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Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Reworked and resubmitted, and this time to stay.
Anything you say can and will be used...


excited utterances,
acerbic witticisms,
utter stupidities,
elegant inanities

can and most assuredly
will be used
evidentially, eventually,
about you
in the court of poetic
justice

as inspiration,
original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo
fathomed long ago, is
us

a Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for
future etch-a-sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than
me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper,
poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible
trash,

the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy

all your lovely revelations
of human frailty
and asininity,
most adorable,
(except for those scarface
treatises I despise as
never justified
self-pity)

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charmes de notre
humanité

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh
so hard
and yet again, even
harder

unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant and genetically improved
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we as the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright
avec expressions most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
funning underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his
protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny
and he will be
the one
future generations recall

when I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars

dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase

write tomes on the
catacombs, where in
jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes
of our mutualism,
your edicts,
pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  
in the year 2300

you err most grievously,
if you relegate
this note
to the dustbin of
simple ditties.

take these words
at plain face,
and
look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am
but a tragic,
empty vessel
for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur~extraordinaire,
street urchin,
word merchant,
all my verbally,
wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything
you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived
embarrassments

A fevered dream
you might say,
rumors and excuses of a
vision of drug induced haze?

a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions
will not conceal
that all my words
were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called
collaborative

this I pen
partly as apology,
partly thank you note,
written notice,
subpoena served,
for as long
as you emote,
my fingertips
will gleefully record
with love abundant
in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in-cahooting

right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept
anything you say
that can and will be used...
to express our communitas

Written June 1, 2011
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Dedicated to you.
Fair Warning: a long road ahead*

MAJOR WARNING: Anything you say can and will be used...


Excited utterances,
Acerbic witticisms,
Utter stupidities,
Elegant inanities,
Can and assuredly will be used
Evidentially, eventually,
about you in the court of poetic justice,
as inspiration, original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo fathomed long ago,
is us

A Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for future sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper, poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible trash,
the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy,
all your lovely revelations
of human frailty and asininity, most
adorable

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charms de notre
humanity

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh so hard
and yet again, even harder,
unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant genetic,
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we, the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright avec expressions
most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
find him underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny

When I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars
dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase,
write tomes on the catacombs,
where in jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes of our mutualism,
your edicts, pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  

You err most grievously,
if you relegate this note
to the dustbin of simple ditties.

Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet *poseur
extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived embarrassments

A fevered dream you might say,
rumors and excuses of
visions of drug induced haze?
a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions will not conceal
that all my words were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called,
collaborative

This I pen
as apology, thank you note,
written notice, subpoena served,
for as long as you emote,
my fingertips will gleefully record
with love abundant in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in cahooting,
right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept
Anything you say can and will be used...to express our community

Written June12011
Ken Pepiton Nov 2020
We hold these truths,
there is a Zebra tree on a tiny island
in Lake Wanaka on the relatively large island
called New Zealand.

Nation is not a valid variable to sort on.

So here, we sort worth on agreeing
we are equally
Natives of Earth. First yes.

More yeses follow.

Learn what you have done.
Know what you are doing.
Be good,
let the bruised flesh not rise in hot pride,

see we all are involved in evolving into ever
better,

so we think, perhaps,
others aboard my ark also think.

We are equal in this realm, each mind joined

junction branch root, not from
billions and billions of
Jahre zuvor,
წლების წინ
ts’lebis ts’in { Georgian script looks magic, eh}

Secrets in tongues died with the last word,
spoken toward unhearing ears,

… is it reality interrupting or
knocking needs gumming up the works…

--------


Field-wide signal, crisp and clear, some fell on idle minds,

that's fine  , signal how are you.

You say, responsibly, My side is winning.
No one ever asks what that means.

The field the world,
war is the only story, Walt imagined,
he was infected, Whitman,
with a known' opinion
-- some wise and well-known
-- being arisen from behind the ivied walls
- I heard this in passing,
- anonymous did not say this:
the function for the sublime is to free us from the slavery
of pleasure
- on another vector, I heard this:
the need to heal violence, forces life into idle words
used maliciously, in tests of conscience-useness.

Poverty never hears the highest minded reasons
for the states of mind attempted by the
most curious among us

--- empty of the wy. ha… I don' know I glanced away
stat tic… what's missing?
--- its like any other day, it ends with me entranced
by the play of winds with dust and smoke and water
droplets too light to fall,

I take instant HDR images as the time passes and the art
appears, as if for me alone,
I am the only mental
being seeing this,
I have proof,
I'll show you, someday, maybe…
but today,
I got took t' school, behind the gated mental institution,

geni-used magi-like instinct-gut spirit-vapor
-- rumor has it, I went mad
caused
by you or me, I can't say.

But just the other day, I was thinking, you may remember
my sunsets,
you would have noticed them
when you stole my weedeater.

--------

No school of the prophets foresaw my death,
so far as I may know,
I am by chance, bon chance,
living in lines of consequential events.
And my birth was a quirk of circumstances.

As special as any multi cellular creature,
if the statisticians are aiming at
the proper means of measuring.

There remain professors who teach man is the measure
of all things, wrong, in my opinion.

Ha. I said that. Like to Cambridge, it's image in my immaterial
realm where all things men agreed to use for ever after,

are similar in effect to the Ghostbusters Marshmallow role.

My fingerprint is less than nine points similar
to your fingerprint, no matter who you are.
We are equals in that regard,
our self is commonly unique, as we are.
Our kind.
We, the people of Earth. The native species,
Whumo Sapient Sapiens is us.
Knowers that know.
Thinkers that think we know. There is no
they
behind the curtain
knowing anything that  you may not know
as much
as you can swallow,
a bit per quantasec, after chewing fifty years.

In this medium,
it's me and you, object, subject, reject defect
if then or else
find that more perfect
union,
that knot that binds our minds in agreement,
this is that
which has no religious name, save good and plenty…

not the candy, but that's cool, I thought that, too.

We, me and you, since we think alike,
we could make up a mind and invite others

to take parts in grand epic dramas of ever
learning,
war never has arisen on a reason that reasons
rationally valanced toward life,
and that,
more abundantly…

Now, see those greedy folks,
look real
close,
see. You never see such a one, with a satisfied mind,
ever learning, never knowing everything,
happy as hell from a Sisyphean POV
_ Changed my entire environment, by movin' three rods north.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
A little off normal ain't abnormal,
otherwise,
we be fudgin' the data.

Practic'ly perfect is all
patience strives for.

Cast the spell, callemagin callemalloutsin,
come attend
forsake not the gathering of...

All ye, all ye, outs in free....

Wombed or un, worst and best,
twisted

strait straight wait wraith wrath point
to point

tale to tale
story to story from six ways

to Sunday, sun's day in my culture,

Day one. Gin geni gene-ration day, since
light been
activating
sensation spinning
the planetary sweep of balance soft as
stillness
in perfect peace

past undersatanding,
aitia yen yanked
beyond all
that ever mattered when

the measurerers in 2019 declare precision
stat-
balance twixt being and null is set, one part

in a measure,
one in a ratio, a reasoning, a
dis-
cerning of one part in all that man can imagine ever,
higgs-ified-ish-ly materialwise,

reality valances on
one part in 10 to the seventy-nine thousandth power.

Earthling-wise, you are at least,
or worst,
or best,
one in eight times ten to the nine-th.

Therefore, your unique effect on the balance of all
that is,

is
far more than you've been blamed for and
far less than you've taken shame for and
much
less precise than the most concise measurer of evil in you.

Moral, aphoristic con clue sion:

Do your part. Don't fudge up. Tolerate human
imbalance
in light of fudging science.
Tolerate no evil imbalance
in light of fudging philosophy.
Read deeper.
Be still from time to time. Laugh when laughter fixes the problem,
never laugh when laughing makes it worse.
Practicing what I preach, extending my reach past my grasp, beacause
I can. This is America, 2019. We, the people, rule this place. No liar is legal in office in America.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2019
Nietz
sche:
the warrior with the heart of a girl. According
to Will Durant,
odd intel-informs
this POV of the channel, deep 'neath this stream,

slow Sunday morning flow into a pond to wait, awhile, yet and we
shall see geni-us grow kind

of a blob of peace, a scab to dam the loss,
"the life is in the blood"
"your brother's blood cries out... how long?"

Study war for fifty years, learn one lesson last.

abso unique ununununun I suffer
this to be so, now,
how else might this be if may were your word,
now,
whodat? eh, we bein' odd, now, are we
even?

Only you would know, but
only if I allow.

You must shine for me to see your light.
Mightn't I reflect the glow,
whereby you see, through words to the mean
ing ing ing
first the thing, then the name,
knowing the name is not samesame
knowing first the
thinked thing, then the
name
by which you may know what I mean,
after
a period of complete ion depletion

batter batter batter upery upery up

and the magic pen flows once more,

once
more, past the sluggish mediocrity settled
into
quiet peacefully beyond the maddened crowd.

--- The mad Nietzsche, gone to Dionysus,
--- left a dangerous, laborious trail to peace and quiet,
--- "Lisbeth, why do you cry, are we not happy"
I suppose I have attained such a state, at a far lower cost than poor Fred.
Happy Sundays are expected, these days. Live long, and prosper.
PEARL SMOKE  Jan 2018
130Am
PEARL SMOKE Jan 2018
Why do I go back.
Obsess over a sack.
Why must I Go back.
Relapse on Pieces Of Glass.
It’s a Shame That I lure in.
I hate, but I can’t leave it alone .
I don’t want it , yet I’m out finding .
Please hold me.
I’m Scared, Stay please.
Pray for my sanity.
I’m far from perfect, that’s certain.
I have no hope, I want to find it.
Before it’s to late.
When Tweaks In me
I see things differently.
I’m not myself, I’m nobody
When crystal reaches my blood stream , all I see are reasons to keep on using.
When I think of sadness
I crave a fix.
I fein To not have feelings towards it
In my real mind.
I scream & cry.
I yell till my lungs tear out.
I shout for savor
A miracle to change me.
A geni To grant me a wish
The serenity to Help me reach the end of my disease
...poreklo svog prezimena, da li je jevrejsko, nemacko ili vec. Dedu sa tatine strane nikada nisam upoznala, niti se o njemu pricalo. Pre dve godine kada je baba umrla saznala sam da tata ima polusestru i da je baba pobegla iz Kuzmineca od dede kada je saznala da ju je prevario sa rodjakom. Tata je bio tada beba. Jedino sto znam jeste da je deda bio vojno lice i da sam imala prababu koja je zivela u Valjevu.

btw. mene i onako vise vuku dalmatinski geni :)

mh

— The End —