops in his arms
He laughs when he smells the Divine Weed
wafting from the kitchen
Enrique the dishwasher knows three words
in English: “E-spread ‘em, babeeee!”
Kitchen staff schooling him
Late nights playing pinball for free
Greggie found the key and we laugh and
drink and sing the old songs, it’s quiet now
Lights out, don’t have to go home
but ya can’t stay here…
Farewell, my youth, my touchstone
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Fireblossom wanted poems about a specific place. How about a specific place and time, with specific people? For those of you who never experienced the Great American Food & Beverage Co. in Santa Monica in the 70s, this is only a taste of the wild, wickedly fun, wantonness that was the G.A. A place that holds me fixed in time and space, a place where I went from girl to woman – and from beer to beyond. Peace, Amy
April Fool (The Poet)
She can do it
She’s done it before
April calls for
a poem a day
She locks out
distractions, lets
herself get lost
in memories and moments
It could be a
song – she has
staff paper on hand,
after all, plenty
It won’t be
floral themes
Funeral scented as
petals fall to the carpet
No “moon June spoon”
songs; something
bluesy with peaks
of soulful wails
She has written
about stoners and
wastrels, powders
up nostrils, bad sex
Politics and pencils
Incense and incest
LGBTQs and rednecks
Allies and enemies
Today, she will
simply vow to
make it worthy,
come what may
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl (see Wordle HERE), and on the sidebar at Poets United, my oasis in the desert; AND for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday. n celebration of the first day of NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month (or Naturally Panicky Writhing Motions, depending on my level of desperation).
The game is afoot, Watson. Watson, the foot is a game. A game, Watson, the foot is. Yeah, I’m ready! Peace, Amy
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
Poem never made it to my blog until now – yet it was my first proper freestyle rant (on gentrification of L.A.), written while I was hanging with Riley, Marcia and Jesse on a trip to SoCal. Reason I’m putting this up? A friend of mine needs a KICK IN THE BUTT to jump-start writing her own stories of those years. God, I miss it so, the Boardwalk, the cheap breakfast, the neverendingness of it all… Amy
Venice Then and Now (1979, 2012)
We were free spirits, flowing with our Karma
Floating in a pot-scented breeze
But now it’s all money disease
Dis-ease about security sucks marrow from bone
Creativity from full-blown, fine, eclectic minds
The intersection: Hollywood & Vine… correction: What I Owe vs. What Is Mine
In your soul, the blues; on your mind, the dues
Paying for the right to live here, by the whispers of waves
Near palatial pavilions of the potently paid
Praying we could once again live back then, back when all was sensual, all serene
And the Venice Boardwalk a little less Green
Rave all we want, the money’s moved in
It’ll never move out ‘til tsunamis tumble Venice back to the trashy look
of hash-clouded, bearded marginals
Undulating madrigals with open guitar cases
Accepting quarters from faces unlined by gotta do gotta go gotta take this call
It’ll take the fall of L.A. to get it back to stay
No matter how much money they spend, there’s always more expense
for parking meters, Margaritas, Mercedes-Benz
What became of the real-deal drifters, grifting their way through a shroom-filled haze
Jingles and Frank and ragged reggae days
Muscle-bound bods of men well-oiled, well-pumped, unshod
Stores with honey-drenched Haagen Dazs in paper cups with wooden spoons
A pennyweight on a Mylar balloon –
we sent it skipping ghostlike toward the Venice Canals
Now they’re scum green
But the ducks don’t mind, they’re doing fine
Today I said hi and they called back
Money can’t make ‘em go anything but QUACK
If ducks = local charm, then why not beach bums, doing no harm?
Charm, like beauty, in beholders’ eyes
No room for human clutter, sweep ‘em in the gutter
like Rudy’s 42nd St., makes me shudder
The rich have L.A. well in hand
No handouts, no hand-me-downs, just put ‘em out, put ‘em down
Set down roots upon roots much deeper, roots of hippies without beepers, laptops,
Blackberry speakers attached to the ears of societal sleepers
Cops in Oakwood busted humble places – put those grandmas on their faces
Fat cats watch the breaking story – 5:00 talking head in her glory
Unless it’s your grandma’s face on the floor, it’s a sound byte, nothing more
And folks who really give a shit don’t have time to protest it
Scrimping, scraping takes its toll – staying, praying Rent Control isn’t eaten whole
by well-heeled leeches who want their condos near the beaches
Rich vs. Poor, at the boiling point
God, this city needs a joint
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Corner Shelf Onstage
Young: First round on me
Stay ‘til last call
Partied hard,
some success
Now: Wiser,
ready for rowdiness, revolution
Dichotomy:
Shy, depressed or
Manic, obsessed with
peace, poetry, politics,
my past
And always singing…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the whimsically titled Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, the challenge was to write a poem about yourself in 35 words or less. Peace, and please do come to the Garden – you’ll meet interesting poets and photographers and other artists!
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!
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.
California Dreamer
I’m here
Made it clear out to the
West Coast
Hair sticky with salt,
sand in my sandals
Beach air so fine
This town is mine for the takin
I’ll break in
Shakin what my mama gave me
No car yet, but I got two wheels
I pedal with my red metal
or skate the eight blocks to work
That’ll pay rent for now
til I find my niche
in the LA club scene
And then, Bub, watch out
No doubt
As sure as this
rock wall will stand
My talent will meet their demand
Singers as common as sand… but I’m here
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Patterns, Pictures, and Poems, writing to a photo from their tasty selection. Photo courtesy of James Rainsford; used with permission via the dverse site.
Also at my poetic cairn, Poets United!
Sharp Little Pencil 