The root cause
What makes so many
Weep and write,
What is the root cause?
Natty boy, c'mon,
This question, repeatedly,
asked and answered!
Turn the radio on!
No, scorn me not,
My answer sino-complex,
mine too.
Many of our devices
Record waves, cycles,
Of which the length, shape,
Endless are the variation.
Your expertise? Your cycles?
Read my **** poems,
A to V.
Even the equations.
I have known heart ache so real
My chest hurt for months.
The doctor had no pills for that.
Risked everything. Lost.
My own weakness seek and sought,
Self-destructing me.
I have known the soul ache that makes
Rising From The Bed,
The most agonizing decision.
A life and death incision/rescission.
A go/no go apparition questioning.
All this long after I was a man.
Two children, reso-possible?
Nope. Choices limited,
Sat in the sunroom,
Contemplating all this.
Say what you need to say.
I try every day to just grab,
Hold, get fastened to me,
The tiniest scrap.
So when I walk by the river,
One atomic iota of sun, a single rain drop,
Gives me cause to pause.
The cycle begins again.
Still unclear? Get graph paper.
Copy this overlay down.
My manic-depressive cycles lookalike,
But the amplitude variegated.
In 59 seconds, Live and Die,
A calculus point on a monthly cycle,
Which in turn, but a point,
A microscopic dot,
In a cycle longer,
A Hundred Years War.
You ok dude?
.
Where is this coming from
On the commencement of a
Three day weekend?
Fair question.
There is a button here,
Randomness incorporated,
Into some poetry sight.
Led me to a eleven year old, poet.
Now,
Know, you understand...the question, posed.
The tiniest scrap of hopeful buried here
In plain site.
These colorful, wordy points,
Scattered, on the cycles,
Usually at the highs and lows.
Maybe I did not answer it well enough.
Maybe nobody can.
Yo, need a job.
Yo, need money.
No cycle in my savings account,
Only a straight line downward sloping.
so I grab an iota of sun,
a solitary raindrop,
make a plan,
write this poem,
a cycle
inflection point.
I ask this question
Every ten seconds stil,
If you must know my truth.
Dueling banjos in my head,
never ever
have stopped playing.
This poem-answer,
Not my best.
But a cycle turning point.
Again.
Having fed the beast,
Maybe I'll get five minutes till
I write it again
In a different shape,
En pointe,
Standing up and beautiful,
I am a twirling ballerina,
who can twirl with out ceasing,
knowing the perpetual motion secret.
For but another mini-cycle
I am endless.
It is endless.
But dear god,
why must you commence with the young ones,
aged eleven?
6:40am Saturday.
I see you read this, but you don't like it.
Shocking....
See Nat Lipstadt · May 24
In The Sun Room (Suicide: Here are my truths, here are my sums)
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Nat Lipstadt · Jun 25
Evening-tide: Dementia, King Lear, Humpty Dumpty and Me
