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Mar 8
ten thousand shall sunrise arise
with confidence and no surmise,
their only skill, a declaration made

I am poet, my eyes see and my tongues
unravel what overlaps, overloads, what
connects us, our sinews are tongue tied


the heated transfer of our gut alpha juices
in ways invisible but fully sensory sends
impulse ******* scouring clashing galaxies

we are a war of worlds, a war of words,
a war of class, gender, crossing boundaries,
creating new ones at our intermittent tangentials

I slip and fall, my face deep punctured, leaking
notions that cannot be stemmed or reacquainted,
alas, alas I-am now poet halved, the clock will soon

leap forwards, words anoint my unhealed scar,
longer for daylight tries to save my taste of immortality
but the year twenty twenty is for the younger poets

their simplicity fancies itself as creatively bold,
but this poet in his declining times of old
knows only my reputation is the being being shortened

their succinct pierces nothing, but egotistical ism
by dawning early light, weep copious for us both,
my holed face gushes what they don’t want to know

poems constructed and constrained by words near expiration,
use or lose the mind muse unkindly warns, the never of now,
by sunrise, ten thousand new and one old poets will meet their expiration date

one old one will be mortality lessened, lesser, used up by dated

march 6, twenty twenty
10:48am
Nat Lipstadt
Written by
Nat Lipstadt
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