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  Nov 2017 Smoke Scribe
onlylovepoetry
The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy


the poet places his Sunday porcelain coffee mug  
upon his bare chest, purposed to heat the heart to a
higher degree, equal to hers, next door, three feet away,
in their communal bed

two identical alarm clocks, one on each nightstand,
confirms the degree differential, for far beyond time-telling,
it informs on me, providing the room temperature,
and her side of the bed, 5 degrees warmer

the collegial scientists posit theoretical excuses,
the rooms wind currents, proximity to the A/C, body mass,
all refuted after visual and mechanical inspection,
all indelible proofs of the Equivalency Fallacy

despite the visual evidence abounding all around,
despite the surrounding starlike quantity of busted,
love songs, poems and the other artistic churn,
depicting the principle, one requires love physics to validate the
living principle for the living, that love is rarely identical
in quantitative quality, typology, representation and
manifestations measurable

each greets the other with morning declarations of
mutuality, trying to find those hundred different ways
to love her/him today, employing imaginative artifice to proof
the impossibility, that in every aspect your living love ability
is precious capital precision equal
and ha! each love is the greater...

you knew this?
then you knew, his coffee spills (intentionally?) and the
Fighting Fallacy rules,
every thing is fair in love and war, for they too, are
identical and equal, in so many ways,
but never quantifiable exactly

8:33am, 73 degrees, on my side
11/12/17
https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jamesingram/onehundredways.html
  Nov 2017 Smoke Scribe
Left Foot Poet
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>

fluids in, fluids out  

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive  

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,  
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious  

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid  
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,  
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
11/14/17 12:04am
  Nov 2017 Smoke Scribe
Nat Lipstadt
she,
a salty say
right direct into my fine cut
lines,
to wound and to love,

how ya doing,
what's new,

slipping in a well hid second base pickoff move,
seeing anybody?

you know me too well,
don't have the courage  
to lie or ask you the same
being an-in-love-no-more liar,
I turn around to reveal
that I'm now just a silent salt pillar gazing back,
my salty tears just adding,
replenishing my body's mass
  Oct 2017 Smoke Scribe
onlylovepoetry
3 hands


kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works

man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making

a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind

a mood changer with 100% effectiveness

newspapers- a safe *** condiment

think I'll reheat my coffee

<•>

my hand

she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.  
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure

so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-******* a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me

<•>
the facement of your hands*

dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.  

very little to be done to keep the *hands
couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural  toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you

<•>
  2:53am
  Oct 2017 Smoke Scribe
Nat Lipstadt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This is not a poem.  This is about a poem.

Poems require words.  This poem does not require words.

This poem requires memories' muscles.
This poem requires what is called colloquially love.

Learn that what we share here is not poetry.

Your poetic senses that produce the words that mark you present
are but surgical tools to extract, release the whole and the parts of you that help shape that single sense borning in your chest that defines you at any particular moment.

Quæ est mater Laureat.

She is the Mother Laureate.

She is the boundary you must learn to cross to be more than a re-arranger of letters and alphabets, but a translator of the human essence and fill our veins with the a sense of awe and wonder felt when we read each other and think aloud,
"yes, exactly, that was and is precisely what I was feeling."

She is the glue that keeps us sticking here, sticking together, each of us sticking to it.  

You do not know her?  
No worries, she will find you when you least expect it, perhaps
when you need it.

This is not a poem.  This is a human who's a poem.

Understand the difference and then you may begin a journey
that has no destination other than weaving the connective tissue that makes us anticipating excited when we log on.

Happy Birthday Mother Poet Laureate!

I do not think I can write a better not poem for you.  
Forgive me then, if going toward, I repost this every
October 24th as long as the chemical composition of
blood, God, spirit, logos or reason runs free within,  
exiting as words encased in tears that formulate into
human poetry.

nattyman

P.S.There are 800 poems here with Sally in the title, and least 700  are about Sally B.   If you like, please  feel to free to add yours, old or new.
  Oct 2017 Smoke Scribe
Nat Lipstadt
Those old comments from the disappeared with no names,
no faces, just a large gray dot and two -- anonymous*




<•>

Those old comments
live on, unremoved,
from the disappeared ones,
no faces, no names
a large gray dot and
two -- anonymous dashes

a most contemporary kind of disregarding,
disregard-me, frak you, cause I disregarded you first,
funeral pyre ******* gesture,
where only your face was consumed,
but your words live on forever. ...  
congrats, in this day and age,
you, managed to get in the last word

who were you?
why was it necessary to leave?
while your comments, pithy,  
cheddar sharp, meaningful,
of just a plain old prdinary
wow,
tender precious to me
drive me now to simple
madness gladness sadness
failing to yes, to be recalling
who you were/are

were you stalked, trolled, gored,
or just bored
with the word-gaming,
needy for some well constructed avatars
desirous for ****** machine gun killing?

did you heart break one last time
into one million parts too many
you did not believe, didn't trusted me enough,
to heal the cuts and paste
you together like I did previously,
no more one more time?

did you get
transmigrated,
move beyond and out of
London and Minneapolis, Katmandu?

win the lottery,
get parental sent away,
super jetting wealthy,
married, divorced, soul lost,
unhealthy in complete privacy,
up and left the poems of we
poor sods behind,
on your way to Monaco or Singapore?

did I offend beyond any mending?
gladly would have kissed you knees,
written a poem just to tickle you pink
or whatever color you so desired but that
gray grey cream dot not,
that makes your disappearing act,
twice as a pain-full, a banner unfurled of,
you pick the word

was I too sweet, too kind, cloyingly annoying
driving you crazy with my midnight clockwork
"jes' me checking in on you"
one liner messages,
go one message too far?

how we conversed, holy roman dialogues
till one day and hadn't heard and
chagrin uncovered no more souling
we two, ragging and consoling,
on each others nonsense,
cause
you cloaked a name in deliberate invisibility!

well ha on you I am lying,
I will know your name, your face,
your funny way of signing off
when fate sits us side by side
on some long plane ride

you will watch me tap on my tablet
in letters so big you won't struggle to read over my shoulder,
the poem I will write for you / just one more
for just you

and I'll see reflection of your turned away head
in the plexiglass window smiling and tearing,
while I hum some Carole King sad love songs

you will salty say
to wound and to love
cause ain't no difference:
now

you're still an idiot,
write way too long
and forget to put the title in, on -- whatever*

and I will nod also,
in that idiotic identical
tonality of whatever,
in holy poem agreement
not saying much, just
tapping grey --
the rest of the way till we land,
thinking mostly about all the gray grey shades and shadows
in that dashed word,
whatever--



9:27pm 10-5-no jive
"Now And Forever"
ny Carole King
Now and forever, you are a part of me
And the memory cuts like a knife
Didn't we find the ecstasy, didn't we share the daylight
When you walked into my life

Now and forever, I'll remember
All the promises still unbroken
And think about all the words between us
That never needed to be spoken

We had a moment, just one moment
That will last beyond a dream, beyond a lifetime
We are the lucky ones
Some people never get to do all we got to do
Now and forever, I will always think of you

Didn't we come together, didn't we live together
Didn't we cry together
Didn't we play together, didn't we love together
And together we lit up the world

I miss the tears, I miss the laughter
I miss the day we met and all that followed after
Sometimes I wish I could always be with you
The way we used to do
Now and forever, I will always think of you
Now and forever, I will always be with you
  Oct 2017 Smoke Scribe
Nat Lipstadt
who among us
does not whisper
many a daily silent prayer,
unconsciously, or even a thoughtful thought
initiated usually by
  guilted conscience

to a deity,
or to just
the god voices of ourselves, or
ha! or anybody within earshot...

these whispers,
sally forth,
direction upwards,
to an unmappable and usually
unresponsive atmosphere,
seeding the sky moment hoping for
a smidgen of warm rain in a life drought,
and
the wanted future with
grains of hope, needy desires and
evil warded, off put

who among us
reflexively,
without marks of hesitation,
hearing the prayers of others
desirous of any bounty's share<
whisk-that-wish a
fare-thee-well, a shout out, a whisper,
thinking our legal rights confirmed
by a participatory, hearty, ***-along-little-doggie,

amen,
even a
hot ****
or an-oh-so subtle, a holy colloquial
yeah baby!

who among us never says,
please,
promise,
need, want?

not me...
a piece of a broken poem,
broken off...
Oct. 4 - 7, 2015
Manhattan Island
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