"initializing" poems
<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman
strap on a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released
a one way only sign
time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word leave just this:
where is the in in
intimate?
are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?
you swear never again
until committing once more,
a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,
and the greater toll taken and paid for,
and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity
happily
<•>
9/17/17 10:55pm
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
a plain poem (the first time I came in you)
a plain poem, light and effervescent, a flim-flan tasting,
plein de absurde rimes, full of nonsensical rhymes,
a lattice of criss crossing pastry sugary lines, the ones,
cannot, struggle to deduce, induce, reduce
from my constipated vocabulary
oh well
~
*the first time I came in you,
entered, bidden welcome,
suffused a bridge between
the party of the first part,
the party of the second part,
sugar lightness airy nonsense,
two spirits dancing the singular
pas de deux of their finite lives,
a performance unbeatable,
unrepeatable,
lost to the perfection annals
Shockingly, Surprisingly, Summarily,
did not compose an ode,
don't mine a new vein of ore,
even write a plain poe poem
as best can recall,
at the candle melting of the
sealing wax of the deal,
gave an honest speech,
instantly falling fast asleep
with nary a grunted word
ever since l,
cannot write of plain love plainly,
so she makes me pay with a
new living elegant elegy daily,
a quatrain, what a pain,
this iambic panting meter
love poem writing
jeez louise,
how I wish could write of
roses red and violets blue,
get back to sleep,
oh well then,
back to work
got to make those sad moans,
hers, go away,
so please excuse me
near ten years later,
still paying the dues of the
initializing error of my way
she rumbles-mumbles in her
pre-awakening dream state,
so please excuse, got to go, think up
some implicated complicated
verses to soothe away
her simple poorly hidden anxieties
you see,
I am happy paying
on and on,
writing like the devil furious,
she is stirring, coffee soon,
cafe au lait
if you get my meaning,
but still cannot beat,
repeat, re-alive
that simple plain living poem notated,
when first I came in her*
<•;)
9/24/17 6:49am ~7:17am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC
A Division of Mathematics
Adding great value to it
Multiplying its applications
Reducing laborious means
Going on logical steps
Riding on its riders
Gliding on its theorems
Solving hitches and glitches
Assuming things as “x”
Applying rational methods
Adopting sequential steps
Solving problems complex
Starting with assumption
Running through derivation
Following brilliant notion
Deciphering through perception
Grand in concepts
Grand in derivations
Grand in suppositions
Resolving problems in a grand manner
Mother of mathematics
Mother of logics
Cracking all mysteries
By initializing things as “x”
Assuming God as “x”
Following tenets and commandments
Living life on virtues and truth
Surely shall we know what “x” is
And what “I” am and what “V” (we) are
And surely shall we know that
X=I=V is Life’s Algebra.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
Initializing Project Insomnia...
Gathering subject's data...
Synchronization complete...
Memory gauge ready to deplete....
Tracing last memory relapse...
Engaging before the time elapse...
Extracting remaining portion of the brain activity...
Eliminating for complete inability...
Subject 001 successfully terminated...
Preparing clone... preparation completed...
System malfunction... Rebooting system...
Mainframe breached... Multiple data hacked...
Re-Animating subject 001...
Life support activated...
Re-installing memory...
Reanimation complete...
Subject 001 is back online...
Bio organic weapon functional...
Preparing extermination...
Codename: Alpha initiated...
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
for you
put my poems up on a shelf,
summer fruits transmogrified
into winter jelly and jam preserves,
not for now, not for know,
but to be come-backed to in
our latter days of forgotten maybe sainthood
two years.
two years here.
two years composing, decomposing.
many more, from before, lost in sands.
poems came from my mind's ******
most water birthed right here, in this bed,
many water birthed right next to a sleeping her,
delivered in the middle of the night,
jes like this one,
this anthology of me.
these poems, my resting,
living will,
my only bequeath
of valorem value
to two children
the only global survivors left living
to bear their father's father,
and my father's
name.
barely old enough to read,
they are, will be,
my one true audience.
older aging dismisses and diminishes
the poetic urge, like eyesight, hearing
and ****** appetite, it's work and gone
the days of five poem days of
love making, **** bursting
flicker over, over.
saving my letters and pennies and
poems here, caught for now
by a porous net
that so far,
HP has not let any slip through
hopefully
it redefines the word
perpetual
for here they will lie buried,
my summer preserves,
with no use-by,
no expiration date,
long after the one my physic owns,
long time passed,
long time coming...
perhaps two children
will stumble upon
their bequest
and be pleasured
with their inheritance.
Two years ago I entered with
an ineffable amen,
silently marking the confluence of cries,
Oklahoma tornado taking of children,
Bangladeshi factory ****** collapse,
men killing men in the name of God,
and
***the birth of the younger of
those two grandchildren.***
these poems are
my body
my flesh,
the wine-blood,
the ingredients of
all our prior ancestor's resurrection,
kept in the cloud of human cells
mine only by initializing authorship,
they are no longer mine,
the authorship transferred
free of gift and estate tax takings
to the next of kin and all future generations.
Nat Lipstadt
May 18th, 2015
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC