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  Jul 2023 Path Humble
Still Crazy
Maturity is knowing what your limitations are…(my daily chore)


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Maturity is knowing what your limitations are. Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.”
Kurt Vonnegut


<>

maturity comes when you cannot,
even try, to fool oneself,
indeed, you preposterousness,
make you laugh hardest
at your very, fully owned, selfhood
preening mirror disguise

Is this a poem, a lamentation, a pithy regurgitation
of Vonnegut, and you say: “Don’t care, it’s words
that gotta come out, be released to empty the heart”
a daily excess removal of that daily overflow of the
days first words when new day light and nighttime’s REM
sleep overlap, and the music starts of a life time of favorites,
and like a pleasant thorn direct into your temples brain,
the leaking, then the spilling spirals unstoppable onto the pages, and the first true relieving exhalation comes with
the excited exorcism of the stones of your life, come outside
your body and there is a freshly born stripe upon your face,
not yet a scar for it is yet to ripen by healing, but it is your
creature for loving…and it is good company with so many
prior guests who have checked in, stayed for a moment’s
observation, departed after getting an extended checkout
time, joining the many who came and went, disappearing
in to the internet’s ether, where we one will join them eventually,
though you smile at that thought, cause you’re mature
enough, baby, an all growled up dude, to know that when
you reached that stage, you will be, non-stop laughing
at *** serious you imagined you were, and wondering out loud
why it took so long to recognize that mirrored visage as
one big ole fool with a smile upon his face…

p.s so much for that promise to take a break from beating
yourself up, but you know what, it is pleasing, in that way
when upon the grand occasion of waking up to another
unexpected day of living deserves a deep, but rueful,
laugh out loud and others’ look at your self and argue to
only mischievously agree,
you are indeed,
still crazy after all these years
7:59 am
Sabbath
Jul 8
2023
  Jan 2023 Path Humble
Carlo C Gomez
~
Lipstick to void. She is a race against time. The beveled past a disruption in her lines of influence.

Travel is dangerous, and tonight it darkens the highway of blood vessels coursing through her extremities. She wants to be luminous and under the skin.

While Dorothy dreams of tornadoes in Kansas, she dreams of remote climbs in lesser Glasgow, of party drugs in Tokyo. How many lights does she see?

In her hair are sixty circuits. But she waits, religiously inclined on the hotel bed. She drove through ghosts to get here wearing nothing but Las Vegas.

So strange at this hour, in a city full of sleepwalkers for the taking, she now dreams she's a bulldozer, she now dreams she's alone in an empty field.

~
Path Humble Apr 2021
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”

Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)

<§>

in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions


the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage


against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation


my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given


Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
  Dec 2020 Path Humble
Nat Lipstadt
things she doesn’t ask...

are they things,
she doesn’t know to ask,
or
are they things
to which,
she does not want to know
the answers.

my not knowing the answer to this puzzle,
drives me to distraction, her Mona Lisa smile,
accompanied by her noncommittal “whatever,”
hiding the answer, nearly leads me over a blurting edge,
but for my inevitable retreat, for the true question,
has a  truer answer, that comes as well, 
in question form.  

Why do I,


or do I,

want to know?
winter 2020
  Dec 2020 Path Humble
Nat Lipstadt
just before never...

my last performance,
the words came original
and easy, unlike all its
predecessors; someone
drew me a map of my
life and times, cities,
countries, and roads
well travelled and a few,
not too. Mountains, each with
a woman’s name, who carried
care, until she couldn’t, didn’t, and
time’s weathering returned us
individually into hillocks, and then
rain eroded us back into old soil.

the broad highways and back roads,
always snaking away, fork-forcing
directional choices, usually taking the
wrong way, the easy and safe one,
and how I have come to hate those
words: easy and safe, for they
are the pill combo that leaves you
for dead, dulling the questioning
one inquires of oneself, late, reluctantly.

But there is always the unexpected.

Today I saw a sunset on the Hudson
River with a humpback whale blowing,
running beside a river ferry, plowing the
waters back and forth tween two states.

Lived by this river for s e v e n t y years,
and have seen the whales in many places,
but here, in my city, in the river of my youth,
never.

and I got the sign, message received, there
are still sights and poems to behold, arms to
embrace, youngers to guide if they’ll permit it.

so this title, these two,
just before,
this day, poem, came to remind me, the
days map remains unfinished, there are lands
and voyages and poems still awaiting drawing,
and it is tomorrow, and just before tomorrow, that
recording insistent demands, and a map is just a
moment in time, until just before...never



5:28 AM Thu Dec 10
2020 (a year deserving
of its own line and ending)

Manhattan, between two rivers.
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EovXVHyXcAAHXax?format=jpg&name=large
  Dec 2020 Path Humble
Nat Lipstadt
~~
dedicated to Ashleigh Riddle,
who knows that forwards and backwards can both be the right way



<>
Homework assignments, please pass them in!

Mmmm ok who didn't submit?

Stand up please!

Ah Mr. LIPSTADT, I should have known!
No poem?

Oh yes sir, I have a poem, even three!

But the dog et them, so if you want, I'll
Recite them please?

{general laughing and snorting in the classroom}

Oh really, Mr. Lipstadt,
why don't you come up to the front
And share with us but one of,
(big sneer on teach's face)
Your creativity!

Shuffle up to Buffalo, where hysteria breaks out,
For now the world is informed that I am wearing
One black and one brown shoe,
The din is attracting the notice of the class
next door, room 402.

Order! Order! Settle down.

Ok let us hear what you dint write!
(Dint, oh boy)

The Poem (the one the dog et):

A special day this quiet Tuesday,
For when I awoke, looked outside,
I saw what I saw,  quickly realized,
That this was the day to
break the norms.

Why must I wear two shoes of similar hues?
My can't my hair be color enhanced by the pink of you!

You just noticed my shirt and pants are  on backwards?
Perception in the eye of the beholder,
Beholder that be me, because,
Today, behold!
It is break the norms day!

Moon in the sky morning,
It knows the way, its place
When gravity, cycles, temporarily shelved,
On the break the norms day

Kissed my mom before I left for school,
My dad, my brother, my sis, too whoo hoo,
** **, you shoulda seen their faces,
When I sauntered out the door,
Humming, C'mon baby light my fire

The crossing guard gave me my usual,
A whistling hello,
Today, I whistled back,
The whistle of
Hey babe, looking good,
She blushed so hard,
The drivers thot the light was
Stuck on red!

This is how I spent my morn,
On the day of breaking the norms!


But even on break the norm day,
Somethings are constant, forever,
For instance, the path to the
School office, La Principal, unchanging,
Her grimaced visor in place,
Till she closes the door.

Then she says tell me honey child,
One of my unusual ones,
What trespasses have you committed today?

Well, the dog et my poetry,
But knew it well and true,
Offered to recite, not a riot incite,
May I please say one for you?

She said:
I know for a fact that you don't have
A dog, but nonetheless,
Sing to me, child,
Give me words
That justify
Giving most of
My lifetime to
Children.

So I gave her a listening
Of one I writ the week before, called,
"He taught them well."

She wept.
Ok, teary-eyed glistening,
She said, as punishment for class disrupting,
You will be suspended for the rest of the day,
You will have spend the rest of this diurnal,
Sitting next to me, thus,
We will break one more norm, together....

---------------------
For Helen, "I have so many partial poems I'm thinking of just mashing them together and maybe the dog will eat them..."
In all poems, I swear there is always a kernel of
Truth.

HE TAUGHT THEM WELL
<>
He cared enough,
So much so to
reason with them.
Never diminishing their simplest prose,
Even if it rhymed with rose....

He loved them in his way,
A teacher, once his student,
This year, then forever.

Their woes he read,
In every submission,
No threat treated idly,
He knew but one grade,
Caring.

One rule strictly observed,
No touching,
In this sad age, a crime without
Any absolution.

Then came a day.
School arrived, pre-bell by ten minuets,
His customary arrival time.

This day different.

The long corridor to the classroom entree,
Lined like Noah's ark, two by two,
On each side,
His students past and present aligned,
They would not let him pass,
Till he hugged each and everyone.

Thus, they taught him well the meaning of
Just rewards,
For they were his,
Yes, they were his,
Not for the taking,
But for the giving.

His subject,
of course,

Creative writing!
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