She walks out like a women immune to suffering.

Ideal weight

She controls her fate

I will never sleep in your moment.

  Fixed when I was broken

  I can't go on with this holocaust about to happen.  

I want to be there with you laughing.

Her lips are the shade of a deadly night.

I rest in her thoughts like a hammock

She understands that dimensions are like a sandwich.

SUN GODDESS eclipse 

her mannerism.
tragedies Oct 2017
Happy anniversary.

Can you believe
That it’s been a year?
I can still feel the first time,
Your hands danced on mine,
A soft presence, almost shy.
I could barely pay attention
To the film playing on television
Because there, right beside me,
A story was already unfolding,
One that was far more fascinating
Than any other mystery.

And it was.
Here we are, a year later,
The story continues to be
The most gruelling mystery
Of two people ceasing to be,
Of you & I never becoming we,
Instead, a strange, foreign word
To each other’s vocabulary.
I thought we both saw ourselves
In this picture perfect future:
Lying together on crumpled sheets,
Watching Sherlock on repeat,
Reading poetry and drinking coffee,
A state of being indescribably
Happy.

We were never meant to be that.
Only a manuscript tossed in the trash.
We loved too little, and bled too much,
Too proud to break the silence.
Too scared to end the sentence.
So let’s scrap the ending,
And go back to the beginning:

Happy anniversary.
10.14.17
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
city of flips May 27
for the part-time writers, who write in deeds untill indeed

the mundane Mondays till the fully fried Fridays,
the too short beginning weekends when
you celebrate your lottery winnings,
mega millions of

chores

wheeeeeee

these some,
poet poem poetry, latter-day saints
yet to be arrived-arresting,
good lord,
writing time -
a time slot that doesn’t
appear on your unscheduled
cellphone
calendar

so this what needs remembering, us,

these days are the
storage days

the professionals screen stare, self obligatory
demanding the page output,
the disciplined work ethic,
self torture this work,
that they would pay to do

these some
access accessible accessories in actual time
when
a time clock is punching them back,
time immediacy, a mistress,
needing a wife’s daily attention

the rest of us accumulators,
hoarder-recallers; off-site monthly
storage unit renters for old reusable furniture memories

until the dissembling assembly of the pieces,
with the arrival of the year of the hour of the day
is an urgency spilling
and the consumption urge
eats you alive from inside out,
your patience is rewarded

no screen slave you,
just a spigot turned twice
and over flowing winks bring/ring
the-no-longer-stowed stored eye pics,
poems for a someday

and the waiting was worth the waiting price

some people
us, juggle jiggly balls,
tend to drop them all...
till we don’t...
May  ‘18
Since you left
(for the second time)
Every door closing,
Shower running,
Or clank,
Or shuffle,
Or creak,
Brings my heart
To attention
Ready
To welcome you home.
Who knew love came by someone tapping your picture twice,
on a small screen
While scrolling down a wall full of other pictures

Look at all these likes and comments
So many compliments

30 likes makes you mediocre
2,000+ likes makes you a star
Instant gratification
Instant modeling
Instant attention
Instant satisfaction
But you end up with an ego full of empty compliments
python 7d
His best friend was his subconscious
To request an audience with his accomplice
Loneliness he had to accept, alone he was,
I digress. Nevertheless, he kept his pain in silence
Feeling trapped in his own head, like a mental asylum
Instead of unconcealing the sorrow
He kept things unsaid, so his state of mind would remain unread
And would embed the notion that life has stopped dead
And would endlessly pray for a better tomorrow
If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
If not, is a lonesome man who is crying in pain not exist because no one is around?
The thought of waking up to another day of isolation
Drowning in his misery, he needs help to breathe
Rehabilitation would be as simple as love and attention
To help give this man a life where he can believe
Anonymous Jul 9
I don't cut my skin with sharp objects because i find it fun
Or for attention
Nor because i want to die.
In fact I very much want to be alive.
But because there's pain in my veins.
Pain that wants to escape.
And who am I
To not let it?
h.l
Where politeness reins supreme,
honesty becomes a dirty word
It's like your black sheep uncle stumbling through a cocktail party in a stained trench coat.
Nobody wants to see that shit.

Nobody wants to hear your truth.
Nobody wants the burden of carrying your story.
Barely surviving the weight of their own as they are.
We are an overwhelmed society on the brink of collapse.
Don't tip the scales.

Our forefathers may have bled on battle fields to make it home against all odds,
but we seek attention for a splinter;
rushing to the shrink
to shrink the post traumatic stress.

And so I muster phony smiles.
Delight in conversations about the weather.
And never ever tell you that I may not make it through this day.
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