Lactate motto naku smile.

this poem,
for my friend, who has hit the road,
in ways others only think they have done or know,
miss her firecracking wizardy,
she, the only inky reason
still talk to god,
to cover all the bases,
employ every tool and invention,
to make sure you are a-ok alright,
on the journey to an unknown destination
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Lactate motto naku smile
That is Apple talk.

My Apple language master
señor spell check,
thus advised and improved upon me,
way back on April 3rd of this year.

I wrote:
"last attempt to make you smile."

Apple translated my ginger finger snap taps
into American English as
"Lactate motto naku smile"

Stumbled on this oath, this midnight eve,
this phrase, duly nated and nested,
amidst our very long exchanges,
which someday soon,
am going to edit excerpt
as one most readable single poem,
a tribute to you, not,
that you, my traveling friend,
you already greedy got

no, just a dialogue
just a par example,
of how friendships are born,
how words lactate from each of our *******,
how relationship are birthed and nutured,
in a crazy place, where language lovers
are the nuclei of a dying breed,
once called the human place

***, back in ancient history,
way back on Sept. 29th
our first communication
tween our mutual alien races
tee hee, me wrote first
as follows

Each individual word,
was a separate message,
for such devices deserved of self-respect,
sometimes want their power demonstrated
on a stand alone basis and here that follows was how
Presented and Conceived

Nat Lipstadt  Sep 29, 2013
This

Nat Lipstadt  Sep 29, 2013
Message

Nat Lipstadt  Sep 29, 2013
Is

Nat Lipstadt  Sep 29, 2013
For

Nat Lipstadt  Sep 29, 2013
You

Nat Lipstadt  Sep 29, 2013
Only

Nat Lipstadt  Sep 29, 2013
Can a man fall in love with a name?


you permissioned me a
multiplicity of yeses,
thus began our star trekked voyage
in the stellar spatial space of the
galaxy of humanity

but part of your new trajectory,
a new orbit in a new spaceship
you champagne smashed anointed as
Mirabel

Now I know you hate my habit,
of slipping in a definition,
making the lazy reader
unself-sufficient,
but I grant, nay, take this liberty, I dew,
while in your quiet traveling disappearance time

Mirabel*
is a female name stemming from the Latin word mirabilis, meaning "wondrous" or "of wondrous beauty"

what ya know, ** **,
nothing could be fina,
than to be in your minda,
nothing more apropos,
than calling your ship in Latina,
a wondrous female beast of beauty

ok I know I go on too long
as is my wont, my nature,
but I could not shorten my course,
in any other way,
Ok,
I
Guess
I
Could
Have
Said
I miss ya terribly*

somewhat more succinctly
but what fun would that be?

the world's at home, and it's from taming one star to another till it's light.

once upon your voice I walked on eggshells
wrote on eggshells with infinity and refuge
you’d drink a fifth
of anchor steam, and refuge
we’d talk all the doors closed
refuge.

the fault lines, beautiful in
their unself became the weave of things
your skin radiated a reddish copper glow of
the ones behind
floating like in your stars
red and gold—
he’d change your colors.

I had faults, but we did not
and you did not, but he
talked like next year with you
and this heaven curdled—
I wanted to *like heaven and so I
breathed the doors closed quiet
drank my own refuge in the dark
that you didn’t ever count.

let’s count the darkness now
the sun is what I love and I can see it
hiding in the things you said—
“we were back burner anyway”
—I want to like heaven
and so I dress the shore, waiting
but if it’s coming it’s slow
and I want to like heaven.

so I go
taming one star to another
till it’s light.

Let me go first in the cave
to see the hollow-eyed, bird-face,
my ancestor, relic of reclusive
committment, eaten by hierarchical
grass, inch by inch.

Calories burn to free the bones
from the green pond, beached, skinned
and fished alive for a weird ritual
offering rice, flowers, tamarind and wheat.
Bald, hungry eyes were looking at approvingly.

I was searching unself papyrus,
to print the tale of agonising
travel of a small colossus, from
night to night to track a dragging sun
in mud and water.

O, groaning seed, you are the paradox.
Neither tree, nor root, only a promise
to destroy the fear. I will wait till the next
sun-eclipse, when you turn
outside into inside!

He Said His Words Again
Take No Thought...

When She Looked Around
It Was At the World
Not 12, Not 100...
The World

By His Simple Coming
He Had Released  Grace
No Longer on the Cross
Or Barred By Gifts

She Held Out Her Hand
And the World Was Fed
Each Child, Her Child
Bending Down Before Them
She Was Raised

Stahl's Vision
Halo Upon the Earth
By Your Faith
They Did Know Her
By Her Presence
She Did Know UnSelf

Poverty
Bigotry
Death
Her Hand In Theirs
Hope Within Hope

Fallen, Pain, Accusation, Sorrow
She Raised Up
And The World Did Kneel

Death Gave Everything
And With It
She Anointed the World
Tempt Me, Test Me, Diminish Me
Thou Art Me
3 Times The **** Did Crow
3 Times The World Did Fall
# Times The Stones Were Set

And Yet
The Waters Leaped Freely
WaterFall of Eternal Beginnings
Life's Livingness      
Love Without Condition
Given
For All To See

“….I couldn’t find a food that tasted good to me.”

She found her calling early in life. About 11. Maybe 12.
She’d been a performer all her life, in plays. But never enough.

I don’t know how or where the idea slipped into her.
The Buddha. Jesus. Yom Kippur. The Media. Her friends.

I doubt it was Kafka but all possibilities.  
Hunger art is the purest form she said.  And she was good at it.

At first we would watch her with our mouths agape.
Sometimes we’d even sit for a meal. Right in front of her.
Pass the salad I’d say.  Dad would reach for the salt.
Her eyes ablaze like an ascetic’s. But not paying us much attention.

Only when we turned away would she turn her gaze on us.
In her prime she could go for days. Weeks even.  
And make it seem like nothing more than the gap between lunch and dinner.

It was transformation that she hungered for. A lessening.  A denial of self.
A thinning. Because the cleanest lines are none at all.

But we didn’t know that.  We thought it was just a phase.
And kept telling ourselves that even as she sank deeper.
Into her art.  Her unself.  Into ether.

There was a reckoning at some point, an event horizon of sorts.
In which the harder she pushed the less was achieved.

And so she died unsatisfied.