all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened

I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth

my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but signed by me as
first passenger

cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now inbred,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?
Every Sunday
we watch football together
& while we yell at the plays
I wonder,
when are you gonna let me
gain some yardage on you?

Every Sunday
You yell,
That fool could have scored!
& while I look at you
I say to myself
Yes, you sure could have by now,
but like that quarterback
you move too slow
I wonder,
why are we still playing
on separate teams
when we like the same game?

You’re such a fool

If only you knew
how badly
I'd like to tackle you
& convert these last 2 points
by letting you hang
Between my goal posts
rush my endzone
and make the best
touchdown of your life

Tell me,
Can we huddle?
Can we discuss
this repetitive play
we keep pretending
we aren't playing?

Meet me at the
50 yard line
Of your bed

Let's scrimmage
why my existence was just one unending question?

even in the formless and endless pitch black (his Hello Poetry alias),
could hear Him smile and communicate:
if not You, then who?

love your dreams where answers run wild like an Oregon waterfall,
only you understand that the whole world encapsulates into:

love thy neighbor as thyself

which must be recited as a poem
standing on one left leg

then, smiling,
god extended his only finger, touching each of mine eyelids:

sleep, friend for we need your questioning dreams,
your faith unfurled unfulfilled for in your unending inquiry
is all of our "in the beginning..."
2/19/18 3:06am

n the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. 2 Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.
I see
the moon, in its fullness
surrounded by curls of clouds

I wait
...for the frog to croak the mist of early evening

i wait, seems, there's no hope
in hearing its sad song tonight

i hear,
instead, the dark roof creaking
followed by calculated footfalls

and then,
i hear soft scratching on the gate,
soft voices......seem to be calling

i rise,
to see three stray cats lazily slouched
on the sidewalk, purring, looking at me

i see this black dog....joining the crowd
its glimmering eyes...looking...asking

and through
the moonglow, and scant light from the
lamp post...i see its nipples...all swollen

my God!
where could her puppies be? my eyes wander in
the dark midst of mango trees and banana plants

t'was fed,
along with the dog ran when its
share was brought there at the dark vacant lot

as in past nights, time is slow as a snail,
while thinking over and over,

how i,
can bring that black dog and her puppies
to in my own backyard

in life,
we're like horses rushing...stopped in midstream
by homeless cats, dogs, kids, old, disabled people

we keep running...............or, we screech
we halt...and allow then to touch our lives...


Copyright March 2, 2018
**the night of March 2, the veranda...**
  Feb 28 Nat Lipstadt
Joel M Frye
The boxes
which keep my blood clean
are stacked as tall as I,
a monument
in the spare room
to past battles.
Too many words,
too many thoughts
tied up in the
hand-to-hand combat
with mortality.

No more.

What life I have
will not be defined
by an indeterminate end.

I live to write poems;
I will no longer die in them.
Camus knows.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 25
the half-life of a resolution**

~for maaidah durrani~

“your words really spoke to me and
i deeply encourage you to write more”
any resolution
barely lasts to the completion of its
flyby, tower-buzzing,
razzmatazz appearance,
colliding with the wall called
not today a/k/a,

tomorrow takes the lead pole position,
the conditional timing prepositional,
the delaying exscual misanthropic of
but one more,
whatever, it’ll keep for 24 more,
holding out the pretense of hope
for the resolute dissolute

sure, for sure, tomorrow,
will dissolve regret
tomorrow will write of poetry
but not a poem,
tomorrow will swear my
resolutions will be enacted
or, at least,
erased and re-written,
the oldest first when
re-added to the top of the list

will honor thy request
keep on writing for I’m no fool,
1200 plus poems, I’m yet a novitiate
I will keep your request as
one I’ve can never
cross off my life’s list

but tomorrow’s resolve,
be a better man,
leaner, briefer, kinder, a better lover,
the list has overrun the white pad,
the blue lines refuse another resolu....
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