the muse apprentice guild
--expanding the canon into the 21st century




EIGHT WORKS
BY LEIGH WHITE

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL HAVOC/DAVID BYRNE IS MY BRAD PITT BY LEIGH 3-3-03

Jump out.
Pull rip cord.

Instead of a parachute,
a hundred shiny hatchets fly out.
I am glad.
The pack feels

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL HAVOC/DAVID BYRNE IS MY BRAD PITT BY LEIGH 3-3-03

Jump out.
Pull rip cord.

Instead of a parachute,
a hundred shiny hatchets fly out.
I am glad.
The pack feels a hell of a lot lighter now that they have 86'd themselves.

My stomach gets slashed on the way down.
Diagonally.
Blood and high school yearbook inscriptions flow out and up.
I don't feel it for a while
(by choice.)

Gusts of air zoom past my cd collection.
Yes I am ashamed of the Barry Manilow cd but not the Neil Diamond one.
Or the GNR.
Bugs get caught on my retinas.
The curve of the earth is obviously not paying attention.

Gel lights fill my lungs.
"Squintin' will make the fall not hurt as much."
I say this to myself in a Southern drawl
so as to have more credibility and wisdom attached.

Upon landing, I trip over my own lower intestines.
I almost got away with it.
I swear, there is more than 25 ft. of this slimey rope.
Perhaps 40 little Harlem girls will pick it up
(Maybe tomorrow or never)
and play double-dutch with it.

The side of my face lands flat on the ground.
My mouth is stuffed with blue label dirt.
I die with my eyes open.
I am home.

================

DARK AND LOVELEIGH 3-11-03

Someone slammed the oven door shut.
Consequently, my soul collapsed into a partially-cooked fetus wishing well.
I told them to be careful
but they don't listen.
They throw 3 coins in my mouth
and shove me back into the fire.

OPTIONS by Leigh 3-11-03
Crawl space 3-10-03 by Leigh

The end of my necklace has a life-sized cleaver attached to it.
It hangs in my cleavage.
(As the Lord God intended)

Guillotine smiles stalk me.
Trying to sell me cars and mortgages and life insurance.
They admire my necklace.

I am absolutely giddy that
the Guillotinians are staring at my tah-tahs.
It's good to have anyone stare at them.

They ask what my necklace is for.
They ask if I am some kind of rapper that is really "kore."

"No, I am not an Eazy E. It's an ejector seat and a bodyguard.
I am very much into things that have dual usage.
(the mid-west in me spews out)"

I pay for the car with shards of broken Johari windows
and bruised children.

Hang new, smelly tree on ashtray.
Begin again.

================

OPTIONS

Guns. Too loud and messy. Gotta wait two weeks for redtape to process. No.
Pills? No. Unpredictable, painful and slow.
Heroine? Too expensive. Too rock star-ish. Probably get arrested buying it.
Razors? Painful and again, are messy. But they are inexpensive.
Hanging? Not very pretty. Not very considerate to those who have to unrig
you.
Head in oven? Too Plathe or is it too Sexton? Hmm.
Jumping off tall building? No. Could hit innocent bystanders. And needlessly
ruin property.
Same with a car crash. Not everybody can afford decent liability insurance.
AIDS? Too Ed Begley Jr.
Drowning? Very poetic but seems like you have to be really focused.
Starve to death? Can't. I love pasta, sushi and green tea ice cream too
much.
Die of a broken heart? It keeps phoenixing against my will because
Hollywood persists on making date movies. Sentimental fuckers.

Suffocation is in the lead.

================

N/A

People ask me if my cup is half full or half empty.
My cynicism is so deeply ingrained,
that I don't even have a CUP.
Some frickin' stole it.

================

FOREWORD FOR DERRICK BROWN'S BOOK

Sandwiched between "Singing in the Rain" and "Apocalypse Now," you'll find
Derrick Brown. He stands about 6'1". He's a skinny white guy dressed in
thrift store clothes. He has dark hair and dark eyes. They're both usually
messy. He has chiseled features and chiseled thoughts. His work is
beautifully sculpted into hugs and punches simultaneously. Derrick Brown is
a musical accompanied by an orchestra of AK-47s. He is John-John hiding
under President Kennedy's desk < looking up innocently but still surrounded
by self-imposed darkness. He builds forts with words that you can slip into
and escape. Although, he only lets the reader penetrate the veneer on his
terms. His heart has many rooms, but you may only be allowed in the lobby,
the bathroom and the basement. But they all have votive candles lit and
Hawaiian music piped in, so it's okay.

He's a magician, a wizard, a troll and very accomplished poet and performer.
Part prose, part poetry, part porn and all Brown, "I'm Easier Said Than
Done" is many slash words: tender/tawdry, silly/smart,
articulate/blithering, fun/fucked up. His poetic voice is as beautiful as
Karen Carpenter's crystal clear delivery in "Superstar" or "A Song For You"
and as tragic as Carpenter's slumped over, anorexic, post-mortem carcass.
His prose is a spontaneous stream of consciousness that actually makes
sense. It leaves you with questions. Will this man find true love in his
life? The bigger question is, will he allow himself to?

================

UNTITLED FOR A CARPENTER

I am
burning the roman candle at both ends

Jesus,
why don't you return my phone calls?
i am not offering you life insurance or a mortgage

my heart is dark because
i am lost
lonely
fat
ugly

although I joined the gym
and am working on the fat part
fuckin' sweats with stripes
fuck you ben & jerry

I can't do diddly squat about my crooked nose or square head and jaw
the ugly is staying put
like Dick Clark's comb-over (if he had one)

I am the invisible woman
no man sees my colors
 no man thinks watching me put on lipstick is a religious experience
no man thinks my pale skin is the canvas to sail across turbulent seas
safely
no man thinks my dark hair is a dreamcatcher woven by Geronimo himself
no man would break into song just because I walked into the room
he would just break wind

white is my last name
but my blackness is beautiful
it is my dung beetle
my only spooning companion at night
the one that never leaves me
art, poetry, humor, vocabulary, granddaughter, big tits, big ass, sarcasm,
outstretched hand

I cannot be saved
I am the abortion appointment my mother never made
white is the absence of color

================

CALIFORNIA PULL-OUT (ELVIS' BIRTHDAY IS TODAY)

making love to my ex was like fucking Pinocchio
only with every lie,
his penis grew smaller and smaller

his thrusts felt like someone punching me inside out
entering my uterus like a politician and exiting out my mouth
like a politician
"A" to "B"
a straight line is always the fastest path
geez louise
and all this time i thought fisting was illegal in California

he stopped kissing me in bed
stopped looking me in the eye
stopped being ga-ga over me

it became television
bad television
something to merely pass the time

i became a starfish
legs open
arms open
mouth and eyes shut
body frozen
and as cold
as he was

================

AND THE LAWN GNOMES REJOICE

making love to my next
will be as if lava poured from
God's own personal gravy boat
a slow, strong simmer
that turns houses upside down
and melts cars and shit

epic every time