#matthew lippman

[mortalpractice]

It’s a thing we all are at some point— crushed on the roadway, crushed in silence, crushed red in love. This is the problem or not the problem. It’s the thing. The thing in the roadway smashed that has to be held. You have to go to it, stop the car, get out, get down on your knees with it hoping the oncoming traffic won’t get you in the process, knowing damn well it will.

Matthew Lippman, from “Live Things in the Road,” published in decomP magazine

[mortalpractice]

It’s not that I don’t love myself; I love myself. The world wants not to have it in for us; it has it in for us.

Matthew Lippman, from “Holiday,” published in decomP magazine

[largethingslargerthings]

Meditative Week of Poetry: Matthew Lippman

You build a bank. You put money in it.   No one knows how much money is in it.   Not even you know how much money is in it.   You deposit 1000 dollars and it’s a mystery.   You take out 1000 dollars and it’s a conundrum.   When you look at the statement the statement says 5 dollars.   How did that get there? Was it a bird with a five-dollar bill? No. It was five birds with five one-dollar bills.   But there’s still 25 cents left after you spend the 5 bucks on an acre of land in Vermont. When you were a kid, you could buy a slice of pizza from Village Pizza for a quarter.   You wish you could get a slice for a quarter, now. No.   You wish you were a kid running across the street, dodging cabs and buses and bullets to play stoop ball with your pals. That’s funny.   You never used the word “pals” when you were a kid.   Never used that word when you were an adult. Now that you are an adult you use the word “boys” or the word “brothers.” Funny how you only got that far.   You got far enough to build a bank with a vault and some safe deposit boxes.   But there’s nothing in there, only clouds of money   that evaporate onto steel and granite and leave you befuddled. It boggles your mind, and all your panic attacks are dollar kamikaze bombers. You go across the street for a slice. You smack 5 dollars down on the counter and there is a thousand dollars out there, floating around between memory and desire, denial and survival. The cheese is so hot it burns your tongue. The sauce drips down your arm in dollar signs.

[markheyert]

From Matthew Lippman @matthewlippman

RECORD STORE MR. JOY

(for Mark)

I miss working at a record store.

I never worked at a record store. There are no more record stores.

There are many more record stores than you might think.

Mark worked at Recycled Records when he was younger.

He owned it. They used to play The Innocence Mission.

Have you ever heard of The Innocence Mission?

That’s why I miss working at a record store.

I never heard of The Innocence Mission

until Mark told me to listen to John As Well.

You can find a lot of music in your life

but if you eat breakfast and get dirt under your nails at Recycled Records in The Haight

then you are more likely to listen to music for the rest of your life.

But that’s because you’ve been listening to music for your whole life anyway,

so it doesn’t matter if you know how to use the register or make the mail order.

If you ask Mark he will say yes.

Oh, what is the question?

The question is:

would you listen to records every moment of your waking life

even if you never worked at a record store?

That’s the problem with some people,

they don’t know how to close up their ears.

When Other Music closed down on east 4th street

they closed down because New York is a cesspool of burning money

and Other Music did not have enough money to burn.

When Neutral Milk Hotel played there 30 people showed up.

You can do all sorts of things in a record store.

Like swim laps for 15 hours and they won’t kick you out.

And when it closes down and it’s a beautiful Sunday and there are no more record stores

you can go out to the backyard

and flip through the bins and cards of your mind

to find new sounds,

that will make people call your Mr. and Ms. and Mrs. Joy.

I don’t miss working at the record store where I did not work when I sixteen and 23 and 48.

I’ve been working there my whole life.

Mark too.

That’s where he found the Innocence Mission, in the section marked “Misty Dew.”

That was when he was love. Oh, right,

he’s always been love.

[troubleinonepocket]

Matthew Lippman, Slowly in Prayer

[wingedbreadfury]

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Essential Criminal Law, Second Edition equips students with a foundational and practical understanding of criminal law in the United States, as well as encourages strong legal reasoning skills for students with no prior exposure to case law. Award-winning professor and bestselling author Matthew Lippman guides students through the complexities of the legal system using thought-provoking examples of real-life crimes and legal defenses, along with highly approachable case analyses. Updated with the most current developments in criminal law and public policy, the Second Edition takes students beyond the classroom and prepares them to apply criminal law in today’s legal world.

Table of Content:

1. The Nature, Purpose, and Function of Criminal Law 2. Constitutional Limitations 3. Elements of Crimes 4. Parties to Crime 5. Attempt, Solicitation, and Conspiracy 6. Criminal Defenses: Justifications and Excuses 7. Homicide 8. Other Crimes Against the Person 9. Crimes Against Property 10. White-Collar and Organized Crime 11. Crimes Against Public Order and Morality 12. Crimes Against Social Order and Morality: Alcoholism, Gambling, and Drug Offenses 13. Offenses Against Public Administration and the Administration of Justice 14. Crimes Against the State

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Language: English ISBN-10: 150634903X ISBN-13: 978-1506349039 ISBN-13: 9781506349039

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[yespoetry]

Matthew Lippman: #NotTrump Series

NEBRASKA

Donald Trump got sworn in today

and all I can do is listen to Bruce Springsteen.

That stuff he put out when Carter was in office.

When New York was in the fiscal toilet.

When Jersey was the junk.

 I can’t tell if listening to Bruce

is a desire to return to something gritty

and innocent

or a daydream of denial.

 All I can tell is that there are no clichés anymore

because everything has to be a revolution against

 Juan up at the drugstore buying his gum

before the Secret Service come with their xylophone wagon

and bellow him out

into ambulance row.

 The ones screaming down my street right now are headed towards D.C.

and I’m up in my attic with the headphones

trying to bail out the siren wail

echoing between the brick.

 Donald Trump put up his hand today against The Good Book

and Justice Roberts said, Go dog, go.

 I put up my hand today

against the ash wood of Bruce Springsteen’s Telecaster

like it was all things decent and good.

All things kind and forthright.

An American salute.

His guitar,

an American flag of all things sexy, straightforward and dynamite,

flying here for the whole shebang, for us, humanity untrumped--

 The last cliché.

The cliché of all clichés.

The rock ‘n roll garden

trying desperately not to be an anthem of weeds,

still thinking it could save the world.

Matthew Lippman is the author of four poetry collections—The New Year of Yellow (winner of the Kathryn A. Morton Prize, Sarabande Books), Monkey Bars, Salami Jew, and American Chew (winner of the Burnside Review of Books Poetry Prize). He is the recipient of many awards including a New York State Fine Arts Grant, and Jerome J. Shestak Poetry Prize from American Poetry Review.

[oofpoetry]

We played with our bodies, made them move like tattletales, like fractured bones, the celestial movement of the entire Milky. Sometimes we stand at the roof’s edge and watch for our universe. We can never see the whole thing. When we were children, the whole thing was as visible as today’s little cardinal. It was red and black and could withstand any sort of hydraulic pressure. These days our telescopes need as much help focusing through the disease of orange rind as our spigots do clean water. But we look through it anyway.

Matthew Lippman, from “Sometimes We Stand At Roof’s Edge And Look For Our Universe”