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Nat Lipstadt Nov 17
“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are

strong at the broken places."

A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway

struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend  

understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever

cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me

getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”

I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
because of my

And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!

my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
are not lying,
but believed.

but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry

thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,

but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future

1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow  
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells

2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.

so here is our truth:
The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!*

our whole blood will replenish us
Sabbath Eve
Fri Nov 17
in the ***** of my birth
Nat Lipstadt Nov 16
preternatural ordinatty, beyond what is normal or natural,
when the ordinary is suspended, and my river me~wanders
between profound and mundane, tween hell and tomorrow

and miracles are shrines to make believe

the break-fast poem comes in threads of grayest cobwebs,
days are necklaces of obsidian stones, hanging heavily on neck,
head bowed, weighty matters, disasters unfolding and
sins of omission, commission block your throated gorge,
sallowing swallowing freedom waters can’t flow,
trickle~stuck in between a cascaded
motionless, collection of bouldered words

and why should
you care, it’s ok, no obligation and
depart at your own free will,

but I’ll still be here, introspecting, introspectating,
observing my hands and my lifelines that cross~twisted,
me~wondering like the river of rêves & reefs & thoughts
of all that I have done,
& not done,
both lists guilt-choke me, too many failures,

I recall writing
eight years and one half years ago,
all the sad words start with D
and still do, still so,

(The preternatural that which appears outside or beside,“suspended between the mundane and the miraculous".  In the early modern period, the term was used by scientists to refer to abnormalities and strange phenomena of various kinds that seemed to depart from the norms of nature.)
All Sad Words Start with D

deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,
drowning the next contemporaneous
depression thought quickly swallowed,
desperation in quick glances everywhere,
dawn is no consolation but just another
daily drawing tighter of twine cutting

dear god, commences every thought,
delayed answers have yet to arrive,
**** the deity's non-responsivness,
dare not say out loud lest,
deserved fates be worse, be realized,
didn't know? how can that be?
disguiser par excellent, I am the original

But I never think about

death or dying, for that would be
defeat finale, a statute to, a status of none, a
destiny some wick spark, still insists can be

differed always,
diffidently, but grasping yet at the
double entendre that is my
dark vision of a future already past

May 2015
Nat Lipstadt Nov 13
Write like you have already Run out of time…
(what do you want for breakfast?)

the despair heats my wearied blood to near a freezing temp,
and the Hamilton song lyric, fresh on my mind,
haunts my soul, with a modified tense-ion,
running becomes also~ran, already now, is a past tense,
gonna get me a weapon, other than words
cause I want the
satisfaction of taking some murderer~haters down

anyway, future is now past tense revisiting,
and you think can still make a difference, but
optimism ain’t my forte, could be a
genetic POV curse,
a refresher course

BUT it’s past time,

used to worry, still do, that my grandkids
in a decade or less, would not have running,
potable water, electricity for a couple
hours a day, as we transition to a
new world the visionary~isms haven’t
prepared a **** for

and words are cheaper now
than they have ever been,

and the freedom to hate gonna be
added to the new constitution with a
new Bill of Rights revised, approved list,
got no illusions that ‘no preservation’ of
my kind will be a top ten item item

now I worry about the useful idiots, believers in
“extermination of the vermin”
are revisiting  this world, and laugh at the ‘evidence’
that it can’t happen here, and/or anywhere, because
those who call for my destruction are celebrating in
rallies from sea to shining sea, yeah, not that sea,
not the one they chanting ‘bout, no doubt, they’ll
extend the boundless vision
to get us all,
once and for all,
and  please don’t tell me I’m
cause war and organized ****** is ONLY
just the same as
politics by another name,
and. your view, let’s **** a jew,
is protected speech,
and land of the free will soon have a whole
new meaning for political,
as on free of people like me…

so let’s go about our day, intensely discussing the NFL,
and it’s never to early to talk about summer plans and
air plane tickets just so hard to get, forget about getting a plumber,
and a now memory resurfaces
of visiting a synagogue in Rome
in the 1980’s and seeing the machine gun toting carabinieri
standing guard outside and swastikas on Parisian bustops
and what an idiot I’ve been thinking the future will be like
the recent past, but weight of ancient Idée Fixe
of  five thousands years duration
and when asked
what do I want for breakfast,
and other
newly pointless questions,
my response
is on point:

don’t give a ***
Mon Nov 13 2023
moving on
Nat Lipstadt Nov 12
an all purpose cleaner response to the


as my vibe unmistakable;
the hatred in the world directed at
is inexplicable, beyond reason,
a hatred raw and pure in the
tiny places we humans hide it, lest
our ancient linkage to an unreasoned,
embarrassing emotion, be revealed

but now revealed it is reveled,
as the freedom to despise is a
valued thing

is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded
and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused,
surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of
wiped away
in utter disbelief
a different kind of impure clean,
“like” an ethnic cleansing,
traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment,
a goner.

like hope, prior sentient optimism
sentenced to life imprisonment and
this sentence, and this very sentence!
written finally understanding that it is
a punishment
far worse than the quick relief of death.

c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew”
cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless

no, not I, no, not me,
spare me the pithy comments,
the pointless sympathy, glistening
like evaporating water droplets
before disappearing, I ask myself,
why they hate, why it persists,
for this I understand and accept
the foulness of what we are capable of is,


as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents.

no, I ask myself,

why do I write poetry,

for it is as pointless as
the hatred directed at me,
from birth, till death,
and ever after,
the humanity of poetry
just another fraud

another reason
why this man cries in the bathroom,^
not from any shape of shame,

because poetry is pointless
in times of hatred, and now we
know, recognize, it is always
somewhere, nearby, always
present and prescient,
pointless hatred,
itching to be pointed at me,
makes for
pointless poetry.

To whom shall I point my poetry?
Nat Lipstadt Nov 9
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future

a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:

of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight

it’s all  just *******, we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!

if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
inherited inputted

you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were

(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…

is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
Thu Nov. 9 2023
Nat Lipstadt Nov 8
zero context shifts

multitasking is multi~asking your brain
to do what does not come naturally,
the enthused poem starts up, lion roaring,
a muscle car, brain throbs organic pulses
semi~******* of a near-completion in
your neuronic *****, exciting and ****
all you-writ so far is:

your name, some crazed, minimal
******* of words with

no context, no preconceived word lotion to
balm-spread over the enflamed areas of
your brain skin
except that it’s
6:47 am, coffee in hand,
your woman slumber rumbles a left over dream,
speechifying, and room, cool conditioned cold,
ignoring notifications of overnight elections,
and a reminder-by-photo where you were this
day seven years ago today, all put asided,
permission ungranted to any distractions,

there will be zero context shifts
til the
spillage of your morn squeaking meager is fully
pillage~d here, it be within my it-takes-no-

@ 6:56 and Whitman is tsk-tsking at the low poetry of my scripting, Hafiz says “hey!
nothing about god or love, what good is that?”

but it’s ok for i’ve emptied the early morning
brain bowels,
defused fusses and asides, tossed asided & there is yet some coffee
remaining but the expiation for having been
reborn this newly birthed day has earned me atonement

for taking up space in this planet
and as of yet, I’ve not stated yet to any, no. all
humans, I hate you ~ but the day is infantile
and opportunity plentiful

Wed Nov 8,
in the year of hatred,
a/k/a twenty twenty three.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 4
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry

A Yalie jogs before dawn, her senses being exercised,
semi-aware there’s layered poetry out there and it must
be retrieved, for the eyes observe the diurnal arousing of the day,
and this too, must be recorded, part of the ordered duties of living, as the skin cells shed sweat droplets and
words of living, parcels of breathing, a diary of notations,
to educate the brain in ways and things that
professors cannot teach…

every sense operative, interactive, sound off neurotic synapses,
are acrackling, as you lay out the day ahead, calendar and
assignment checks, but the senses don’t care
about that
trivial minutiae of living

the words are now coming fast and you hope your best that
you will retain, retrain the memory to savor save, those
combos of images encapsulated in new word combinations,
that are yours alone, unique, proving to no one but
yourself, that education, science et. al. is a seeded embryo &
you the valedictorian of birth commencement ceremony

so put them trainers on,
and by dawning daylight you are awondering,
now becoming a pondering, and the
question never spoke aloud but oft posed,
is this, this is,
this is why I exist,
my identity?

I am an institution in my own right,
in my own write.

Saturday Nov 4
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2
'In the city of slaughter' ('B'ir Haharegah"), 1904, Excerpt


Arise and go now to the city of slaughter;
Into its courtyard wind thy way;
There with thine own hand touch, and with the eyes of thine head,
Behold on tree, on stone, on fence, on mural clay,
The spattered blood and dried brains of the dead.
Proceed thence to the ruins, the split walls reach,
Where wider grows the hollow, and greater grows the breach …

The spirits of the martyrs are these souls,
Gathered together, at long last,
Beneath these rafters and in these ignoble holes.
The hatchet found them here, and hither do they come

To seal with a last look, as with their final breath,
The agony of their lives, the terror of their death. …
Question the spider in his lair!
His eyes beheld these things; and with his web he can
A tale unfold horrific to the ear of man:
A tale of cloven belly, feather-filled;
Of nostrils nailed, of skull-bones bashed and spilled;
Of murdered men who from the beams were hung,
And of a babe beside its mother flung,
Its mother speared, the poor chick finding rest
Upon its mother’s cold and milkless breast;
Of how a dagger halved an infant’s word,
Its ma was heard, its mama never heard. …

Descend then, to the cellars of the town,
There where the virginal daughters of thy folk were fouled,
Where seven heathen flung a woman down,
The daughter in the presence of her mother,
The mother in the presence of her daughter,
Before slaughter, during slaughter and after slaughter! …

Turn, then, thy gaze from the dead, and I will lead
Thee from the graveyard to thy living brothers,
And thou wilt come, with those of thine own breed,
Into the synagogue, and on a day of fasting,
To hear the cry of their agony,
Their weeping everlasting.
Thy skin will grow cold, the hair on thy skin stand up,
And thou wilt be by fear and trembling tossed;
Thus groans a people which is lost.
Look in their hearts, behold a dreary waste,
Where even vengeance can revive no growth,
And yet upon their lips no mighty malediction
Rises, no blasphemous oath. …

Speak to them, bid them rage!
Let them against me raise the outraged hand,
Let them demand!
Demand the retribution for the shamed
Of all the centuries and every age!
Let fists be flung like stone
Against the heavens and the heavenly Throne! …

Take thou thy soul, rend it in many a shred!
With impotent rage, thy heart deform!
Thy tear upon the barren boulders shed
And send thy bitter cry into the storm!
The Hebrew-language poet Hayim Nahman Bialik was the great-great-great-granduncle. of actress Mayim Bialik.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2
~ one more for patty m. ~

slept late after dancing with my devils, from,
from the wee, until a pealing pearl from the Earl of Dawn,
recovering from an intrusion~invasion~brain~regurgitation,
and it’s nearly 9am, sipping my first cuppa Hawaiian,
& woke to a repost of a ten year old wondering plea(1)

makes me think “This old thing,” poem, like a fav
frock/suit that still drapes perfectly, and yet draws the
***** admiration and drippy drawling yummy compliments,
gracefully, gratefully demurred with them three words,
& it’s 8:39am, Bruce pitching in with “Born in the USA”

recipe for a new thank u Gawd poem to make room for
a fast~break diet for an old man with a rebuilt ticker, this
very emission~transmission of a verbal politesse writ going
some where, cooked on a medium slow burner fueling dressed up seeds of heartfelt appreciation made of ancient oat grasses

birthing a poem~child of thanks to the Lawd for one more day,
opportunity, the five sense’s delivery gratitude and gratifications, and the desire to intertwine the sights, music, a crisp blue November Sky, the need to bleed brew these words into a fulfilling,
second moment mug, for the pearls and Earls

of poetic humans

Thu Nov 2 2023
(1) Do You Know Why Men Cry in the Bathroom?
Nat Lipstadt Nov 4
the cardiologist, in passing, remarks, or perhaps,
“re-marks” my ECG test, casually revealing
that every fifteen or twenty or so of my regularly scheduled
hearts beats, an extra one sneaks it, which appears
unlike all the rest of those normative little hillocks
pointing skyward, ^ ^ ^ V ^ ^ ^ ^
yep that one,

sneaky ****** slips in, pointing downwards
like a class clown always disrupting classroom’s good order…

Doc reassures it don’t mean a thing
if you got that extra swing,  
and our friendly informing internet reassures:

“The idea of your heartbeat going rogue may sound alarming.
But in most cases, an ectopic beat is a harmless condition.
It's also a common one”

but yet I am intrinsically intrigued,
oh yeah, that’s an intentional funny double entendre,
but methinks that explains
so much of my irregular, irreverent poetry scribbling,
particularly because this bratty beat be best addressed directly as:

“You Little Rogue!”

a highly scientific term,
taught in medical schools by non-poets,
but needy for definitions that the layman
can love and keep in their
heart shaped hands…
Sat Oct 28 2023
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