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”good night, good travels, pitch black”

depending on how one counts,
cause size matters,
do have I
one small blessing


though little do I get, more-less,
in each twenty four measuring cup,
when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling,
lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation,
it’s less than sixty seconds till
dispatched to where all poems
plead like unborn angels for
good parentage

the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed
with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side,
preceded by, a single solid smacking of
an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow,
then lost in pitch black galaxy travels
with other sleep-drunk little princes

instead of the wavering, singular word,
a traditional goodnight,
a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing,
undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,

“good travels”

to places where ferment the aging words under
the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening,
names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes
  Apr 2018 Dead Rose One
Nat Lipstadt
<~>

~for Andrew Garfield~


how they march!

with studied
practiced
cadence

a riddle:

how many Angels,
in America,
can stand on the
head of a pin?


legions

dressed in wine
stained colored uniforms,
how they advance!

with studied
practiced
damning
randomness

how many?


lesions.


<•>

4/26/18
1:30am
this one woke me up,
fully formed,
asking only for a scribe to record it.  
saw Angels in America on 4/21/18.  
Neil Simon Theater , NYC

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angels_in_America
Throughout,
She had been
Mostly fortunate
In the blessed surrounding
Of good people
She had been permanently damaged by a bad person
But found
Much to her surprise
The damage was not permanent
Though the layer she brought from it
Was uniquely her
To those lucky to see
She was not damaged
She was scarred
And scars grow back tougher than the original
And, in most cases, leave a beautiful reminder of the day God taught your *** a lesson
  Apr 2018 Dead Rose One
Sky
the water
rushes and swells
tumbles like chaos
off the ledge  
into your palms
chaos, perfected
  Apr 2018 Dead Rose One
Sky
'brownstone of my body,' i had declared
privately my first confession. somewhat
intimate. and as my voice quivered like
name-tags on teenage trees, i hoped you
found me endearing in your brazen ways.
i come off as naive, to your unblinking gaze:
passive, unimpressed, and mostly unfazed.
my small pink feet are soft and raw against
your weathered knees. and you say my belly
is too mellow with its paper-doll creases, flesh
too easily torn by your cut-brick corners, face
too childish for your middle-aged games. but
my thighs are like your alleys, leave no space
for nonsense, is my whole as is my part, if you
can love me for my thighs, i will be content with
something along the lines of 'my brownstone
loves me for my thighs, my thighs
have no alleys and i would have it no other way' and
I would ask no question as the blossom of my tender body is
pinched between your fingers and rolled into a
tiny pink cigar, stamped out before ever being lit.
and i would never ask, is this (ever) womanhood?
draft version
Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
  Apr 2018 Dead Rose One
Jeff Stier
The sea is resting now
after a long day
gnawing at the edge
churning in deep hollows
ever so slowly eroding
this peaceful coast

Sand is the issue
of this marriage
sea and sky
combining to
make the land large
in its retreat

A handful of sand
to the winds
my life
to these tides
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