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  Aug 2018 Nat Lipstadt
city of flips
men and their egos (I turned twenty this summer) are
inseparable
insufferable

begrudgingly
they admit “guess you were right”
believing that will make them heroes,
by full on confessing they are *******

I turned twenty in the summer

my tan legs in cutoffs (it’s summer) drives them to madness,
accused, you are pitiless, for their dreams of you involve ransom  
still, you
search and quiet plead like Abraham, to the heated air,
while listening to Whitney Houston and Ed Sheeran,
(on your earbuds just so nobody knows your weakness)
for just that one good man in the township of
***** and Gomorrah

my mother bitter sneers good luck with that,
forgetting I am now twenty years
so old, so advanced,
that my hopes and aspirations are no longer those
the ones in my high school yearbook

my poetry fills pages,
a human urban renewal,
laying out a city of hope

recalling that ***** and Gemorrah were destroyed
  Aug 2018 Nat Lipstadt
lmnsinner
“extra condoms” (explicit!)

a title deposited in the poem-to-do file/notebook,
with no body yet to follow through on or upon

which she tumbles to, an irresistible unrepentant
crooked finger hook line and she is sinker stinker caught,
worming in her feigned anger

current curiosity comes
fast and furious further,
demeanor—demanding
ex-explain-nations,
how could this
ever be a
poem?

stare ferocious, I am the prettiest pretense
of a pride incarnation hu-mane incarnate

call me in another language
Vasco da Gama
a sea route to India will uncover
on your worldly tattooed body,
drawing maps as we go along

devour her neck with stingless bites,
explorer voyager a rambunctious tongue undenied,
every space in and between needs  
surging surgical tastings, erupting into her indentations,
inserting her appendages into my places where they
have a business going-knowing

just in case that’s the one!

secret passageway canal holy crossing crossover

later she whacks me because the question goes unanswered
and no sheath employed when my tongued fingers are ten times
more demanding and supple and supply the exploratory course closing with spices and woven silks in Indian colors vibrations
why then,
extra?

god she is so lovely locomotive annoying!

to peak you peeking
to see your astounding astonishment,
you are our provisions for a sea voyage
and put the risk in, the trigger in,
when wherever you see the world-word,


extra
  Aug 2018 Nat Lipstadt
MicMag
if i write a million billion zillion words a day
will some sound nice?
will they work out right?
will my mind create a masterpiece some night?

or will brilliance elude me
like camoflauged prey?
can greatness be chanced upon
or do i have to beg for it?
do i have to pray?

can statistical likelihood produce
from sheer quantitative mass
some lyrical combination
to surpass mere mediocrity
rise straight to first class?

or do i gotta go back and ask
the teachers and mentors
i left in the past?

i took off too fast
ignored their words and advice
bout how to think
how to write
how to talk
how to act
how to not be enticed
by distractions in life

how to not roll the dice
when the odds are too stacked
how to work **** hard
to stay on track
how to make smart goals
if you're itching to rise
by hitchin your ride
to the business of guys
and girls with vision

that's what i was taught
what i heard
what i learned
what i forgot (then recalled)
what i once spurned
to spark my downfall

but i have returned
and rediscovered myself
remembered the others
who raised me
who made me
my parents
my brothers
all those who inspired
all those who required
daily sacrifice

to feed the fire
to push me higher
to bring on success
to make me my best
which proves to the rest
if you don't perspire
chance don't mean ****

now we gotta admit
we all need an assist
but if you want greatness
you gotta work for it
Opportunity + Assistance + Hard Work
=
Success
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
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