He is here.
He is near,
A free floating electron,
Available for children's parties,
When the balloon maker bores.

Cut and paste me,
Drag me to a browser,
For my annual physical check-me-out.

For a silver dime,
He'll make up ten rhymes,
Money back guaranteed.

Not amusing sufficient?
What did you expect?
At three thirty three am
A perfect poem,
A perfect life?

I know not of gossamer,
Of sprites, muse's delights,
I know what I got,
I also know where in the world
NML, a/k/a Nat, be at.

Here be here, up all night,
Reading your poems,
Saying his prayers.
For god only knows,
There are a hell of a lot prayers need saying,
There are a hell of a lot prayers need answering,
Poems that need writing,
And poems of yours that need
Loving....




http://maps.apple.com/?ll=40.766837,-73.952954

Some poems never end,
Nor were meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on,
Free to steal it,
For ownership passes to you,
with your first reading,
And lost when you close it,
Stamp it and release it into the atmosphere.

But some poems do. End.
Unique and distinct,
Pockmarked-faced at birth.
Owned by my initials,
Never to see the shelves of a
Lending Library.

Like this one:

Cannot remember a single day
When suicidal thoughts
Were not heard clearly above the fray
Of jingle-jangled, responsibilities
Demanding my immediate attention.

The end.


NML

the propulsion of compulsion is indefatigable,
it cannot no more, be ignored, as if it is forming
a holy commandment, number 11, you must
write when so ordered, denial is temporary
i n s a n i t y, and the backlog of nuances be
comes longer and longer by the instant

the provocateurs, them eyes, those eyes,
even the ears and tongue join in to instigate,
the cabal of influencers who peddle no product,
demand no payment but total obeisance and
sometimes low-class instant fufillment, for here
I am in servitude,@ 4:33am, by dawn’s early light
(no **** for real), propelled and compelled by
the creative, the spilling urgency of the need
to expel notions of potions that flit between the

frontal lobe, parietal lobe, cingulate gyrus,
and prefrontal cortex: (I told  you, it’s a cabal!)
all  firing
up neurons like electron spark plugs, and only
I can see the sparks colliding inside as letters,
words, phrases, none lazy, all demand long life,

or the Perpetuity of the Momentary”

it grows lighter by the minute and the sporadic
lights across the bay wink morse code secrets
to the observant, and Noyac’s  tree line has
become a distinguishable and distinctive
land mass to which I crossed last nite via &
upon the South Ferry, when all these conflicting
concepts began a painful birthing delivery,
the coagulation of the flighty, merging and
transforming into my child, in my bed, through
the picture window that has so oft been complicit
in the ganging up on my very, very old and restless
brain

but, uh, this ecrivez, this motion that the momentum
of the momentary desiring & deserving of monuments
to the perpetual
won’t be stilled and hours later, with it’s invisible hands
around my throat, it yanks from within what did not
exist ten minutes prior, but always existed inside me
as a jumbled puzzle, gestating quietly till a swift kick
of birthing pains insufferable accompanied by her
raucous dreams, awoke me from ******* and rhyming
Rem Sleep, to now, this moment, named forever as
4:57am and this noisy newborn, covered in embryonic
fluid (wonderful but disgusting really) is all ready pealing and peeling
off suggestions for brothers and sisters, this arrogance
is untenable, but the babe laughs at me, for it knows that
there are hidden, voluminous files of titles awaiting their
turning time of final conception

no longer nighttime, an early forming day, it too,
covered in its own fluidity, awaits discovery, for
the lights from across the bay have gone to bed,
turned off but the greatest, more powerful
brighter discharges
of the Sun Gods

The Bay’s waters are still, though my woman is not,
muttering, still dreaming out loud, as if she wishes
to foment
turbulence, and desires a boat for safe conveyance
across the dark seas of the night to the searing bright
June summer day that the Greek seers have forecast,
and then that moment, like it’s older sibling, will demand,
it’s very moment of personalized perpetuity, its own
unique naming,
a full recording, a welcoming by the Preservation Band,
amidst the glory of its mother mornings colorings of
palest blues, puffery of cumulus whitiwhispers all tinged
in my favorite, flavored color, creamsicle orange,
and the calming power is self evident for the rustling
back and forth of raucous dreams have ceased, and I too
am no longer possessed by the moment, until soon
when the hands creep slow round my throat by a new
moment, and all is lost, all is gained and a newest poem
is brought from the womb of my ancient past, my currency
of the next minutes and the wealth of words that are
available to us all! demands one of us, perhaps you?
to commit its actualized existence into reality

I bid you a soft adieu, for the chores of existence
those demanding pests of drudged biblical
pestilence
can no longer be kept
waiting

nml
5:21am
Sun Jul 16
2024

writ at you know where…

Nat Lipstadt     3 hours ago

your answer to my caring but simple "checking in with you" inquiry, overwhelmed me and I have required days to fully comprehend the textured life of a man who see everything in color combinations that deserve recording in whatever medium his heart chooses. Time was needed, time to summon up the courage to reply with smithy-crafted, wright-shaped words that honor your honed skill.

my heart is gladdened by your inescapable ability (no, you cannot escape it) to perceive the values of life external and internal, that make your poetry a symbolic representation of all that is fine in the most aweome title that one can award ones self, human.

I am well aware that life has never given you a flush in the cards you were dealt. Nonetheless in e v e r y word you have written you have betrayed yourself as a loving man, appreciative of nature's gifts, and reenforcing them with fresh perspectives.

i make no pretense anymore; all poetry writing is a personal ledger kept, by which we daily, almost constantly, measure ourselves and record the small moments that sum up who we were, are and who we desire yet to be. Thus, indifference by others, no matter why, oft leads to a misleading sense of lesser self worth.

I well recall years ago reading your poetry here and ******* air in gulps as I basked in your lush attentiveness to the world in which we co-exist.
I even praised myself, by keeping your company.

You do not seek praise for self, but our shared gods have made our paths cross, so that like Abraham arguing with God not to destroy the evil cities of ***** and Gemorrah, if he can but find even just ten worthy men, so do I pray to anything, anyone, anywhere, I pray, if almost for selfish reasons, that your urge to write, to share, to see beyond the loveliest surfaces of our world and let others rest upon them, and to gift them to an almost,  undeserving  but needy world, never finds the Isle of Surcease.

If one man presses his claims upon the scales that judge your life, then all the weight of worth I load upon one side, in your favor, to beg you, let this single man's devotion to your cause, living with all the good and the sad that is therein contained, be sufficient to persuade that you must never suffer easily the delusion that your poetry is lacking  in any manner to prevent your sharing.

If not here,
then tell me where we can find each other's "instant messages" of recorded moments, that you uniquely supply.

I cannot ever obtain a good understanding of your perfect storm of the last seven years, but what you shared here and in every word you have ever writ, like my prayer here and the ones I have yet to utter, let them all, letter by letter, rise thru and up like the mists of dawn, travel gently upon the slow currents of our rivers, to reach you well received and by any deity,  willing to let us lend a hand.

Re demons, we defeat them or at least negate them, even temporarily through writing. Another reason to share your work, if even one sole solitary reader, gasps for air when reading you, if but one sheds tears at the human kindness you to continue to disclose in the quilt of quality of your works, to lift one soul's weighted-down heart, you have to, must,
feel obligated to share.

I have no more words to plead, so I will arrogant demand of you to accept this one fan, one devotee, one lover of your skill at capturing and then releasing, your words ever glow in this man's essence, as both necessary and sufficient.

forever yours,

nml

the woven intercept

the crescendo soft ascending,
commandeers our riveting,
we do not surrender, taken, nonetheless,
our deference to an elegant wand wave,
combo hopeful and all encompassing, the helplessness

both well understood

the progression higher, steady on,
a rapture going to a defined ending,
concluding voyage occluded, for now,
but the setting sun rays us a plan, a path,
teasingly, soto voce lips moving, “this way”

follow on the unsteady water

restraining resistance failing, flailing weakly,
it is both early morning and late afternoon,
the light warms, but each, a timbre different,
the pitch and intensity tho one and the same,
yet, order confused, still, we are given-in

giving in unwillingly

absolution unrequested, but awarded anyway,
shelter from the storm of safe and warm,
children begin first school day, but adults
know better, beginnings full of risks unforeseen,
the season changes, normalized, but would be refused

if we could

the waiver offered, the woven intercept read,
emotional intelligence so fragile, on and on,
sidekicks, lovers, connected by a dotted line highway,
the space between permitting anything we want,
but contradictories say, wanting everything, impossible

but the viable solution singular

how do we leave it then? we leave it thus, clarified,
separation is a kind of attachment, voidable, when,
kissing comes calling, from all around the world,
the crescendo ends, we each have read the intercept,
it concusses, interpretations differing, yet we don’t care

lying through embracing lips

our tune is a mismatched matching,
a vision ending and yet anew hatching,
this is love, understanding, undefinable, undefeated,
a changeling definition, paths possessing multi-endings,
loving is the unceasingly, desirable imperfect struggling

unique, singular just like everyone else’s

9/4/19 9:07am

nml
(she'll know)

mine own psalm musings

living between two broad, sea-emptying rivers,
a Majesty’s sentries to mark the differentiation~
division tween divine and a moderate human’s
moderating steps, as his stride shortens as the y/tears
lengthen, and it is accepted as an inevitable musky must,
no matter how the sweet spring day refreshes, the newly
planted trumpeting shards of bright yellows daffodils
pinch his yellowing eyes, few notice the tiny tears of
discrepancies of an annualized emboldening, a grand
heavenly rebirth and a slow man’s body self~editing,
shedding of a life’s~ending~of~story psalm musings

the man looks for the terrible swift sword, but its
failure to grace us with an appearance, is but a
modest disappointment, for a deferred delay is but
a causation to eke out a few mordant, pungent, caustic
reminders of all that is yet to be, to be accomplished,
though the smirking lips of the necessity of yet, one
more unloved poem extant, tilting the Earth’s axis
benevolently toward the open palms of his beneficiaries who,

you,

are among them numbered, is but, a green shoot in a city’s
hopeful earth planted, by summer, will shed seeds to come
thy way, as an evocation, a good consternation, a joyous
provocation, an asking kingly~gentle, a royal polite inquiry,
would you care to add a a verse to this eternal verse?
before time shreds it too into a yellowed crumpling,
and to the earth it is returned, for the mine of this
psalms is only generic, genetic,  and what is mine is well,

and truly yours too.


nml
<>
March 31, 2024
NYC
9:16am
Sunday Mourning Service

an aisle seat,
my choice,
I get to watch
Noah's children
board one by one

it is a miracle!

I swear the plane
expands
cause no way
we young fools all
fit
in this
silver cylindrical sliver
chamber of
aliens, skinny jeans, needy for haircuts,
wailing babies and kids

the captain says its time
to pull away from the gate,
pull together, hold hands,
pray for our deliverance
from turbulent winds and
mechanical malfunction
and the sundry ways fates
render us asunder

when next we see safe port,
dry land, nobody knows,

but this ship, a prayer,
built of titanium prayers,
this ship is earth bound
bringing home the lost children,
our return flight,
pinging bright
the signal of our existence,
to ease the brow of those
who mourn our premature departures

the stewardesses lead us in prayer:

"Georgia, Georgia,
No peace I find,
Just an old sweet song
Keeps Georgia on my mind"

this is my happy ending,
this, my happy days,
I believe with perfect faith,
you and I will be reunited
on a dock by the bay,
perhaps even the one
beside my real name,
the hour when the ship comes in

June 6th, 2014

NML

a quote of Al Pacino

<>
it took/takes
a lifetime to get close
to where the answer
possibilities  don’t river
rush past, and each eddy
seems like that’s the one,
the definitive affirmative, 
 jump in and all you get
for misjudgment, is a
sopping wet
for your troubles

but you keep on jumping
from job to job, roll from
role to role, cause
even if the
last one is not
a fulsome answer, it
is in possess of the
creative release,
the high that satisfies
till you need a
new hit, another hint,
of tapping into
the vein of creation
that enlivens and
declares, I am purposed
for this,
no matter
how long it takes,
and or the
errors of mistooks,

me I’ll keep jotting down
jumbled jimmied words
in new combine
until such time -and rap,
I can say well shoot
that’s a wrap,

eyelid hints at
a rest but at
the same time
it gives forth
a sloooow wink,
that best poem
yet to come
won’t likely arrive
until it
comes forth
in a last gasp,

a final exhaustion,
exhaustive expelling
and even might be
highly satisfactory
breadth of a last and
everlasting breath~taking
****! just got
t a k e n



nml

in my private conversations, so many
emiploy this phrase, arms on chest folded,
a whispery plaint, and I too am folded into
too pieces, as well, my understanding fulsome,
for the struggling is well familiar, I under stand
beneath you, arms upraised, holding your shaking,
throbbing, wistful hearty sighs, constant tumbling,
floor~falling, see rose petals of sighs, all quiet screams,
and
my weak remedy is urging you to express
with the skill, known in you possess, to give
it forth, give it out and let us love your burdens
shared, and thus the be the firmament of our ties…

selfishly, I plead that you stun us with the
insight inside, hopeless hoping you surrender
and share in the only way I know that expiates some,
the grief, some of pained shame, and for a momentary
gasping, allows us grasping you, through you poetry,
the value you can bring forth to others humanity,
helping us to make us a better~both, with written creating
sums far, far greater than the to~us whole…
nml

7:45AM
Sabbath
May 25
2024

Silver Beach, Shelter Island

Anxiety..
Sometimes it ***** to be you,
Losing everything you knew,
Earning nothing,
Feeling useless, becomes the daily dose,
Fake life, fake living,
It's all we are left with.
Nothing feels right,
Everyone becomes boring,
You can't do anything right,
Perfection becomes a fantasy, a dream,

Thinking we moving forward,
But in reality taking a step backwards every time,
No one seem to notice your efforts,
Not even a single achievement,
Because we are ****** up,
Living a life that's far from normal.
A loner,
Soon, a goner.

Over thinking turns to anxiety,
Anxiety to stress,
Stress to depression,
Depression to Self-harm,
Suicidal thoughts creeping in.
Life's worth, doesn't make sense anymore,
Nothing is working out,
Just fake smiles and bleeding hearts.

The blade becomes your friend,
Because all you want to feel is pain.
When you look at yourself in the mirror,
You just wanna convince yourself you not pretty enough, you wanna see all the scars,
You wanna look at all your imperfections from a complete, different, cold level,
Just to get those tears,
Getting into a fight with your friends,
Just to convince yourself you are alone.
Looking for trouble everywhere, because you wanna feel the mess,
More reasons to hate life,
To hate you.

Victim of Insomnia,
Late nights, your daily routine,
'Cause you wanna feel the silence,
You wanna get your demons to speak out,
You wanna drown into your ocean of thoughts,
Swimming in the waves of negativity,
Sad songs spicing it up,
Just digging deep and rethinking,
Meditating on whatever you wished would happen to you.
Because all you see is death in every corner,
A car running you over when on the road,
A fire outbreak when sleeping,
All you see in your problems is making use of that blade under your pillow.

It's already 3am,
Your monsters calling out on you again,
Like a bittersweet rhythm,
The voices getting louder,
The bed becoming colder,
Holding on to your pillows for dear life,
Screaming in silence,
Wishing for someone's presence,
Someone who could just understand how you feel,
And not tell you to be okay,
Or do this or that, cause you've heard all that **** before,
Someone to hold you, and not try to make you feel you can do it, because you can't.
You just want support, not assurance, not hope, not encouragement, no nothing.

Anxiety, like a wrecking ball
Crushing down my efforts,
Losing more than am winning.
Low self-esteem knocking,
Failing in every success,
It's too much to bear,
It's okay that you care,
But i can't have it fair.

Tired of hoping and waiting,
Efforts are fading,
Yet the forces am facing,
Are doubtfully strengthening,
My demons awakening,
Can't bear the noise,
Most in a high voice,
Freezing me like ice.

Tryna be alone,
Only to be lonely,
Tried congregations,
Only found them boring,
In love with constellations,
Counting a million stars,
Just for the night to pass,
Castles in my mind,
With angels singing hymns
Finally peace in the cold nights.
Anxiety at its Peak.

©tiana💞  ©Nml💎

a quote of Al Pacino

<>
it took/takes a lifetime to get close
to where the answer possibilities
don’t river rush past, and each eddy
seems like that’s the one, the definitive
affirmative,  jump in and all you get
for misjudgment, is a sopping wet
for your troubles

but you keep on jumping from job
to job, roll from role to role, cause
even if the
last one is not a fulsome answer, it
is in possess of the creative release,
the high that satisfies till you need a
new hit, another hint, of tapping into
the vein of creation that enlivens and
declares, I am purposed
for this,
no matter how long it takes,
and the errors of mistooks,
me I’ll keep jotting down
jumbled jimmied words
in new combinations until
I can say well that’s a wrap,

eyelid hints ai a rest but at
the same time
it gives forth a slow wink,
that best poem yet to come
won’t likely arrive until it
comes forth in a last gasp,

a final exhaustion, exhaustive,
and even highly satisfactor
breadth of a last and
everlasting
breath~taking
t a k e n



nml

perhaps it is less than great,
maybe a poor mediocre,
but such as it is, is mine,
unique, and it gifts me
easy expression of my
experience, conveying
my excitations, aliving,
freely divining what’s
within and without,
and to exhale said
thoughts and
observations

si so

we can be apart and together,
touch without touching, e v e n
love each other with our e v e r
meeting and that miracle presents
and is a present, this presentation
of my cells impressed upon yours,
thus fashioning newly creative
combinations…

this is what I am thinking,
this is what I am divining,
this is what my reasoning,
permits, encourages, creates
and with your reading this,
cements us in ways unseen
all the b u t s…and hesitation
marks that disconnect us,
are sundered and we are
a forever till reason no longer
matters, or our cells can no
longer divide and recombine
and reproduce our memories,
which are our connective tissues…

nml
3:39am
10-20-24

Some poems never end,
Nor were they meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on,
Free to steal it,
For ownership passes to you,
with your first reading,
And lost when you close it,
Stamp and release it into the atmosphere.

But some poems do. End.
Unique and distinct,
Pockmarked-faced at birth.
Owned by my initials,
Never to see the shelves of a
Lending Library.

Like this one:

Cannot remember a single day
When suicidal thoughts
Were not heard clearly above the fray
Of jingle-jangled, responsibilities
Demanding my immediate attention.

The end.


NML

~for Steve and Marshal~

they crouch round,
white wide eyes,
their skin, *****, like
the darkness that
completes their near
invisibility.

new child arrives when
it declares I’m here, not
seeking acclaim, just a
witnessing to its slimy
amniotic messy, amnesiac
birth.

what does it say, what,
does it know? the stilled birth
of permanent incompleteness.
though hardly alone, it has no
siblings, though, it has much,
much company.

these half-writ poems predestined
to never see light of any kind, neither,
sun or moon or bare bulb glare, bred
to never age, never die, their ultimatum,
to be discarded when the bytes, their
geophysical representation is tossed
into the crusher bin, recycled, reformed,
but still always half-breed, half-writs.

nml
Apr 2, 2022
nyc