Flutter Poetry Journal

Flutter Poetry Journal is new for August!

Check out my little poem inside :)

http://www.freewebs.com/rarepetal/homevol2issue8.htm (Flutter/August)

http://www.freewebs.com/rarepetal/joseph2.htm (My Poem: Another Dream)

Thanks!

34th Parallel

Four of my poems will be included in the October edition of 34th Parallel.

Check out the site at http://www.34thparallel.net.

Popmatters Book Reviews

Postcards: True Stories That Never Happened/J. Rodriguez

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/books/reviews/47980/postcards-by-jason-rodriguez-editor/

Ink On Dreams Of Transient Architecture/Patrick Elkins

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/blogs/reprint_post/47362/bookmarks-ink-on-dreams-of-transient-architecture

Nirvana: The Biography/Everett True

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/books/reviews/39520/nirvana-by-everett-true/

Pornology/Ayn Carillo-Gailey

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/books/reviews/43172/pornology-by-ayn-carrillo-gailey/

Microthrills/Wendy Spero

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/books/reviews/24311/microthrills-by-wendy-spero/

Magical Meteorite Songwriting Device/Exene Cervenka

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/books/reviews/8386/magical-meteorite-songwriting-device-by-exene-cervenka/

EditRed City Smells Anthology

The following is an essay I wrote (a while back!) which will be published in EditRed's next anthology entitled City Smells. Small Voices, Big Confessions is another anthology published by EditRed. I am very excited to be included! Here's the essay. My disclaimer is that I took creative license with this town and with the narrator's voice, but the essay nonetheless expresses some entertaining and formidable sentiments! Enjoy.

http://www.editred.com/city_smells.php

Toxins make the world go 'round. (City Smells Essay)

So I'm having this sort of epiphany, driving to work and entertaining a slight warmth between the proverbial (and literal, for that matter) legs. Don't shit where you eat. It's a crude saying, yes, and quite indicative of so many things I hate about the town I call home. Monroe is small-ish, dramatic, and smelly on a number of levels. My morning burn, in this case, is a result of thinking about the utter lack of physicality I am experiencing. I should be wearing an "I Survived A Breakup And All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt" tee. As I automatically turn the curves that lead to my job, I ponder the possibilities for action. There has been no lack of offers, for sure. The problem is that nearly every one, save a very enthusiastic polyamorous pagan beer drinker, has involved people I've known for years. I feel like a landmark or a tourist attraction. I can hear them saying, "Wow, we've come all this way, it would be a waste not to stop for a picture." But as a little voice in my head keeps saying, "Don't shit where you eat." That's kind of what my home town, Monroe, is like too. A gorgeous and historical riverfront is the main attraction for visitors. Antique district (read: a few streets that weren't busy doing anything else), downtown steadily being restored (read: gentrification), and a booming nightlife (you guessed it, we're a town of tired lushes) are just a few of the highlights. The money in Monroe, and of course you know there must be old money in a mid-size town on a riverfront, comes from vague sources. As one of the younger set, whom unlike many of my peers, didn't quite get around to debuting at the country club, I am still unsure as to where all the riches originated. The best clue I've had thus far is that the money is related to stench in the air. "Smell's like money," crow the old folks on humid days when the plumes from the paper mill smell positively acrid. I can walk outside the front door of my job and watch the murky smoke rise. The breeze picks up, and a smell like carbonated sewage or burned plastic wafts my way. A few months back, my town made national news for a hazardous "chicken waste product" spill on the interstate. People on the local news grimaced and drawled about the unbearable odor with which they had to cope as they drove home from work that afternoon. Automobile owners proclaimed that they'd had their cars washed professionally three times, and still the stench remained! It was odd really, that no one seemed to correlate the chicken waste extravaganza with that "money" odor that invades my nostrils every day. The paper mill that keeps our city in jobs emits an odor that is strangely close to the smell of the aforementioned offending chicken products. Maybe I'm just a whiney vegetarian. Maybe I'm a fascist recycling queen. Maybe my criminally high lack of ethnocentrism is finally rearing its ugly head. Who knows? I know that I watch droves of people enter the healthcare center where I work every day. "Cancer" is a word like "dog" or "Christmas" around here. You can count on it. "Cancer Alley" is to the south of me, luckily, but lately I've been thinking that the Northeast corner of the state where I live must be jealous of all that scandalous attention. We are doubling up on the emissions and the obscene amount of healthcare needed to deal with the fallout. It's as if no one here has ever truly heard of pollution or toxins and what these nasty words can do to people…besides make them rich. We love toxins! Toxins make the world go 'round. Monroe wouldn't exist if it weren't for toxins. Profits from peddling toxic drugs beef up the kids' allowances or pay for their various sundries through college. Toxins fill our veins as we medicate against the toxins that float in the dirty air that pays our bills that fund our community improvements that instill the toxic class warfare that creates the employees that punch the buttons on those wild machines that cloud up the air in the first place. Go toxins! It's brings me back to shitting where you eat. No one here will ever get much farther than recycling a can or two, because confronting the issue would mean tightening the purse strings. The ebb and flow of society will run like grooves in a record. The old guard will die and their semi-glamorous children will take over, young and spry until the "money" in the air gets into their fresh lungs too. No one will shit where they eat, because they love eating. We wave our flags, we sponsor elementary school fund raisers, and we buy extra strong detergent because money is a really hard smell to get out of your dress clothes. I'm trained not to shit where I eat, but the temptation is most times too delicious to resist. I struggle uphill so to speak, when I haul my metal, paper, and plastics to a local salvage company for voluntary recycling. I endure the strange stares when I wear my "wage slavery" t-shirts to Wal-mart, too tired and jonesing to work up an ethical dilemma over buying my organic bananas from the Devil. The Devil is so conveniently located and stays open much later than the Mom & Pop's. Mom and Pop need a little rest anyway, right…?All these thoughts have bulleted through my head on the ten minute drive to work; the smelly, head-ache inducing drive that leads, coincidentally, directly towards the money-scented mill about which I've mentally complained. I am watching the traffic light and halfheartedly calculating what my behaviors and thoughts mean. I shit where I eat when I recycle, when I boycott, and when I write protest letter to my senators and representatives. I don't want to pick up what my town is putting down. This brings me back to my original quandary. I will work my long day and watch the plume of filth rise from the mill as I sit on the curb near my office to eat my lunch and get some "fresh" air. Tonight I'll probably sit outside at a local pub and drink the beer that distracts me from the stench in the air. The oblivion on people's faces will be obvious as they reach into their $1000 purses or $400 pants pockets to pay for drinks. Should I slyly glance around the table and settle my eyes on someone who can alleviate my physical and mental discontent? Should I shit where I eat by taking the recreational plunge with the last few possibilities remaining in the little relationship ghetto I call home? If I shit where I eat this time, there won't be anyone to talk about it with afterwards. In a town like this, all you've got are the people with whom you commiserate about the gloom and doom. I am willing to go it alone when I recycle, when I bad-mouth my city's government, but it still remains unclear whose ideology I will choose after the charmingly noxious purple and orange sun sets on my town.

Je Saurai Magazine

Here is a link to my essay in Je Saurai Magazine. This article will be in the upcoming print edition of the magazine as well.

http://www.jesaurai.net/jes/ms/337529981664.htm

My job

An average workday for me starts with my entry through a heavy brown locked door. It is early and sun streams down onto the austere stretch of concrete and perfunctory shrubbery that flank the entrance to my place of employment. I fumble through my bag for my picture badge and set of keys to let myself into the large maze-like office that houses nearly one hundred patients daily. My job title is “Program Therapist” at an intensive outpatient mental health program. Monday through Friday, I conduct group therapy with depressed, anxious, and otherwise mentally ill elderly people, although the patients actually range from being in their forties up to 99 years old currently. They come from their homes, assisted living centers, and nursing homes. They are all diagnosed with depressive disorder, and a variety of other secondary mental and physical issues.
After I enter the building, I pour myself a cup of watered-down coffee and stare at the mountain of paperwork that perpetually covers my desk. Billing through federal programs necessitates excruciating amounts of documentation, and I know I must sign my name and credentials at least one hundred times a day. A normal workday consists of running up to six sessions of group therapy, each lasting for forty-five minutes. I type a therapy session note on each patient for each session of individual and group therapy. A company rule states that all notes must be in before the end of the day. Some quick calculations would indicate that on an average day, I may write sixty or more session notes before I can leave for the night. Other frequent occurrences are writing treatment plans, admitting new patients, typing daily notes to communicate with nursing homes, keeping patient charts updated, and assisting our psychiatrist with patients. Less glamorous but also necessary are such tasks as helping serve lunch, rolling patients in their wheelchairs, assisting in the restroom, and the unpleasant duties associated with having patients committed to inpatient hospitals when their mental conditions worsen.
I know the day is in full swing when I hear my favorite schizophrenic patient rumbling through the hall making train noises and sharing that the locomotive that dropped him at group today had 200 cars! I sip my coffee and listen through the crack in my office door as patients shuffle or roll down the halls to their group rooms. Any variety of issues may arise during the hours from 9 to 3 when patients are present. A “normal” day at the program may involve diffusing arguments over buttermilk, house slippers, or an election from 1948. It’s not uncommon to walk in and find an entire room full of patients chatting about the people and creatures that they currently see in the room. Hallucinations have included a naked man named Neckbone, a little girl playing on the floor, and a vicious poodle. Jesus is not currently enrolled in the program, but many of his top officials do participate in group on a regular basis. We have self-professed martial arts masters, captains of ships, world travelers, and prolific playwrights. The truly delightful detail about the patients is that many of them have had admirable accomplishments and exciting lives to share with others. At the program, diagnoses range from the garden-variety depressive disorder to exotic things such as aphasia and paranoid schizophrenia. To compound the mental illness issues, many of the geriatric patients also have severe health problems. Items about which I have learned include Thick-it, a powder that turns drinks into a strange, gelatin-like concoction for patients with choking risks. I am now aware of the range of sugar-free confections available for people with diabetes. With my own two eyes, I have observed a seemingly sweet little old lady produced a clandestine prescription bottle from her purse at lunch. She glanced around the room to see if anyone was watching and, unbelievably, produced not an extra dose of medication to make the day glide by, but a simple mixture of salt and pepper for her meal.
The tiniest freedoms, disruptions, glitches, and joys take on proportions of great magnitude for people who are both aging and mentally ill. People like me who have both the pleasure and woe of working with such patients change and grow in a multitude of ways. I have learned about the painful feeling, as one sweet lady worded it, of being “throwed away” by family. I have seen the often sad effects that poor mental and physical health have on once-vibrant beings. I hear and validate the seemingly unavoidable grief that people experience when they lose their loved ones and their independence. These issues compose the stereotypical picture of what it looks and feels like to age in our society today. The gift that I have received in my work with mentally ill elders, however, surpasses the stereotypes and tragedies. My professional life has been opened up, and my skills strengthened. Even greater, I am witness to one of the most untapped sources of treasure available: the humor and wisdom of people, some of whom have been around for nearly a century. My patients are wise, humorous, experienced, and willing to share their mistakes and triumphs. They seek, at any age, a listening ear and a compassionate friend. The elders with whom I worked have taught me this if nothing else: we all need love, laughter, and respect, no matter what our age. This sentiment is well expressed by Lady Diana Cooper, a public figure who lived 93 years, when she stated, “First you are young; then you are middle-aged; then you are old; the you are wonderful.”

By Leslie Joseph

Alyson Books Travelrotica

Travelrotica Vol. 2, August '07

An erotica story I wrote is included in this saucy collection!

To order:

http://alysonbooks.stores.yahoo.net/boftrforlevo.html

or

http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Travelrotica-Lesbians-Erotic-Adventures/dp/1593500149/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/103-0739053-2964629?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1186520127&sr=8-1

Early Reviews:
Perfect when planning your next vacation!
By E. B. MULLIGAN (Tampa, Florida)
This was a fun read. I bought the book when thumbing through the list of authors and saw one of my favorites, L.C. Jordan. Her title "Julianna" is a winner. The best part of this anthology was it introduced so many authors I had not read before along with familiar names like Lynne Jamneck and Rachel Kramer Bussel. Bon Voyage!

Intro

This blog is the place I update my publications and writing news. Thanks for being interested in my writing!