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Sam Lipfield Poem
There are times when I walk down the block
I ask myself: why don’t I just walk into the woods
To live a little bit more
When I am looking for jobs on the open market
I mine for a nugget of pains in my ass
That’s just me
After getting discriminated against again and again
I want an open world, open heart, mind
In the desert, it’s cold, it’s hot, but that doesn’t hurt
What does is the empty corridors claiming life
Built by us, the word ‘life’, and word ‘nature’
Differentiate a seat of my nervousness
A pill of my reason
Distill the fill of knowledge grown within
To embroider my eyes
I act but really all I want is an open door
In that room there is something or nothing
It doesn’t matter
What means anything is what is not there
Like when I scroll maybe but never like work
When I open a book not like packaging hundreds
Someone needs to do it I guess
I’m sick of counting
I’m healthy for non-wisdom
Strong from lifting papers
Burned from being frozen in fear
Killed for not killing the world
An ass for not go-ness
Autistic for being myself
Not seeming so by masking myself
Torn muscles with ligamental bones
Tell me?
Is there rain on the end of the song
Does the orchestration continue til death
Do the cameras seem to follow you everywhere
As if the wrath to cover yourself skimmers
Is your credit score more important than freedom
Hands tied behind your back out of love
What would happen if retirement was here
Could you sit alone in silence
Or would your eyes float from your sockets
Life was a joke in serious costumes
They say it’s a dance to forget
An arch in the wind screaming for collapse
It doesn’t sing but we don’t either
Maybe you do, I do
But do you need to believe nature dances
Five-elements, that monkeys are us
To live?
Eh, maybe tomorrow
Copyright © Sam Lipfield | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Sam Lipfield Poem
A woman sitting in an old house herself,
counting paper clips.
Every day, was a creaking workday
that reminded her addiction was in freedom—
meanings of being young, being old,
being in love with the back then.
She’s not a fan of
not being a fan of new movies.
But who can blame her
for blaming herself?
A helicopter that flies
over the barren desert land to the hospital,
where young boys crash motorcycles
and old men remember their dead.
A wall of silence no longer there
signifies hatred
now bungled within today.
Then you see the age
when television is history—
not a history channel
beyond Hegelians trying to memorize
systems to perfection.
Inside lost dreams of charities
that lost funding—unserviceable minds
that lurk in moons
trying to be seen without desperation.
Desperate to no longer be desperate
with sly strokes of sublimation meeting
meaning that doesn’t understand
yet works very hard to know better—
knows nothing more
than culminated condensation
dripping toward a small valley to move down.
Or an activity to sign up for
on a schedule at your community center.
Bingo! said the American,
afraid of being themselves
and longs for Paris—
mugged on a street
with their granddaughter watching,
when cops sprang from the doors—
nobody was left to watch.
—An emotional angst to pull back,
a wish for love in pure space-time.
An evangelist to tell you what to do,
one that is just spiritual
with the same frame.
I don’t wish for you to drag your breakfast into dinner,
or scream water in a lonely sea,
where all that is left to do
is doing nothing, nothing—
Being distant from trees,
closer to the bunker.
It’s hard to go easy
and easier to run,
sweeter to give it all away
and uglier to be unforgiven by givers.
These spirits are also amusement parks
who don’t care for safety.
If you expect them to wonder,
they force you to stare at our sun.
If you try to stop,
they slowly guide you back without knowledge.
Then one day
you’re sitting in a basement
wondering where all time went,
How your body turned—
and now all you see
is your dead uncle in the mirror.
Copyright © Sam Lipfield | Year Posted 2025
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