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by Paulie Lipman

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This is an EP of audio poems. Most of these were written and conceived after my recent re-location to New England.


released December 26, 2011

Words and Music by Paulie Lipman



all rights reserved


Paulie Lipman Denver, Colorado

Paulie Lipman has been a part of 8 Denver National Slam Teams(including '04's second place and '06's national champions). His work has appeared in The Legendary, Borderline, and the Write Bloody anthology: The Good Things About America.

In addition to Spoken Word, Pauile is also a musician/composer and is available for hire for commercial/video game/soundtrack work.
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Track Name: Blessed Neurosis
is not a bad thing
to share
Neither is neurosis
make for great icebreakers

met in a crowd
smirking twitched miliseconds
crack crack knuckles, thoughts
and heads suddenly found the floor
when we faced, a
fallen power line found
the ocean and smoked the ozone
between us:

"You don't want inside these eyes"

The only story I truly know
is my own
That is to say
I know nothing, but
I speculated that your's
might feature similar content
or keystrokes
At very least, the margins
bowed and swelling against
the rough, curved letters of
our mutual un-knowing, hack scratch
scrawled past page's end and
the story for future anniversaries
bleeding into the tabletop

Which is as far as we got
A brief, brilliant flash
made impossible by
too many things we refuse
to be medicated for

is not a bad thing
to share
Neither is neurosis
Without both, we
would never have
Track Name: Its A Shame, My Sister
Hip Hop didn't save my life
Its just one of the things
that helps me live it

were born the same year
While I took 9 months and 36 hours
to emerge screaming into the American night
your conception had been
hundreds of years in the making
The child of two proud, round black mothers
a Jamaican father , acting as mid-wife
synchronized their heart beats, and gave you form
in 5 elements
Your screaming mouth
One hand spinning, the other spraying fingers
and 2 chubby crazy legs
We were both breach babies
The doctor got me turned around in time
but you
you came out kicking, didn't you?

I know how you've been
Your upbringing has been well documented
We've been through so many
of the same trials
Youthful arrogance to party times to activist intelligence
and yet turned out so differently
I got sick of explaining to folks
that fraternal twins look nothing alike
That's no excuse for my distance, but
just one of many reasons
Do you know how hard it is
to have a more sucessful sibling?
I couldn't escape my own inadequacy
swallowed the bile until
I spit acid speech over every mention
of your name and wrote off your blurred signature
in cursive, until
it looked nothing like mine

I didn't even blink
when they said you were dead
I knew
they were wrong
Your coffin rattled too empty

You are not the first person
to fake their own death when they
see what atrocities are commited
in their name
But you should see what
good works it inspires
There are millions waiting for your return
have proven themselves worthy by
sowing your lessons into a society in and of itself
and just your presence could keep it from
its own destruction
But more than that, I
need you to forgive me

never saved my life
but are one of the things
that make it worth living
Track Name: Untitled
Cracked a pack of cigarettes,
removed 5 minutes

Unraveled those 5 minutes
and was left with an old question

Opened that question,
found a new home

Ransacked the house,
discovered my running feet

Followed the tracks they left until
I stopped at the heart of 3am

Caressed the hour's heart and
it pulsed out too many bad ideas

Lobbed them at the nearest wall
and their dying graffiti dripped


Hissed this through my teeth,
spat out silent adolescence

Talked at that until it blinked out
its balled fists

Took their swinging,
swallowed blood and distance

Pulled the thread on
16,000 odd miles ending
in New England's quietest night

The sky over's constelations
formed oh so many faded spotlights

bathed in every single one
until the dark was no different

I looked back at all of these
wound them back up into one long
"He Loves You" then turned around,
Track Name: Thoughts On A Statue Of Glenn Gould

The most glaring omission
is the fingers
The sculptor has painted them
a lumpen whole, none
of the individual, the tap
tapping articulates that dissected Bach
put his innards back together, smirking
at the sound of the master's coffin

Even in this
an idealized, forever bust
he still doesn't look comfortable
Not even a torch
could carve him at home
in himself

We are not drawn
to the eyes
Nor the telling wrinkles of
life lived fantastically devoted
to the sound slippery divine
Instead the cap
the scarf and gloves
a neurotic uniform hiding pockets
filled brim with prescriptions, a mouth
unaccustomed to marriage proposals

Lucky for us
this shrine lives nestled
in downtown's bustle
on the edge of the bench, his
image and idea bearing the brunt
of our prayers and pictures, leaving
his mind and marrow to wander a
Salvation Army estate, left alone
to conduct the moon rising
Track Name: Vollun (The New God Of Abandoned Places)

How many times have I been mistaken
for Death?
how many hands have you?

While he is the bringer of Nothing,
I am its warden, standing in the aftermath
of expression
Dry charging behind brick, stone,
and mortar
Any time someone utters:
If these walls could talk
I am whispering pigeon flocks
in the rafters
I have no other voice but
the shutter of blasted out windows
groaning floor boards and the shriek
of neglect

I am what once was

While possibility
drove up the rooftops
the disappointment in their felling
is my realm
Not all Gods are glamorous
nor their kingdoms great
but I live in the hearts of builders
and every so called urchin
in any city's back alley, wrong track side
A congregation of squatters, gutter punks, bat shits,
dreamers and schizos

Every language
has hundreds of words for what
resides in a haunted house, but
they all mean me
I am no phantom
I do not believe in ceremony, that
is what drove my ancient brethren
out of buisness
My altars are not pristine
or sacred
my scripture unwritten
Just lay a pigeon feather behind you
upon any thousands of empty door steps
and we can pray directly
to each other
I am not Death
He is definitive End
and in End lies relief
I preside in Forgotten
a never ending, completely brutal kind
of forever
Track Name: Bar Rule #1

does not fear televangelists
and fundamentalists as his
destroyer or successor , just
lesser imps worthy only
of a pat on the head and a
"Go get 'em tiger"
because they make his job so much

They have forgotten
the gentle nature of faith
and believe they are
doing their God's will so blindly
and that
makes them dangerous

Faith, is simple
It is accepting something purely
despite all evidence to the contrary
Faith is round
and malleable
It is just as easy to hold tight
as it is to share

is where it gets tricky
Belief is sharp
It is angular, shaped
fire forged and folded a thousand times
You either grab it by the hilt
or take it in the neck
This is not piety
but pride

I live less than one hour
from the Devil
But that might be giving
Focus On The Family
a little too much credit

are so many hours from Topeka, KS
The nest of Westboro Baptist's

Spitting King Snake,
Freddie Phelps
He may be poisonous, but
lacks the savage intelligence
of the Morning Star

These petty demons
have stolen the air of a God
they claim to serve and use it to
broadcast hatred in the name of a Christ they
could never hope to emulate
and for Christians, y'all seem really obsessed
with the Old Testament
Whatsa matter, fellas?
Does all the love and forgiveness of the New
fucking bore you?
Not enough wrath and brimstone?
Have you forgotten "Let he who is without sin..."?
If Time has shown anything, its that the lot of you
have enough bones bouncing behind locked doors
to hold a fucking barn dance
It is not enough that you ruin people's lives
but can't even give them the decency
of a quiet burial

So, gentle men
Quit crying that you
are the easy target
If you truly believe that, then
climb down off that cardboard cross
wipe the bloodied bulls eye off your chest
It is not stigmata, no matter how much
you wish it to be
It was the fire forged spikes
the sharp, unbendable spear
that did Jesus in
What brought him back from the pit
was his unending faith in his father's plan
for humanity

Freddie Phelps, Ted Haggard, Jimmy Swaggart
and Jerry Falwell, who I pray
is tending his own little half acre in the hell he believed in so much:
If I have offended you
and you truly do follow the example of Christ
then I ask you to prove it
and forgive me
Track Name: Steel

Before the fire, it
had no name
No shape, memory
or purpose
Its only blood
was Possibility

With the forge
came structure
Limitless prospect
etched into
5x2.3 centimeters
Intent's determined face
stamped into being

Still, without label
these could have been
26 bead rosaries, with
a mirror at its end to reflect
the true face of God

But then
the letters are struck
and Identity is given
indelible and unfortunate
They now will carry name,
rank, blood type
They will be worrying stone
prayer clutch
wistful souvenir
the last CLICK CLACK
before shut eyes
and a walking tombstone
the only way to know
that your child had come back
at all

Only when steel
goes back to ground
does it remember its Possibility
and weep for the fire that would
bring it back
Track Name: Fight Song (for The It Gets Better Project)
For The It Gets Better Project

Rainbows did not kill them
The colors of their noose
were red, white, and blue

Tell me again, why?
Was it their vibrant color
that set bulls to charge?

Maybe the Bible
seldom read, never once grasped
and bereft of Christ

Like we use
god forsaken for emphasis
and not its true meaning

God did not abandon
these 4, 5, 6 or thousands before
That, would be us

Those who vowed to shepherd
all lost souls to heaven
condemn them to burn

Who swore better
lives for their children but
drown their color in ashes

Those who inherit
parent’s hate like good silver
spend it into fists

And the rest of us
who bear all other epithets
keep lips sewn silent

Only so much
silence can be born
until action is all that’s left

For you, with hues locked
behind your teeth, remember
it will get better

The priests, parents, and
pundits who demonize you
will soon be punished

They, have to live their
whole lives, as themselves
This is your vengeance

They will all work for you one day
and you will give them money
but they will pay

This is better than
any fist you could throw back
Live, just to spite them

Speak bright, bold sparks while
their grey ash blends to roadside
and irrelevance

Dance brash and loud, live
love wide as your arms will go
Live, hallelujah

Live joyous, like you
never knew its antonym
You are not alone

the best form of revenge
is living

I am begging you, please
just live
Track Name: Road Map

only echoes
when its got walls to cage it

When the din of 3am
blasts out past my ears
instead of shouting down the band
I curl up into a ball, still as the night
outside Providence

is yet another process
which cinches anxiety into my neck
in fear of getting it wrong, and therefore
useless to me

shares too many letters
with Insomnia to not be related
Both keep me up two hours
past Reason
Some time past 27
both my eyes started to drift, craning
so hard to look behind me that
I have better memories
of the back of my skull than anything
that's happened since

doesn't live ferocious
under my skin anymore
I only see orgasm
as function, a compulsion
that clears my thinking
My sexuality, now nothing
but a rolling, roadside snowfield
18 wide and gusting, past loves
memorials' mark its turns like
white picket crosse

is only possible
with clenched teeth
to shelter it

is now a rubbed raw penny
dirty and comforting
Oh, Great King/Queen of the Clouds
please keep my prayers tawdry
I'd rather have my menagerie
lit seedily, then blasted lifeless
by Noon's cheer
Give me the distinct rattling of neon
throwing holy rolling halos over all
who walk beneath it
A bright rapture
without a dark set journey at its beginning
is ultimately

has cast me from
45 to 90 degrees of SIsyphus, impossible
unattainable, then just as quickly
as Atlas just before the buckle
straight back, world
perfectly balanced on confident shoulders

makes sense of the swirling debris
left in the wake of 5 am, giving
the reluctant communion of Sleep
to all of its late coming choir

can only peal, if you
give them enough hollow
to swing
Track Name: Stone In My Pocket
Go and find a stone
Put it in your pocket
Call it Purpose
Every day
feel the reminder of its weight
Let your work keep the stone's shape, but
don't let it grow into Burden

I learned this at a friend's workshop
I've spent every minute since
trying to remember this
Some days,
the stone grows coal fire
Other days, the cold density of
And there are weeks where
it shrinks pebble chip into
Routine and Purpose

Before this
I never believed in Alchemy

This stone now
has so many names that
a well meaning friend suggested
I simply call it Hope
I carried that skyscraper weight
so long on bleeding shoulders
until it became the blasphemy
it really is

Oh, bright bird Hope
hook fanged jackal Hope
and every monstrosity in your
rolling, consuming, circus zoo Hope
All teeth, tongue and throat
your virtue lacks stomach

Every single little beastie
carping that your bright death
would end cool, delicous darkness
and fly this balanced crystal existence
into entropy, I say

birth more fear than certain mortality
Death is shroud in black
and Devil soot smudged decadence
But Death is inevitable
and the Devil merely temptation
Neither make you do anything
You hold hostage entire lives
Patience's cohort, undeserved
its myth holy virtue

You are sibling only to Larceny
Leave me
My door now only open to Faith
and Result, Imagination, Urgency
These things are me, are Growth and Bloom
Divine Result
Oh, Violated Fable Hope, myths
die for a reason and i bid you
to take the hint
My days are nothing but
and Alchemy

The stone I chose
was Purpose

Now Hope
get your fucking hand out
of my pocket
Track Name: Shrayen (for David Blair and the city of Denver)

For David Blair
and the city of Denver

Somewhere in this apt building
a guitar is being strangled
not the erotic asphyxia of Hendrix
but the rope a dope of a past prime boxer
who sounds like he still has his gloves on
I say,
Rock on Marciano
if it keeps you from beating your wife

The same wind
hotter than molasses ass in Ju-ly
sends me sickly smooth jazz from 16th Street
a group of perfectly nice people
are commiting the worst type of hate crime
against Motown, beating the round off it with
pillow weight hands, Jim Crowing that historic house
into corporate sculpture

And the outdated trains bring rhythm
And the too many cars rumble bass
And the screeching club girls lend tenor
And the relentless, keening harmony bounces
5 Points to Foothills disjointed and free form
a cacophony of intrusion
a song of trespass, the wailing cry
of progress
brought to Denver in the throats
of railroad workers
in the eyes of prospecters
in the bellies of miners
and finally
bashing crescendo against
the grey steel and digital of now
'till the night closes its ears
and la la la's out another sunrise

9 am church bells peal
the groans of a thousand hang overs
the tire whine of another underpaid workday
rolling a new libretto over the whisper of
native phantoms' ground down bones
that pave these streets, our operetta
may seem bitten
these notes cannot be anything
but unique
The jagged mountain sharps
colliding with the flats of attempted
metropolitan trappings and attitude
following the odd meter of our history,
shot through with explore
strip mine
Wild West
Klu Klux's
too many dead children
and yet we
still sing
The unique altitude
swims the heads of
transplants and native born
and we all move to it
are a city of samples

today roared in with a
black cannon gut punch
a vast wail
The last aria
cried from your shining,
Chrysler grille of a throat
has left my city silent
I am afraid there will be
no parade for the likes of us
Those who attempt to gild,
gold leaf this cold calamity
of an existence
There is no collection of
marching polished brass that could
herald your too soon legacy, but
I will try
I will weep
I will gnash
I will davenh
I will Kaddish
I will Shiva
I will dance
I will celebrate
I will Jubilee
I will remember
I will climb to the tallest point
of this Mile High and let the
god wallup of your going shoot
ticker tape through my teeth
each shred stamped the words
Royalty Skyward
and then finally, I will
scream the sky violet, like
you always wanted
But I will not sing,
and nor will Denver
the sky and wind over us both
will be as static
the streets are
scrambled, untuned, slaveship radiowaves
will be the silent procession
for a gorgeous monster

maybe tomorrow
I will remember beauty
as the chorus this city bellows joyous
beneath my feet will return, reunited
with your Detroit gracenote
The symphony of every piece of machinery
in the Chrysler plant that tried to eat you alive
raising their twisted metal arms to heaven
and coming down
a choir of sparks to carry you home
maybe tomorrow
We will sing
Track Name: Devil Due
Adolf Hitler's

hopefully rotting bones keep

being exhumed,rattling like a

saw dusted rust sabre and ordered

to dance

His name

a barbed wire pricker bur

cutting the throats of those

still named, numbered, and living

Saints, have not the vanity

for even their own small altars, but the

lesser little beasties want their every single atrocity

carved marble and monolithic

And while I'm sure this wicked little skeleton

chips itself in delight over every

buzzed bald 'Zieg Heil', I

can't help but think that he would like

if his broken surname passed

through a few less lips

That his twisted hall in history

shook only with the names worthy

of his genocide




Pol Pot

Genghis Khan


All Hail

I know that we must never forget

but there is a time and place

for necromancy

Evil is evil

but there are varying degrees

and I think it is about time that we

give the devil his due

The systematic slaughter of

millions of a people does not

equal health care reform

The "purification" of the

physically deformed and mentally ill

does not equal higher taxes

An unchecked, Nietzcheian will to power

does not and will not ever

equal politics

The greatest benevolence

and the most sullied malfeasance

do not reside in Heaven or Hell

but are conceived in the human heart

and mind

Both deserve their own Regard

and Perspective


is what reminds us that

Petty Annoyance and Cataclysmic

do not intersect or even

share the same trajectory

You can weave

as many failed metaphors as you like

Parade your props

Play Illuminati Connect The Dots until

the cock crows at midnight and you will

still never be right


who bestrode this earth

in a pale impersonation of Colossus

now resides in a hole six by six, just

like the rest of us will

The screams of the millions

he sent to the same place and

the spit of their survivors will never

allow his soul to rest,

as is their right

But you must now let his name,

bones and banner finally

return to the dirt that they

are worth