Oct 18 Poetoftheway
Nat Lipstadt
a television interview, Oct. 2018  with Sir Paul McCartney

~for all of us, forever~


<•>

**** you Paul, old man
you trying to make us all look bad?
guess you’re just another
‘miner for a thousand years’
or more,
cause we haven’t seen a reason why the vein should run dry,
for the stolid earth resupplies endless old metal and the liquid veins
supply the need, the urgency of a warm gun of composition,
a drug nonpareil

and the things that provoke,
still provoke once more and again,
love and need, even memories,
petri dish cell regrown,
breathing atmospheric nutrients in the hotheaded hothouse air
of the human farm

‘tis why I paean you at 4:25am understanding full well,
better than most, for once I wrote,
it’s always the next one, that will be,
the flawless poem,
that will permit the laying down of the pen, the guitar

but even flawless is not
“good enough yet”
for all of us, forever


for “yet,”
even more than forever,

is the most unlimited word we share

~

5:02am 10/17/18
Poetoftheway Oct 13
how do you know (when a broken human can be fixed)


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2644586/how-do-you-know-when-a-human-is-too-broken/

supermarket checkout line, so lazy broken down dressed,
I’m probably arrestible for disturbing the peace,
my haired piled, and held together by a broken clip,
makeup at home in
a drawer labeled ‘why bother’
my t shirt, don’t please look too closely,
yesterday’s coffee spillage outline
only mostly gone,
and the skinny jeans that felt inappropriate
ten pounds ago,
now looking semi-completely ridiculous

is this a tv show?
wallet, a twenty and a single,
who knew a pound of ground blue mountain
cost the better part of the the twenty
in that case no need for a gallon of milk
and *** a box of chocolate frosted donuts
silently slid far far away,
evidence of a guilty plea of irresponsibility resignation

short $2.42 (cut up the credit cards)
and no convenient pit to fall into
when the teenager cashier snickers,
when a sam elliot voice says here ya are,
stammering a no, a thank you, and thinking getaway direction

truck safely, made it,
knock on the window
sam elliot soundalike is a lookalike as well
standing outside with my wallet in hand,
two heads taller than my ex-petite figurine

more stammering ******* could I look any stupider

but inside a piece of brown shopping bag torn
with ten whole digits
I’ve never seen prior to this disaster
saying call when you want to return my $2.42

turns out he got, no, he is glue and paste,
an eraser man for fine lines and sad times,
and a lasso to keep me held together,
a pocket red handkerchief hanging half out
of his back pocket, never without, calls it his tear catcher

pulled out that too tight blues-blouse
from back of my closet
that still complements my complexion,
wear it ever time that day rolls around

just dumb luck ain’t much of an answer
so I’ll rephrase, dumb luck is in the everything
cause his number was 917-242-2424
and he is a gambler in matters of the heart

bust his ***** when he says he’s a lucky man,
reply he ain’t got no luck at all
compared to me on that daft day

and every daft day thereafter
I glue his lips shut to mine, no escaping,
and paste a new $2.42
into his wallet
when he is sleeping mine,
no erasing our lines,
just redrawing them deeper and finer,
just making sure my
dumb luck is working overtime
he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:

“something he knows for sure,
no is no”

I, (19, f)

replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:

“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”

and he says

“yes, ma’am,”

returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots

I like this guy
I like this man.
  Sep 27 Poetoftheway
fearfulpoet
objects in the distance may be closer than they appear  

how many thousands of times
these words mirrored blankly upon my eyes

only today did I-read them accurate

from the nowhere    from a great void
someone stepped and lifted me from a
rubbled prone
where there were no options
asking for nothing
over and over I beseeching

now I see
in the mirror
those words

I see only them
in the heart human
the object so close
it writ upon my face
proudly
  Sep 20 Poetoftheway
Smoke Scribe
let the lying begin

first, it's ***** - not *******.
don't pretend its scientific,
like geology, physiology.

It's just ***. raw and without boundaries.
you watch. you fantasize. you deny.

then when your conscience questions,
you lie, first and foremost,
to yourself.

what's your favorite category?
got a favorite site?
or you like to explore,
never satisfied, more?
more.

Let the hunger games begin.
who can lie with straightest face?

filter me off of your list,
unless you ready to follow me,
to where truth rules,
no punches pulled,
raw is real. *** is raw.
real is ***.

otherwise, why would you still be reading this
poem?

gotcha.
I  know who you are...
  Aug 26 Poetoftheway
Smoke Scribe
is this the hill I want to die on?


there are certain questions I ask myself
filters, lines in the mental sands, rubicons, so denominated by me.

which loosely translated means is this battle worthy of dying,
fighting over?

the question comes so frequently I wonder what’s wrong with me.  

always instigated by a human being and every one quick to the draw

I ask the question twice -
most times
once to them. then to myself

by now my children know,
to ask themselves first,

so once is enough
Next page