Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
  Jan 2015 Still Crazy
Nat Lipstadt
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending

When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening

to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable

and yet

cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,

it has yet

to arrive

When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed

When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction

she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
rentery orbit,
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot

When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after

death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
is the God
I worship
The phrase "the consolation of physics" was taken from a novel,
City of Thieves by David Benioff. The other nonsense is all my fault.
11/23/14 8:30am

for my blonde Big Bang theorist
Still Crazy Jan 2015
come back to bed
walk my hallways,
upon my shoulder sleep,
rest in my nooks
soft, well worn, cosy crannies,
let your face go slack,
get back jack,
to where you always belong

I know too well
what ails thee,
know no answers easy
to be found
walking around
an old creaky house's
groaning discordant mystery sounds

do come back to bed
I'll call you babe,
kiss those temples
rock 'n rolling,
soothing them with
adagio classics from
the 1950's and 60's

I'll think of something
just back,
bed bunk, mate,
with me
your roommate of the sole
****** sunset years

let you write poems
on my tummy,
gurgling with the pleasure of
skin and words
tender entwining,
just come
back to bed,
pillow deep,
fund the sleep
your desperate need,
from my countenance and body,
yours,
no needy for asking,
just the just
taking what you're needing,
be my human,
be my child,
and come back to bed,
my very own

still crazy man
after all these years,


before leaving me
sleepy smiling,
from a job well done
with the fluids
of our
co-joinery

that ease,
however brief,
thy tempested brow
one less line,
one less worry
Still Crazy Jan 2015
“A man is about as likely to ask for help for depression as to ask for directions, and for much the same reason,” said Real, who struggled with his own depression issues. “It's part of the male code, part of masculine culture.”

~~~

when they ask,

I say, parrying fast,
how you doing?

to the persisters, I mutter fine

which is 100% correct...



been fined for the accumulated

made-mistakes, wrong forks taken,

the weight invisible but the

body sags, nonetheless...



you know they know,

you know their thoughts,

why doesn't he snap out of it,

after all he is a man,

he has always been

what we needed,

why can't he

just go back to the person prior...



this code, is not law,

ten times worse,

genetic and culture passed,

double ******,

code so real, like the headaches,

the nightmares, that forbid equanimity...



not true,

we don't expect that of you,

thankful for all you have done,

but eyes betray,

a simpatico misunderstanding,

the instillers, can't take back

what they celebrated previous...



the signals everywhere, few ascertain,

cause the rule is never complain,

don't go near windows,

lest the sunlight diffused, offers no cheer,

but escape temptation ever on offer...



forgive yourself, someone intones,

but what infects my bones,

is non-responsive to the forget antibiotic,

which does not come in pill format



ask me for directions,

I will talk/walk you to your destination,

but when I'm lost,

I'm just a lost man,

who needs to do better,

forgetting is not in my DNA,

but lost is...choking on expectations

of being everyone's savior,

with no one to save you from yourself...
Still Crazy Jan 2015
sliced the thumb quite nicely,
a straight line, it,
the thumb,
applauded my skill,
turning bright infected red from
embarrassment
for me...and my minority complaints,
losing HD sight of the
big screen
of what matters

small woes and big-toes,
got ten times aplenty,
got lawyers and creeps
back in my life,
made promises that can't keep

so for sure
biblically cursed,
Job, and me,
losing parched perspective
under the tree
that gives no shade

dancing on that line called
"why bother,"
the other side of depression

forgetting again,
roof over head,
pizza in the belly,

can still stand up straight,
after a few vociferous
aches n' growls,
though the docs prescribe
what i proscribe,
i.e exercise, diet and blah, blah, blah, hah, hah

got her and got you,
goddess of poetry,
the mental health should be ok,
someday,
maybe even
the physicality

but not nut all of you,
not so lucky,
love the brave,
the courage true
those who ask,
when the time comes,
brave ones revealations,
shame me back to perspective

so do the thing,
some say,
call it the-right,

says I,
it's the no-choice
no thought needed,no praise worthy,
just
*extend the
balance,
bring back the
relativity,
share the
luck,
be as brave as those who
dare to ask
Proudly call me,
Still Crazy After All These Years
  Dec 2014 Still Crazy
Nat Lipstadt
My father, gone fifty years,
A transplanted German,
Arrived early, in the 1920's,
Fleeing the worldwide depression,
That decided to follow him to America.

Traveling salesman, raconteur,
A busy man who decided he
Found the right girl at age forty,
But by the time I was teen,
He was, then uncommon,
An older man, an older father.

Raised three kids,
Working six days a week.
Unlike the other fathers,
White shirt and tie every day
Even Sunday.

No backyard in the city,
To toss a base or football to his son,
Though he wouldn't, couldn't,
While his son grew,
Grew up worshipping
Three Gods:
Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and
The bold, the bald Y.A. Tittle,
Heroic sports figures.

The son who went to Yankee Stadium
For the first time,
There he saw the color
Emerald  Green in the Bronx,
In The House Ruth Built,
Whispered Hallelujah,
There, courtesy of someone else's dad.

Goatee he wore, and on Saturdays,
Wore a black jacket, striped pants
And Homburg hat to the synagogue.
Custom of his Hamburg upbringing.
The only one, the only dad,
Of course, dressed that way.
Proud of his style, his heritage,
Helping me not to fit right in.

Yet twinkle twinkle did his eyes sparkle,
Such that all the other children loved him,
Better and best.

But I was the son with the unlike,
The father, unlike any others.
Age thirteen, he's asked me this:
Now you are a man, I wish of thee this,
Accompany me to synagogue every day,
As is my custom, and all your father's,
Twenty generations before me.

When he passed, the stories of
His saintly deeds, his help,
How he saved, brought many to
The United States of America,
Including his five sisters and their families.
During, after WWII, became legends,
all the while, trying to make a living.

One time, I was listening to
Rock n' Roll, on the radio,
In the den, study, his home office,
Where
The Stereo,
proudly sat.

Chased me out,
Paperwork to do,
But stopped me first,
Listening to the song.
That happened to be next.

When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let me tell you now

When I come home feelin' tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
Up on the roof
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
Up on the roof

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let's go up on the roof
Up on the roof

At night the stars put on a show for free
And darling, you can share it all with me
I keep a tellin' you

Right smack dab in the middle of town
I've found a paradise that's trouble proof
Up on the roof
And if this world starts getting you down
There's room enough for two, up on the roof
Up on the roof

Up on the roof
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, baby
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, honey
Up on the roof
Everything is all right
Up on the roof
Say that, "It's alright"
Up on the roof
Oh, we gotta go up on the roof
Up on the roof
The Drifters - Up On The Roof


He listened carefully,
Pronouncing with an austere smile,
"That I like, now go."

Now fifty years later,
Having failed spectacularly as a
Father, family man, having never saved a
Soul or life, I remember the outcast days
Of my growing up years,
With a different kind of father
Than all the kids who
Played catch, had big suburban homes.

I never understood much,
Always struggled to be one
Unsuccessful in fitting in,
In my high school yearbook,
They outed my anomie,
"Either apart or ahead of us,
Nat stands, uniquely individual."

So here is a poem, an apology,
No, more an anthology, an anthem,
Of, and,
To my pop, for resenting, misunderstanding,
How
You were more than unique,
How you were special, in ways
No teenager could see.

I am have written some of this before.
Tender apologies, but when I awoke this
Post Thanksgiving Day, at
6:00 Ante Meridiem,
In not my bed,
In not my city,
Pandora surprised me
Real Good,
With an old song,
Up on the Roof.

These words,
The ones you are reading did not drift,
Nay, they spilled out in shades of
Tearful regretful guilt-filled,
Pooling tears that cannot n'ere erase
Prior youthful errors, grievous sins.

Of course,
They like to surprise you,
At the end of their song,
Twisty surprise ending.

I will say it, not you,
In some ways, not all,
I grew up to be just like him,

And for that,
I will give thanks,
Not just one day, every day,
Until it is among,
My last thoughts passing,
Proceeding me,
Preceding me,
As I depart this globe.
Nov. 29th 2013
Miami, Florida
  Nov 2014 Still Crazy
Shelby Hemstock
Manual labor isn't for me
So I freed myself from the farms drudgery
I'm a classical scholar and a fine linguist
Emancipate yourself from being the definition of living breathing machinist
You can get free if you want to
All you have to do is use your mind,
Pay your dues,
Expand your intellect,
Earn respect
I wasn't born to assemble on a factory line,
Lotta yellow boys never put that to mind
Never will
Never dared to dream
So they perspire as another part of the machine
  Nov 2014 Still Crazy
Third Mate Third
is this craft
that chose you,
not defined by millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye pleasing
they demonstrate
no tolerance
for tolerance
of the
ordinary

the skill of words,
too, cut so fine,
find the
extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused, discard,
instant recognition,
unusable

cut new cuts,
thy spirit tolling,
thy soul trolling
anew
is thy
toolings earth sourced
from and of the
ever better,
ever closer,
always newer

make thy own designs,
faithfully execute
the new born original,
by elevating,
with the tools
in you, provide us,
by illuminating

no thing machined,
can ever be as fine
as the originality
that requires
soft spoken definition
in new ways,
heart and hand
guild crafted

when God designed the Connecticut
autumnal leaves,
overriding the summers's single green, good
but not miraculous, insufficient,
when contrasted with the
shades of red, yellow,
purple, black, orange, pink,
magenta, blue and brown
of newly fallen
words and worlds

in the season of change

write me a tool
so elegant, so complex,
so refined and yet so simple,
that its point will force no choice,
but engrave gasps of pleasure upon
my faltering eyes,
my slowing heart,
my exhausted limbs,
and make me
live again
through your
finest creativity

heat heat heat
burn to look beyond
For Joe
Next page