Faulted news hour

i.
You should pardon it, keep it to the fore—
fronted if mendacious 
a happy grove of fear 
and vicious/delicate if 
surrounding. 
But what happens comes too quick 
and not one of us defends it 
a cut-up pose of reels 
fabricants media savvy and 
grandizing.

You should pardon it 
only what's known a 
group work presents—
a token field half-truthed 
not yet factitious, well—baited, 
soft pleasing.


ii.
It is not that one should have it 
more than as is 
(pleasant to dream, semblance to reality) 
that mucks about in all what relish 
we it is who are as what stood tall in 
once, if now, not far that cold indiscretion
each talk about wondrous of cause, 
curious in (un)becoming dark enterprises 
neat belonged what
all of us we align of 
steady in the composure 
none of us redoubted. 
So we have it, that transient malaise 
not more but less could encounter 
as when where are is not 
but these we depress from—
fade memories of a dream, 
what happened once 
but could not have.



iii.
Slight fade of space 
is memory’s whitewashing— 
an age of grace to grow out on one 
too limited resist it—
it becomes us all, terrifies 
to no measure 
that what happens once outlasts it 
as if in white right pleasure 
to rip through, scandalizing 
upturned emotion conducive 
to pure fact reminiscent 
that dates, times, maneuvers outlasted 
should permeate to frost 
gloss over meet conditions 
love’s alone by its then self 
obfuscated that not that 
should but be as is
this the relishing 
memories conduct us.

she had a true word or two for Master Nansen




the fragile axis of my Kirk Douglas moment




by now, I must've arm-wrestled the man from Cienfuegos over forty times




I'm a gremlin-on-the-wing type guy




hotel aquarium: the carp follow the slow movement of her hands




all day long
between my toes
ants exchanging hydrocarbons





stepping over the guard rail
introducing myself 
to a sycamore tree




in some dimension of spacetime, Robert Mitchum sneers




Rujing refused to wear his brocade robe
on the Great Way
to the Giant Eagle




three faces in the one parmureli




checking the box for morbid introspection




it's the High T'ang in Pittsburgh
sweeping the path
gazing at clouds



toss some cinnabar in that prayer you said you would say for me

Unprepared

How could we
not see

the coming
beast riding

birth fed
by our disbelief

dripping saliva
growing mud mountains

sick and strong
skyscraper tall

stomping on
houses
cities
continents
babies
never growing up
to see the sea and sky
and flowering fields
of their own.


Blinded

Kiss her
on her cheek
and her bare back
with scars
from an enemy
before our marriage

and then the facts come out
and our hunt begins
for recompense and a reckoning
that will never be fully completed

for we and our parents
never believed
such horrors could happen
in the land we love.


If I Was Young I Would Confess

Eating my beans and burgers
a glow screen in each palm

my ears tagged with everything I like
old tunes and worldly wrecks

I dance in the morning
not knowing the night

ink in all the right places
my skin a smear of compliments

I don't have to brag
I'm a loser uncaring

A great liar until I try to sleep at night.


Stripping

And the night takes me down
to the river of the dump

a stink lake 
my cemetery sideline

I'm too young to die
still owing my elders

looking up snarling to myself
blaming the now times

confusion the chief
and sneaky thief

I'm a pawn with a chain
around my jeans

heavy knuckles
from too many fights

leave me alone
and let me write my last words

stripping to point
at the moon of doom.


The Right Course

I'm too old to be young
writing like a fool thinking he's cool

reading the Good Book
changing too slow

but on the right course
asking for forgiveness

from all my friends and those I meet.

Why I am not writing

I am re-reading James Ellroy's
The Black Dahlia, am re-reading
Thomas Kuhn's The Structure
of Scientific Revolutions, am
reading the sub-titles to the
opening titles of the animated
manga Neon Genesis Evangelion
when Mayakovsky rings to say
he will not be coming around
today. I scan the TV guide
& plot an alternative itinerary.

I think about opening Word
& end up opening Solitaire
instead. I listen to the humming
of the PC but it tells me nothing.
It sounds like the refrigerator but
that only hums at intervals &
does not give me card games
as a built-in option — it is
too dedicated in its purpose.

I think about work, where I have
been listening to the presentations
of consultants to decide who
will be the anointed ones to whom
we will pay hundreds of thousands
of dollars to rewrite our planning &
information systems. I have yet
to hear anything new, decide I'm
in the wrong business. But the
arrival of the consultants is
serendipitous in that it loosely
coincides with one of the subjects
I have to do at university next
semester. I plan to use the
aggregated data in my major
assignment — at least I will get
some value from what I consider
to be an obscene outlay of money.

& I am reading & re-reading my
textbooks as the exams draw nearer.
Though they & the other books are
shelved in some sort of order, the CDs
are jumbled. I am working my way
through them from the top of the
stack on down, sorting them out
by listening to each one in turn
then putting it back in the place
where it was. I have just listened
to Sonny Rollins' Saxophone
Colossus; now I am listening
to Revolver & decide again that
this album & not Sergeant Pepper
marked the paradigm shift for The
Beatles even though for me
when I first heard them the order
was reversed. & in passing
I want to thank Thomas Kuhn
for developing the concept of
paradigm shifts & for redefining
the term paradigm. When words
change meaning they are re-
energized, & if I were writing

I would hope to be using energetic
words. But instead I am singing
along with Eleanor Rigby & the
refrigerator is humming along
in harmony & the Red Queen is
shouting from the PC "Lay me
on the Black King! Lay me!" She
is off her head. But I already knew
that, was told by Jefferson Airplane
many years ago & reminded of it
by the inclusion of White Rabbit
on the Greatest Hits of the Sixties
compilation I listened to three CDs
ago. Then Mayakovsky rings
to say he has changed his mind.
I start to tidy up the house.


October, 2002

Al-Kamilah: The Legend Who Unites the East and the West 

by Count Federico Wardal 

—————

The story of Shah Malika Al-Kamilah, a purebred Arabian filly (Golden Cross Egyptian-Arabian-Spanish) is now a legend across the planet. 

In California (USA) it happens that, following an injection, the filly Al-Kamila breaks her spine and is destined to die. Hon. Esq. Angela Alioto, a leading lawyer in the USA and an internationally popular public figure for her humanitarian actions, against the advice of any surgeon in the world, has the surgery performed on Al-Kamilah’s paralyzed spine at UC Davis. 

The hope of saving Al-Kamila was almost zero. 

Then, Angela Alioto spreads a blessed and beneficial ointment on Al-Kamilah’s paws. 

Al-Kamilah begins to move his paws and wins the love and care of all his doctors, and many friends and the “AL-KAMILAH” case explodes on social media. 

The filly improves, but must undergo a second operation to remove the nails and cement that contributed to the strengthening of the spine. 

It’s another delicate operation. 

Angela Alioto’s nervousness was strong, but she spreads the blessed ointment on Al-Kamilah’s paws again. 

Gian-Paolo Veronese, Angela’s youngest son, who has always been close to Al-Kamilah, strongly hopes that everything goes well and so does Fabio Giotta, founder of the best-known cultural and artistic café in the USA: “Il caffè Trieste” in SF.

Then there are hours of trepidation during Al-Kamilah’s second surgery and finally the medical verdict: Al-Kamila is safe! Social media worldwide is exploding with messages of happiness and great honor and commendations to UC Davis!  Messages of congratulations arrive from all over the USA, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates.

In Italy, the most authoritative official newspaper “Il Corriere della Sera” publishes on its front page the news that Al-Kamilah is safe. Samantha Ferro, a famous Italian-American journalist in SF, is happy about it.

In Egypt, The Times International puts the Al-Kamilah story on the front page.

Of course all this makes Sheikh Hamad Ali Al-Thani happy, under his direction, Al Shaqab Stud became one of the most important and influential breeding programs in the world.

At this point there is another piece of great news: the famous director Christopher A. Salvador directs a docu-film: “Al-Kamilah, the miracle filly” and the super star Joe Mantegna is commenting on the film! Angela Alioto, in the film, expresses her irresistible human energy, imbued with universal love. It’s a film of the highest quality, which certainly deserves one or more Academy Awards in 2025.

The film, which will be shown in private VIP viewing in SF on June 21, at the Vogue Theatre, will participate in the major international festivals and hopefully also in the Al-Gouna International Film Festival, founded by the Sawiris brothers and directed by Marianne Khoury. Khoury is the niece of late great Egyptian director Youssef Chahine. Certainly a film directed so grandly by Christopher A. Salvador, H.R.H. might like it very much.

Sheikha Al-Mayassa bint Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani is the chairperson of the Doha Film Institute (DFI), which she founded in 2010. The institute partnered with the Tribeca Film Festival to produce several annual iterations of the Doha Tribeca Film Festival. A fabulous sculpture of Al-Kamilah by Mario Chiodo will be unveiled in SF on June 21st and a book by Angela Alioto on Al-Kamilah is being published. 

Thanks again to UC Davis for the courage and skill that saved a life and for the first time in the world performed an operation on the spine of a filly: “Al-Kamilah” who now runs like the wind!

1

bidding goodnight 

and lights off

children giggling 

a bedtime story 

of two siblings 



— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam




2

baby strapped 

to mama's back

the endless path

pot of water

on her head



— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam




3

the fragrance

of night blooming

jasmine

a red-lipped

queen of the district



— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam




4

an old lady

a mite uneasy

of ageing 

a sigh of relief 

after the will



— Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

My Doppelganger

In early March of 2020, my sister, Debi, and I took a yellow cab on our lunch break to the Volta Art Fair, near the West Side Highway.  She had just purchased a small painting from an artist who had a booth there. I loved the painting and was looking forward to seeing more of the artist’s work. On the day we went, we heard she would be present. 

“Let’s talk about shaking hands,” I said. 

“Why, are you afraid of Corona?” Debi said. 

“I don’t know.  It’s just not a good idea.” 

We went upstairs, chitchatting with every step, and then I saw it.  It was large, horizontal, and colorful.  I couldn’t turn away.  There was a couple in bed.  The husband was sleeping in a purple haze on the right side; you had to look hard to realize he was even there.  At his feet was a black cat with a swishing tale that at first I mistook for a giant spider.  The woman was harshly lit by a reading lamp directly over her blonde head.  She had a yellow book in one hand and reading glasses in the other, and she looked frazzled and anxious.  A bottle of prescription pills lay on its side on her bedside table.  She had one blue eye that overshadowed the other in sheer size.  It shimmered, staring at the viewer. She was like an ogre but relatable.

“Les, that is so you,” Debi said. I understood what she meant. 

The artist appeared.  Debi shook her hand.  I didn’t.  I asked her what book the woman in the painting was reading. 

“The Ninth Street Women,” she said. 

“Oh!” I said. “Our great aunt was an artist in that circle,” and suddenly we had a lot to chat about. 

At night, all I wanted was to read peacefully before closing my eyes and falling asleep. But it was a struggle: My husband, Val, kept asking me to turn off the light.  I tried the Itty Bitty Book Light, but that was unpleasant.  Instead, we bickered. “In a minute,” I’d say, or, “Let me finish this page” or “paragraph” or “sentence.”  He would come back with, “It’s midnight,” or, “I have to get up early,” or the most offensive, “Why don’t you go read in the living room?”  

I talked some more to the artist, and before I knew it, I was handing the gallerist my credit card.  I had never made a purchase like that before.  It was more than I was used to spending but within my means.  The painting would be delivered to my home in New Rochelle.  I couldn’t believe how happy I was. 

A few days later, New Rochelle was in the news.  A one-mile containment zone was going to be established because there was a Covid outbreak in my neighborhood.  People in white hazmat suits were going to homes on my block where people were infected.  The National Guard was there, although I wasn’t sure why.  

The day before, I had taken the train to work.  The platform was crowded.  A man coughed, and I felt his hot breath on my neck.  As I inched away from him, he said, “I’m not Chinese, you know.”  I carried this unpleasant encounter into the city and then stayed only half a day.  I said a tentative goodbye to my co-workers.  I didn’t know if I would be allowed to leave the containment zone to come to work the next day.  I considered fleetingly the shoes in a basket under my desk and whether I should bring my stuff home.  But the thought of packing up overwhelmed me, and I left the shoes behind. 

My older son, Aaron, was at Albany finishing his senior year of college.  Oliver was commuting to Manhattanville not far from our home.  Val, who traveled for his job, was suddenly grounded.  That night we went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep.  I turned on the TV once Val was safely snoring and purchased the movie Contagion.  I watched it to the end, and at 2:30am I emailed my employer’s HR department.  I asked if I should come to the office in the morning, considering where I lived, ground zero.  I got an answer at 5:30am saying, “Not until further notice.”

The painting arrived on the first day of lockdown, like a new member of the family.  I hung it over the fireplace; at four feet across and three feet high, it was significant.  Val came out of his office and looked at me as if I had gone insane.  “You bought a painting?” he asked, his voice shrill.  I ignored him.  Oliver emerged from his room, looked at it and said, “Wow!” Aaron arrived later and said, “Cool painting.” Since our first floor was an open plan, you could see it from the kitchen, dining area, and TV room. 

I locked our front door and settled myself on the couch in view of my new best friend. 

I had been a banker all my life and had held this last job for nearly 14 years.  The bank I worked for had been acquired, and I was going to be let go with a severance package at the end of May.  I was a bit unmoored by this loss and would never have left my employment willingly, but the termination date secretly excited me.  I hated the grey walls of my office, the constant smiling, the feigning of interest in a field I didn’t really care about.  For a few weeks after lockdown, I did not work at all.  When I started up again, my workload was light. 

I liked being home.  My sons took their classes virtually, each of them in their rooms.  I loved their proximity and that we were all together. I cooked, played with my puppy, went on long walks with her.  I sometimes napped in the middle of the day.  Words that seemed archaic, like quarantine, became common.  I learned new words like Zoom.  I took my yoga classes on it.  I wore sweats daily.  Makeup was optional. 

I carved out a space in the living room that was just for me.  I found an old desk that a neighbor was giving away on Facebook and had the boys put it to the right of my painting.  I placed trinkets on it, a framed library index card, and some books.  I sat there at my desk and daydreamed, and when I sat there, I was invisible and no one bothered me.

I started purchasing things on Amazon.  I ordered the yellow book from the painting, which I didn’t realize was over 1,000 pages, and read it in full view of that blue eye, another woman in this house full of men.  I read about Lee Krasner and how her fame was overshadowed by her husband’s. 

I returned to my office one last time on my end date to sign my termination documents and collect the shoes from under my desk.  There were only three people there; they stuck their heads out of their offices like moles.  I was struck by their pallor.  As I walked out of the building, a box with my things in my arms, the smile on my face was irrepressible, even if it was hidden by my home-made mask.

For the first time in my life, my crucial waking hours were mine to do with what I wanted. I read some more.  The next chapter was about Elaine de Kooning.  If only she had been born a man.  I searched for my great aunt’s name and found her mentioned several times, but not because she was an artist or a friend.  She was a neighbor.  Her paintings hang on my walls.  They used to hang at the Leo Castelli gallery.  I wondered how she became a footnote.

I pulled out a needlepoint canvas that I had started years before and finished it seated near my painting. 

The boys bought a firepit for the backyard.  The TV room turned into a gym with weights and a bench.  Val bought a Peloton, which was slightly less expensive than my painting.

We watched a lot of TV. George Floyd died on my screen again and again as I tried to look away.  Marches in the streets followed.  A few months later, the capital was nearly overrun, and the word “sedition” left my mouth for the first time.  I had to explain to Aaron and Oliver what it meant.   We introduced them to The Sopranos, and Val and I reminisced about watching it together as newlyweds when I worked for a French bank.   All the while, the woman from the painting and I glanced at each other from across the room.

Sometimes before bed, Val and I would discuss what we would do if one of us woke up sick.  And then, before we turned off the light, I’d say, “Good luck to you,” and he’d say, “And to you.”

One day the gallerist emailed me asking if a museum could borrow my painting when the pandemic was over.  When I told Val, he was suddenly proud of our acquisition over the fireplace.

“Will it gain in value?” he asked. 

“Probably,” I shrugged. 

“Will it say ‘On Loan from Leslie and Val,’” he asked. 

“No,” I said.  “It will only have my name on it.”

This made both of us laugh.  He snapped some pictures with his phone as if he were in a museum. “What a great painting!” he said, admiring my purchase.

“Step aside,” I said.  “You are too close.”

Leslie Lisbona has been published in various literary journals such as Synchronized Chaos and most recently in Wrong Turn Lit, The Bluebird Word, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. She has recently been featured in the New York Times Style Section. All her published essays can be found on Substack.