I Got the Time

Sitting in the waiting room,
becoming intimate with
a very non-recreational IV needle
that protruded like Vegas neon
from my left wrist,
while radioactive goo circulated
where blood used to be,
Trying to be cool
about a supposed plug
that supposedly plugged
some part of my left atrium....
"Worried, me?? Not a chance."
Wasting bullshit on papered walls
because no one else seemed to notice.
Some were making love to their own IV's.
(glow in the dark special today, it seems)
Others lost in bullshit of their own.

The aide rolled her in, parked her by the door,
and disappeared.
"WE GOING TO EAT???"
she yelled to no one in particular.

No response.

Again, louder,
"WE GOING TO EAT?????"

Still,
no response.

Her bright eyes scanned the room.
She was at least 90,
but still amazingly beautiful,
blue hair flying in long layers away from a face
that must have stopped the hearts of multitudes
and made grown men cry
60 years ago.

All the other bullshitters
studied their needles intently.
(Maybe they slip off and fuck in the corners
if you don't watch ‘em closely enough.)

I studied the studiers, hoping my needle
wouldn't procreate during my inattentiveness.

"HEY, JEWEL IS COLD.....
SOMEBODY COME OVER HERE AND...
WARM ME UP."
again to no one in particular.

Damn, the years hadn't chipped
a bit of the sexy
out of that strong voice.
It filled the room and flowed into the adjoining halls,
dripping honey and wine
on stiff carpets and leather.

..........Still, no response.

So she sang...
her voice as clear as it must have been
when stock markets crashed glass panes
and crumpled in ticker-tape graves,
when rakes in roadsters plied her with gifts,
when she was the cat's pajamas,
and Frank was a mere lad in short pants.

She sang
and she didn't miss
a note.

"IF YOU GOT THE MONEY, HONEY,
OLD JEWL'S GOT THE TIME...
WE"LL GO HONKEY_TONKIN', BABY,
YOU BUY THE WINE.."
on and on her voice slammed against us all
pinned as we were by those fornicating needles
to our slick leather seats,

.......and still no one spoke.

The song ended, and she sang it again..louder this time,
it rolled around the room,
buttery, husky tones
washing heaps of wrinkled dreams
like warm whiskey,
reminding me of Marylin and Louie
rolled into one....

but not one head lifted.

And so Jewel sang on
as if repitition might stir her audience
into wild and well-deserved applause.
But the house was silent and the spot-light,
falling through the curtains of years,
no longer lit the stage.

Undaunted, she belted her encore,
"IF YOU GOT NO MONEY, HONEY
OLD JEWEL'S GOT NO TIME....."
then she paused,
"NO TIME"....."JEWEl'S GOT
NO TIME, NO time, no time, no more time"....her voice faded
to almost a whisper...."no more time"....
and the aide appeared and wheeled her away,
but her voice floated back for a while after she
was out of sight..."no time...old Jewel's got no time....
no more time......."

The house lights dimmed for Jewel,
but her song kept echoing in my head....
even after the multitude of tests
showed that the clog in my heart
was a figment
of the cardiologist's imagination.....

......even after I learned that Jewel's
last curtain call came on the surgeon's table
while I was still sighing my relief.....

How I wish
I could have been
half the woman Jewel was that day....
because had I been,
I would have stood and cheered madly
in that waiting room full of silent averted eyes
as she gave that most exquisite and haunting
final performance......

 

Jewels

Sleepy floors stretch and yawn
and rise slowly
to meet drowsy steps
as the lark convinces Dawn
to load her brush just one more time.

A moment's solitude,
jealously guarded,
sipped and savored,
before the lightening sky
sends laughter
tumbling down the stairs.

Urged on
by cinnamon noses and watering mouths,
feet soon follow,
and daybreak slides off the griddle
and into morning.

Life...
 
the little things...

 

---

Love Storms - 30 page poetry chapbook

email W. Laura Alleman for more info

---

     Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
     I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings.