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Dr. Nymanstein

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(no subject) [Jan. 2nd, 2016|11:57 am]
Dr. Nymanstein
My Top Five Albums of 2015:



5. Torres - "Sprinter" (https://youtu.be/Ol61WOSzLF8)


4. Des Ark - "Everything Dies" (https://youtu.be/SEyXkGdVuIo)


3. Hop Along - "Painted Shut" (https://youtu.be/iFGnkbZ3fLE)


2. Milo - "So The Flies Don't Come" (https://youtu.be/P5H77IUvu1E)


1. Oddisee- "The Good Fight" (https://youtu.be/4Bxkp3hpGdU)
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(no subject) [Dec. 12th, 2015|12:35 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
some fun with Longfellow...

"The Basketball and the Rhyme"

I shot a basketball into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swish-ly it flew, the sight,
Could not follow it in its flight.

I spit a rhyme into the air,
It fell on ears, I knew not where;
For who measures the scope and time,
Of the reach of one man's rhyme?

Long, long afterward, at the park,
I found the basketball I'd once arced;
And the rhyme, from beginning to end,
I found again in the ear of a friend.
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(no subject) [Nov. 29th, 2015|11:12 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
"joyless in Joliet"

Inches too deep, merely,
and I lie meek, peering
over the inches I creep, leering
backward in thought, fearing.

A cruciform on a toothpick, I sit as a pondering brick
And I'm wandering sick, fresh in death or near proximity.
A former fingered lid of three now just a plastic bag near empty.
Once elastic in past hits, I grab sits when time affords me.
But this bores me, this poorly spun web of conformity.
I prefer the dorming effects of righteous solidarity.
Feeding on disparity, I scour the earth awaringly
drinking my spit when i’m thirsty but doing so sparingly
to maintain some semblance of clarity.
I'm Joyless in Joliet dwelling on past hits I can't forget
with clouds hung inches too low my vision won’t reset.
and to avoid eyeing the virus i dial back the iris
and focus instead on the locusting of my past.
now of me there are two, the old and the new:
one a retiree and the other with things to do.
so now i’ve planted the flag and i’ve labeled my past
but there’s only so much i can do with that
when everything ahead is new and it appears askew.
how long can a person live in the rear view?
like i’m still a sterile little thing trapped in old carol stream
bruises on my kneecaps and my feet wet with leaves.
not much to say until i flew out to the bay
started to see the bigger picture and etch out my own way.
now i’ve been through the looking glass and back.
and i’m glad i didn’t stay, because i have this annoying way
of finding the stagnation in self-exploration,
of changing a challenge into a vacation.
the first comfort i see my soul falls into hibernation.
but, hey, self immolation never hurt anybody,
he said in a wry way, half a smile sliding off the side of his face.
and what if that was the case? my self abuse was just a phase
and one day i was allowed to seize all the former opportunities i’d razed?
O, what a value this hindsight! Like shutting out the dark with just one lite brite
but all i need is just one fix, not like a crack cocaine mix,
more like a minor repair or the flick of a switch
and a voice reminding me, ‘life’s not always a bitch,
don’t take it so personally, everyone struggles to breathe.’
so now i huff and i puff like a speed-fueled locomotive,
exploiting my lungs to live while securing my future motives
all while remaining vigilant everlasting in my solitary votive.
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(no subject) [Nov. 16th, 2015|10:35 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
(that night in) paris

when they say, the kids are allright,
i figured it was always true.
the guardians of innocence from
their watch never withdrew.
armed with instruments and tunes,
i thought they never missed a beat.
until that night in paris
when they were nowhere to be seen.

once a child in the night,
out past any curfew.
no chance of survival,
filled with undiscovered virtues.
never heard a melody,
never sang a song.
went to the concert hall
and was shot down in the throng.

a note was in the air,
the chord it struck unclear.
it stole a piece of beauty
from anybody that could hear.
and every time it played
people fell down to their knees,
with hands above their heads
and their heads filled with screams.

quel dommage, and what damage.
insurmountable to the average
act of aggression that i am used to,
so personal to an abused few.
you can pray over the love cost
but the city of love never lost,
and the music itself will never stop
well after the last shell drops.


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(no subject) [Apr. 19th, 2014|05:35 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
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(no subject) [Apr. 15th, 2014|09:11 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
whoa, just scrolling through some word docs where i was working on some old pieces and stumbled on this little gem. short and sweet, quite literally.

"Green Eyes"

there's nothing blossoming those eyes of green.
there's no hidden spring from which they glean.
for to say so would be to label them a derivative
and dull the premiere beauty their unique tinting gives.

somewhere between evergreen and kryptonian.
a latin word for 'lovely' i read at the smithsonian.
this is my chance to write something anacreontic
of the spirit in your eyes, stronger than gin and tonic.

too much a fool, i believe their gaze will find me aware.
two lush pools of green and i swim in their fanfare.
the words employed, i fear, could never be found so clever
as when inspired with your gaze as the winning endeavor.
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(no subject) [Apr. 15th, 2014|08:54 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
a poem about a lovesick ghost.

"Casper (He)"

I want to kiss Christina Ricci from the film Casper all like can I keep you, can I keep you, can I steep you in deep view of a mug with a mossy kind of peat hue? Probably first off I should greet you, since from a neighboring plane I have peeped you. I seek to make contact and meet you if I don’t let my otherworldly inhibitions defeat you. Big bang or not, we all now own this plot and while I’m only corporeal, its like I’m in constant memorial of your phantom glory hole. Like I’m a burial at sea of someone you can not see (and my body never really sunk all that deep). My feelings always floating at the surface, just cursive tattoos deciphered by the cognizant. My heart on my sleeve I wore like an intoxicant and you can rub it in my face to no real consequence for a ghost nitwit is no threat being in conflict with. You just float right by me or is it the other way around? There is gravity in my heart but it doesn’t keep me on the ground, and it makes no audible sound in the beating so the only telltale proof of it's being is that I am always feeling down.

I'm no hologram, no other world telegram, no goldfish with a tag in a pet shop plastic bag. Thinking back, I’m sort of see through and I’m glad for the times that I’ve had while this translucent hand looks for another to grab and to hold, to wrap and to fold in it’s bad little fingers. This death spittle lingers near my lips and I’m just another dead ringer in the mist for a sad sack soul saved by the bell's toll with a hefty penance now owed. Jars by my bed host the organs I once fed, now sarcophagus fuel coated in bile and drool, and the remainder was burned and rests now in urns cradled safe and sound in bedsheets down-turned. And it’s the arrangement of this menagerie that allows my soul this post-life battery and curbed degradational flattery. Maybe it’s just me, but its easier to not be. I believe to not be or un-be more suits me.

All blacks fade to grey and I may, someday, in a post mortem timeline sort of way. So don't fright and run away. I'm alright, and you're safe and your lips grow as soft as mine ever could. Don't look back to Hollywood, don't look back to those days and I won't think back on my animated ways and I won't think back on my delayed decay. For in the stitch of the night when we have our way, it will be pitch yet bright, and granite and clay. You are flesh and bone merely living alone until joining me on the plane that I roam, the plane I call home. Your once lame sight of half-life now fully aglow. Our past life, if cast right, will submit to the fray. My wait until then is a series of no-time astray where my thoughts relay on a life well kept I somehow left spent a few breaths ahead of my game. I have to be more than just memories inherited to a family dispirited. There's more to my legacy than latent atrophy and high school track trophies! I’m not so transparent! My legacy by now should be inherent but I can not betray my post-life as a rebel, capturing the tremble as a stye in the eye of the devil. Just existing in his periphery until the day he can be rid of me, the anxious tooth-sucking kid of me, scratching helpless at the air where the skin of me used to be.
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(no subject) [Apr. 14th, 2014|10:01 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
"Superior Waves"

It's like some brand of magic,
Superior waves crash like traffic
while suburban brain runoff floods my nature-dreams
like collecting synapses and puzzling them together in reams.

My current status: I am static like a glacial erratic.
No growth--just gather moss like a new kind of habit.
But to that life I scoff,
my boots tied up and I'm off and
now I have a new home for every day of the week.
I walk the same damn path on the same damn feet.
No location because I keep my shit discrete,
providing ill information because the cyphers all leak.
I'm a trail geek, nature freak,
I'm gonna climb this mountain and when I reach the peak.
I'm gonna let out a shriek or better yet yell and
spill forth the contents of my inner well.

I start to really emote
so I moisten my throat.
My soul’s replenished, so now I'm back on the go.
Until my next pit stop,
perched on a rock outcrop.
The elevation sensation got me breathing
like my heart's going to pop.

The crickets chatter
and trail snakes scatter
as my boots clomp by in a uniformed pattern.
A decent ascent is paired with an essential descent.
It's just Newtonian reason,
can't argue gravity's feasance.
And when I need a good rinse
catch me like southern Baptists:
Dunk my head into the river
and receive god's chill kiss.
It soaks right into my mind
then trickles clear down my spine,
I used to be frightened of enlightenment
but now I know that it's mine.
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(no subject) [Oct. 27th, 2013|09:50 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
not ready today (for today to be sunday)


no sunday sun is gonna wake me up,
no fragrant grounds in my cup.
your neighbor and her kids,
they wake me with their youthful fits.
soon after that family phones,
soft dialog and dial tones.
and i'm okay,
i'm just not ready today
for today to be sunday.

bedsheets and pajama seams,
uniform of my weekend dreams.
wake from you to see you there,
whisperings to know you care.
i look down for a while.
you look at me and smile.
i'm just not ready today
for today to be sunday.

the traffic starts out light
but by afternoon it's out of sight.
and no one still lives in sin
for today he saves all men.
the right tithe can mean a lot
if you're part of a chosen lot.
but i'm not ready today
for today to be sunday.

all week i wait for it to end,
look at the calendar and then
i know i'm not ready today
for today to be sunday.
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(no subject) [Oct. 21st, 2013|11:11 pm]
Dr. Nymanstein
this is a little piece about a group of friends i used to hang out with about 5 years ago

"donuts real proud"

we live in the clouds.
we glaze donuts real proud
for minimum dollars an hour,
sticky treats stacked up like towers.
we climbed higher than most astronauts.
sometimes we would fight, but mostly not.
we, hazy visions of ourselves now caught
in gaunt silhouette of what had once been sought.
take example from yourself.
take down the journal from your shelf.
a life rarely forms to a child’s prospect,
and a dream come true is highly suspect.

without a spine built of i-love-you’s
i lived off too many i.o.u.’s,
feigning comradery any place that would have me.
i let burnt out kids uncle at me like i’m family,
or their older brother on display,
mistaking for ‘wisdom in years’ what was my cognitive delay, or
my youth on replay, or
my resistance to accept the rate of my own decay.
soon i fought my way out of the aughts
filling that silhouette of the dream i had sought.
with my journal i moved out of the clouds
and now the sun glaze me real proud.
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