7:54AM Sun Feb 8, 2026
with a simple - now resting tween first and last name,,
not even an ~ with its **** serpentine curvaceousness division,
and the symbolism stinks and sinks me deeper than Dante’s Inferno;
Dear Eliot,
which unholy coder deemed that our individualism be so tarnished!
My name is my name. The who in Whom am I?
The very subject
that has essayed my life, my poetry, an eight decade of struggle,
thousands of poems
reduced to a dash, summarizing, reducing the existence of me
in a single little scratch used to separate
when I love con~joining,
a super verb
that speaks to
more than joining but
combining!
concocting & connecting, and
having write too much upon it,
in tributes to words that assemble multitudes into one,
of body parts that touch and enliven us with heart sparks
when our skin cells scrape, our bodies function as one
for the pleasuring of two,
celebrating our difference in language, color, genetics,
all of which are superseded by our
common humanity
and somebody at HP,
sundered me,
split this big baby in too two easy pieces,
for their conveniency,
I adored the gap in my name,
the challenge of filling that space with my
uniqueness’s
the subterranean container of a mountain of life’s experiences,
within my mind, contained in my body,
the fomenting brew of blood, guts, fat and grease, fluids abnormal,
poisons and antidotes, inflammation flaming, heart occluding,
scarred skin mapping of cuts all over my body that were made to rebuild my dying heart, and memory bruises that never disappear,
each a poem colorful of the risks of living,
the pain of ignorance, the Cain of my failings, my muderous guilt,
all of which in the spaces of my senses, eternally re lived, felt,
occasion ally re lieved,
but that never was meant to be closed,
topped off,
by a
stinking exceedingly brief
screwed~on capping-cover of a
wordless
unbraced embrace of unromantic, life ending symbol,
a ****** little pockmark of a
-
I am Nat Lipstadt,
the unhypenhated,
un hypyed pen hated
beloved and behated, be stilled,
and ALL the spaces tween beginning and end
that is.are.were. my marks of existence
forever unfulfilled,
and remains so,
till my inevitable existence reconciliation
with my essence creator,
who alone can modify it thusly,
Nat Lipstadt.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:27 AM UTC
7:54AM Sun Feb 8, 2026
with a simple - now resting tween first and last name,,
not even an ~ with its **** serpentine curvaceousness division,
and the symbolism stinks and sinks me deeper than Dante’s Inferno;
Dear Eliot,
which unholy coder deemed that our individualism be so tarnished!
My name is my name. The who in Whom am I?
The very subject
that has essayed my life, my poetry, an eight decade of struggle,
thousands of poems
reduced to a dash, summarizing, reducing the existence of me
in a single little scratch used to separate
when I love con~joining,
a super verb
that speaks to
more than joining but
combining!
concocting & connecting, and
having write too much upon it,
in tributes to words that assemble multitudes into one,
of body parts that touch and enliven us with heart sparks
when our skin cells scrape, our bodies function as one
for the pleasuring of two,
celebrating our difference in language, color, genetics,
all of which are superseded by our
common humanity
and somebody at HP,
sundered me,
split this big baby in too two easy pieces,
for their conveniency,
I adored the gap in my name,
the challenge of filling that space with my
uniqueness’s
the subterranean container of a mountain of life’s experiences,
within my mind, contained in my body,
the fomenting brew of blood, guts, fat and grease, fluids abnormal,
poisons and antidotes, inflammation flaming, heart occluding,
scarred skin mapping of cuts all over my body that were made to rebuild my dying heart, and memory bruises that never disappear,
each a poem colorful of the risks of living,
the pain of ignorance, the Cain of my failings, my muderous guilt,
all of which in the spaces of my senses, eternally re lived, felt,
occasion ally re lieved,
but that never was meant to be closed,
topped off,
by a
stinking exceedingly brief
screwed~on capping-cover of a
wordless
unbraced embrace of unromantic, life ending symbol,
a ****** little pockmark of a
-
I am Nat Lipstadt,
the unhypenhated,
un hypyed pen hated
beloved and behated, be stilled,
and ALL the spaces tween beginning and end
that is.are.were. my marks of existence
forever unfulfilled,
and remains so,
till my inevitable existence reconciliation
with my essence creator,
who alone can modify it thusly,
Nat Lipstadt.
i am not a -
perhaps a bracket or a semi colon meaning more,
maybe a
an&ersand
surely a
top hatted arrowed open bottomed triangle pointing upwards
or a (. .)
yes a parentheses (i like that)
always an open ended, top & bottom
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