Category Archives: Leon Weinmann

My Life Is Not That Hard

What a very exciting day you’ve had, federal goverment!


Second Amendment.


We will see what happens, won’t we?

We will see.


My roommate and I are in the process of attacking our overgrown, but promising, backyard.

Last weekend, we headed out with spray bottles of Round Up, cutting shears, garden gloves, well-trained lizards, et cetera. Lord Almighty! Has anyone been in our backyard– in the yardwork sense of the term–since Egypt’s Third Dynasty? We do not think so.

For instance, what?

What is that? What in the name of God is that?

Jessica, hacking away with might and main at a stand of weeds so robust that they could have been mistaken for sapling trees, suddenly came upon these:

 1. Put them in an aquarium?
2. Ask them to tell my fortune.


Each tug at the soil unearthed a fresh wave of insect life, which ranged from mildly off-putting to arm-thrashing shrieky shrieks!


We discussed the fact that we were single-handedly destroying whole ecosystems, but Jessica pointed out that we were the ones paying rent.


Inside the apartment, progress. On Saturday, I opted to stay inside and put together the extra bookcase for my bedroom, purchased at Target some weeks ago. It had been leaning against a wall in our living room, eyeing me with silent reproach every time I made my way past it. “Feckless layabout,” it would have said, if it could speak to me, and I’m not saying it couldn’t.

I opened up the box, tremulously, and removed the insides.


–Wildly inexpensive bookcase=hilariously shoddy materials, which appeared to include spit as one of their properties. By the time the screws were completely screwed in, for example, nothing remained of their original topmost surface but a silvery gouge.

 –No upper body strength

–The common sense God gave a mongoose

–Zero concept of spatial relationships

I sat on the floor with it for hours, while the buttery blue sky went by in the window, curving my arms and legs around the corners of the bookcase as though it were a recalcitrant child, and about to wriggle out of my grasp in an international airport.


Finally, it was done. I got to my feet and flipped the bookcase over, and set it upright.

I had put the bookcase together with the unfinished surfaces facing outward.


My life is not that hard.


There are a lot of bunnies in our neighborhood right now. Sincerely–they’re everywhere, cotton-tailed and jumping. Jessica and I have a running dispute over what to call this phenomenon.

JESSICA: Bunny Parade!

The choice is clear.


In Doubt, Recalling Cordelia

I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.
Or one hundred-eighty swallows turning south,

or the hen-and-chickens clustering on the garden wall.
That is not all: I cannot tell you all

the scroll of steam uncurling from the tea
might say about what is, or what might be

the common bloodline of this apparent world.
Its speech is locked away, a furled

flag of an antique country, since just a minute ago
was autumn, you saw it, the gold funeral fires, the smoke, and now

come these white billions, already, each irreplacable flake,
and there is just too much to say for them–to say it would take

a tongue as old, as young, as Alexander, for too much goes
unnamed, unnoticed, more is coming, it snows

and snows all day and night and buries all the words.
But we are still responsible for them all, responsible for the birds,

the burning leaves, the climbing vine, we are the only ones
who can say just what it is we saw. And progress swells, a new scene runs,

and still we drop our lines, forget,
the silence piles up in drifts, we let

the words get lost, the tongue stalls–
How can I say how I love you? The burden of the old tune falls

out of my mouth like a stone. And do we name them cursed or blessed,
who love according to their bond, no more, no less?

Leon Weinmann



Filed under Beginning Brand New Things, Leon Weinmann, My Roommate, Poetry


Full disclosure: I’m feeling a little bit sick at the moment, sitting here writing this. Fuzzy and hurty and throat-achey and floaty. Not enough to hie me to my bed, but just enough that this blog might end up short, sweet, and sounding like something out of a fever dream. If I start telling all my secrets in a state of delirium, I’ll know it’s time to pack it in.

My roommate, bless her boots, fetched me orange juice and chicken noodle soup, both of which I am currently consuming as though they are the water of life. She is a good fetcher, that one.


I never call in sick to work. Like…ever. If I woke up missing most of an eyeball, you’d be hard put to it indeed to convince me that a trip to the doctor and a day off  might not run me amiss.

ME: But who will do all the things?


On Saturday afternoon, I babysat for a good chum of mine. He on his scooter, and I on my two feet, made our way to the Old Town Art Fair, stopping during our journey as necessary for puddles that looked good and splashy, or curves of sidewalk that looked extra scooty.  Also Italian ice.

If memory serves, this was the last time I was at the Old Town Art Fair:



When we reached the entrance of the art fair, my friend and I had our hands stamped with a broad, blood-red stamp, which later–embarrassingly–I would forget about, and which I would re-discover out at dinner some hours later, when it looked very much as though I had pressed the top of my hand to a red-hot stove! Ha ha!

ME: No, I am not a child!

Anyways, we started wandering though the booths, scooter in tow, surveying the work, discussing Art. At one point, we examined a display of what I’d call “reptilian pottery”–glazed sculptures and suchlike of turtles and lizards, and so on. One of the pieces was a bowl with two salamanders entwined around the top. We agreed that this had “cereal bowl” written all over it.

Walking back through the crowd, I heard a woman sigh, and say:

“I wish I was talented.”


Madame: You have only to find your medium.


Sunday, at the White Elephant Shop for Children’s Memorial with Laura.  That place was packed to the rafters with sugar-goodness, although the pricing of certain items certainly seemed dependent upon a coin toss and a benevolent God. Decanters, couches, Wally Lamb’s “I Know This Much Is True”: In the tradition of the best thrift stores, this place had it all.

The first thing I saw when I walked in the door was this:


There’s nothing like the dead-eyed stare of a doll-heap to put you off your feed for $5 vases, and make no mistake!

Then there was this:


I think it’s time for me to go to bed, don’t you?


Gute Nacht, meine Leiben. 

That means “Everybody put on your sleepytime pants!”


After Visiting Hours

“All unnecessary weight is eliminated…Even the brain cells needed for song are lost and replaced seasonally in some birds.”
-All the Birds of North America, p. 63

At midnight, in the sunroom of the ward,
when you’re locked in your pajamas, stupid
with heartbreak, and your throat a frozen stream,
you’ll read how birds in winter lose their minds,
or lose that part that urges them to sing–
each glad cell dying in the blood, until
they know no love but the sparse, sterile seed,
the bitter pills that flatten and preserve
their thoughts against this thoughtless cold, this dark.
And yet they seem at peace with this: they love,
they turn away from love, they wait for love
to come for them again, and trusting, sing
the song they knew was gone for good–I knew
you’d come back, I knew it, I knew you’d come.

Leon Weinmann


Filed under Leon Weinmann, My Roommate, Poetry