10-17-2019, 03:48 PM
I think that Leanne, ... since it's her birthday ... , was primarily a teacher. And she had too much example, setting a good example, in her to write more of the best kinds of things that she wrote. . . . As much as a teacher as she was, she was also a learner. She was very receptive and very understanding. She tallied her decency as a human being each time above and before she wrote. She was always decent. I mean moral. Kind. Understanding. Critical and selfcritical. She was wellbalanced. As a person who finds it difficult, and even unsavory and unpleasant to be balanced, I know.
I see your post, billy. But using this cheap phone, I don't always see when I should. But I was going to wax poetic about her for a few more minutes, if nobody minds. If they do, just delete it.
Leanne wouldn't want any sissytalk. Look. She wrote some really good stuff that was hardly noticed. And then she wrote some lesser stuff that got praised. That she got cut off so young, and she was a young poet, we all got shortchanged. Her fierceness and her bitterness were her strengths. And however some of us want to hide it, these rages are our extra boosts. And Leanne had a lot in store . . .
Leanne could be uptight and understanding at the same time. Pendantic, if I spelled that, and rebellious. Over the top and stable. Moody and , again, stable. Understanding. Wild and e and pro ficient.
Leanne was also a very attractive woman. Which is always the first thing I notice.
Leanne felt the need to take care of people. As a teacher, as a person with a family. Leanne had a talent that with ruthlessness could have become more than just talent. And I think she felt that. And I'm still waxing, so don't kill me. . . . Leanne's death is the kind of death that makes you angry. The kind that makes people like nobodynothing rage. And for good reason. And makes me embarrassed to be alive.
It's what makes me say that I think that I don't think that she's dead and that it's all a prank.
Leanne and me got along quite well, and in private messages, and, believe it or not. . . .
When she died, it didn't seem real to me. It seemed like a con. Like a hoax. If she can die, then we all can. And it doesn't matter how far we are in our work. We can each and every one of us get cut off at any moment. So if we want to ever write one decent line, we have to throw everything else in our life overboard and do it now. . . . But that's all poetry. Mere poetry. I know nothing of Leanne's personal life, and nothing I've said bears on it. I'm only talking the way I knew her, poetically. Passionately.
It's because she can't, or at least isn't, responding, is the thing. Leanne was a great responder. I know she liked or appreciated Oscar Wilde, somewhat. He was a great talker, not a great conversationalist. Or so a lot of people have said. I think a lot of people, Leanne included--I think some people should have just talked more. Fuck conversation. Leanne was a dame who could probably have just let it rip. She was always on the verge of it. I for one am mournful of that. Of Leanne not sticking around, getting older, letting it rip. We all know she had it in her to explode over and over with worthwhileness for a good nother forty to fifty years. And! more.
Everything I say is selfish and about me. That's my style. But I think it at least says something about me that you all know how I feel about Leanne.
I'm still disappointed that she isn't saying anything. I'm taunting her. Come on! I don't believe in death. . . . And I truly, literally, wildly and sanely don't believe in Leanne's. And I won't, unless she somewhere told me to. Because she had a whole whole lot to offer, even to us who never listen. I'm trying, sincerely not to be poetic, but I hope Leanne, you can appreciate, you always did somehow. I'm not listening to your silence. . . . I wish I could write a silent poem to you. But I don't know how. I'm too aware that other people are listening. . . . I don't know how to write a poem about Leanne. She leaves a muddle of us. She was mean a lot of the time. But I'm a sucker for holidays and seasonal occasions. And a person's birthday, they deserve all the odd and diverse criticism and praise.
I see your post, billy. But using this cheap phone, I don't always see when I should. But I was going to wax poetic about her for a few more minutes, if nobody minds. If they do, just delete it.
Leanne wouldn't want any sissytalk. Look. She wrote some really good stuff that was hardly noticed. And then she wrote some lesser stuff that got praised. That she got cut off so young, and she was a young poet, we all got shortchanged. Her fierceness and her bitterness were her strengths. And however some of us want to hide it, these rages are our extra boosts. And Leanne had a lot in store . . .
Leanne could be uptight and understanding at the same time. Pendantic, if I spelled that, and rebellious. Over the top and stable. Moody and , again, stable. Understanding. Wild and e and pro ficient.
Leanne was also a very attractive woman. Which is always the first thing I notice.
Leanne felt the need to take care of people. As a teacher, as a person with a family. Leanne had a talent that with ruthlessness could have become more than just talent. And I think she felt that. And I'm still waxing, so don't kill me. . . . Leanne's death is the kind of death that makes you angry. The kind that makes people like nobodynothing rage. And for good reason. And makes me embarrassed to be alive.
It's what makes me say that I think that I don't think that she's dead and that it's all a prank.
Leanne and me got along quite well, and in private messages, and, believe it or not. . . .
When she died, it didn't seem real to me. It seemed like a con. Like a hoax. If she can die, then we all can. And it doesn't matter how far we are in our work. We can each and every one of us get cut off at any moment. So if we want to ever write one decent line, we have to throw everything else in our life overboard and do it now. . . . But that's all poetry. Mere poetry. I know nothing of Leanne's personal life, and nothing I've said bears on it. I'm only talking the way I knew her, poetically. Passionately.
It's because she can't, or at least isn't, responding, is the thing. Leanne was a great responder. I know she liked or appreciated Oscar Wilde, somewhat. He was a great talker, not a great conversationalist. Or so a lot of people have said. I think a lot of people, Leanne included--I think some people should have just talked more. Fuck conversation. Leanne was a dame who could probably have just let it rip. She was always on the verge of it. I for one am mournful of that. Of Leanne not sticking around, getting older, letting it rip. We all know she had it in her to explode over and over with worthwhileness for a good nother forty to fifty years. And! more.
Everything I say is selfish and about me. That's my style. But I think it at least says something about me that you all know how I feel about Leanne.
I'm still disappointed that she isn't saying anything. I'm taunting her. Come on! I don't believe in death. . . . And I truly, literally, wildly and sanely don't believe in Leanne's. And I won't, unless she somewhere told me to. Because she had a whole whole lot to offer, even to us who never listen. I'm trying, sincerely not to be poetic, but I hope Leanne, you can appreciate, you always did somehow. I'm not listening to your silence. . . . I wish I could write a silent poem to you. But I don't know how. I'm too aware that other people are listening. . . . I don't know how to write a poem about Leanne. She leaves a muddle of us. She was mean a lot of the time. But I'm a sucker for holidays and seasonal occasions. And a person's birthday, they deserve all the odd and diverse criticism and praise.