Wednesday, November 11, 2009

I Love my Country, but Not so Much my Government

My Country is a Beautiful Idea
an Image from Long Past in my Forgotten Childhood Memories
a Love I Long to Seduce
a Hope for a Better Life
a Promise of a Better World
a Dream that I Reach Out to Caress
to Breath in and Hold
with a Gentle Sigh.

My Government is Shit.

My Country is a Flower in Bloom
like a Woman in June
her Petals Open Slowly
exposing a Soft Shoulder
or a Line of Delicate Flesh
that Makes my Heart Beat Hard in my Chest
a Passionate Schoolboy
ready to Come in his Pants.

I Love my Country

My Government is Shit.

My Country is a Brother
to the End
that Stands By me
when I Need a Friend.
My Country is the Better Life
the Open Prairie
the Bird in Flight
the Outstretched Hand
the Crash of the Tide
the Wind in my Hair
the Sweat on my Brow
and the Taste of her Lips.

My Government is Shit.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Hi all,

Please turn out for this great event celebrating the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. Here you can also see the first public exhibt of my recently completed painting, Because They Were Happy and Free, along with my new poetry book, of the same name, which includes full color details from the painting.

Look forward to seeing you all there,


Tuesday, November 3, 2009

What Would Martin Luther King Do?

Coming from the left,
I get a lot of grief these days
for not giving the guy
a chance.
One, two years they say,
they always say,
but not today,
no change
When I see that the policies
have not changed,
that the police
are using
experimental weapons
right here at home …

Do not forget:
St. Paul,
or Denver,
or Pittsburgh,

or New Orleans.

Do not forget:
That what is happening
right here at home,
are the same extended
of the
Bush Doctrine
under this administration.

These are policies
that the executive branch
has control over;
that the President
can change
without having to go through Congress.
Yet today,
this day,
November 2nd, 2009
21,000 more troops,
American soldiers,
left their homes,
to kill or be killed,

And I still hear the President
say, that protestors
are just a distraction.

And I just ask myself,
“What would
Martin Luther

He’d hold the President

Friday, October 30, 2009

Constipation on Route #2

Sitting in the driver's seat,
with one thing on my mind,
to get to my destination
before the end of time.
Suddenly I'm sitting there
and spot trouble up ahead.
The road is blocked, nothing's moving,
I should have stayed in bed.
Try to turn off, but it's too late,
my wheels are caught in glue.
Traffic's dead, my car is stuck.
There's constipation on route #2.
Flipping on the radio
to find out what's the matter.
I turn the dial, hoping to smile,
instead it gets me madder.
I hear a story on the news
that takes me by surprize.
Even though he's done nothing to earn it,
Obama's won the Noble Peace Prize.
Oh fuck! I say.
How can someone be rewarded
when all he does is sit on his ass
and go back on his word?
I sniff the air, it smells like gas,
it just might be a turd.
Quick I change the station,
I need to turn the page,
thunder clouds are up ahead
and my bowels are in a rage.
Inching forward, here we go
trudging through the mud.
There's a movement in my gut,
I just hope it's not a dud.
Suddenly, I hear the news
a cow has stumbled onto the road.
Cars are backed up for miles,
with no where left to go.
I push ahead, there is no choice,
I'm already where I'm at.
Stuck in traffic
down on the road,
all backed up,
ready to explode,
trouble up ahead,
with no where to go,
just sitting and waiting,
to dump this heavy load.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Eat Your Fill of Gold

Rolling through the past,
into the future.
Those who do not read history,
are bound to repeat it.
Those who do not learn from their mistakes,
are bound to suffer,
rolling into the future.

A locomotive out of control.
Armageddon comes not too soon
for the computer age.



The end is closer than you think.
Civilizations lost, in the eye of a blink.
Dinosaur men standing on the brink,
stampeding towards extinction.

Never once did Midas
consider the consequences.

Eat your fill of gold.

Your greedy lies.

Blind your eyes.

The womb is dead.

What good is a fortune
to the stillborn,
to a lifeless head,
to America,
owned by foreign investors.
Sold to the highest bidder.
Your dreams are now
made in China.

Junk bonds.
Junk food.
Junk life.

L a n d f i l l.

That is what you are,
what you have become.

Fear has consumed you
and left you with nothing.
Fear has killed you.
Fear has.

Afraid to live.
Afraid to die.

Eat your paper gold.


your worthless fill.





Is that all?
Is that the best you've got?

A pile of shit
in your greedy hand.







Sunday, September 6, 2009


The Last Thing I Remember

By: Mark Lipman 


The last thing I remember

Before the world fell apart

Tumbling like the shrieking

Cries of falling flesh

From 110 stories up

Exploding into rubble

Splattered upon my windshield

On the last day

Of my peaceful memories

When the alarm bells rang

Waking me from my naive childhood

At the very instant that

Life as we knew it

Would change forever

When nothing would ever

Be the same again

With the fate of everything

Hanging in the balance

Like an unexploded cluster bomb

In a child's hands

Just waiting to be turned

The wrong way

As our dreams and nightmares

Collide, fusing into one

Like two souls

On some unsuspecting crossroad

Catching that hint of recognition

Waiting in the other's eye

Knowing that this singular moment

Would change the course of history

I opened up the letter that you sent

To read the words:

                             I love you


I will never be the same again

Monday, August 24, 2009


Official Reports

By: Mark Lipman


Contrary to the police report

You can eat love

It is a reciprocal dish

Best served for two

Full of nutrients that help keep

You going throughout the day.

One alone however

Could never get their fill

It's funny that way

This feast or famine world


But government documents have proven

To be wrong in the past

According to the official reports

The CIA and Dick Cheney

       never lied


So why should I not believe

That if you loved me

I would be full

Gorged out on happiness


Government employees

Seldom know anything

Let alone everything

With all their inaccuracies

And false statements

No one can know for sure

Or be held accountable

For misleading my heart

To the American people


Where is the independent commission

To study the facts

And determine conclusively

Just how closely related

The events of our separation

And this empty feeling in my gut

Really are


Who is to say that

If you offered me your lips

All these statistical falsities

Would not be blown out of the water

That every restaurant

Across the nation

Would be shut down

From a single kiss


When the whole truth be known

In open court

That yes,

You do look good enough to eat.         

Sunday, August 23, 2009

The Shooting Star by Mark Lipman

Once upon a time there was a shooting star.  And this shooting star was very happy, because when it passed the sky at night it could see all the lovers gazing up at it in wonder.  But then one night, when he was shining in all his glory, he heard a whisper from way, way far below on earth and what he heard terrified him, because someone had pointed up at him in the sky and said that he wasn’t a star at all, but a meteorite. 

“A meteorite!” he shrieked within himself.  “How horrible!”  How could it be that he was merely a meteorite?  And as he listened to the voices below he began to discover.

“You see,” continued the whisper, “when a meteorite passes close to the earth some particles break off and burn up in the atmosphere and that is what we see.”

“What a tragic ending!” thought the meteorite in shame.  A star, is the greatest creature in the universe – it gives warmth and light.  Without the stars nothing could live.  To be degraded to just a meteorite in a second’s time – and not even that, but just a piece – just a fragment – dust – that’s what he was – just the dust off a meteorite – it was more than he could bare ... but then, just as he reached his deepest despair, another, much softer, much sweeter voice rose up into the air, “Oh look, a shooting star,” said the voice.  “How beautiful it is.”

Heraing that his heart beat just a bit faster as he chanced a glance downward to see where those words had come from and at that very moment he spied the lovers’ kiss.  With that he raced across the sky in a fiery red.

Just dust he may be – but that, that is what dreams are made of.