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Itâs a thing we all are at some pointâ crushed on the roadway, crushed in silence, crushed red in love. This is the problem or not the problem. Itâs 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 wonât get you in the process, knowing damn well it will.
Matthew Lippman, from âLive Things in the Road,â published in decomP magazine
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Itâs not that I donât love myself; I love myself. The world wants not to have it in for us; it has it in for us.
Matthew Lippman, from âHoliday,â published in decomP magazine
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 itâs a mystery.  You take out 1000 dollars and itâs 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 thereâs 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. Thatâs funny.  You never used the word âpalsâ when you were a kid.  Never used that word when you were an adult. Now that you are an adult you use the word âboysâ or the word âbrothers.â Funny how you only got that far.  You got far enough to build a bank with a vault and some safe deposit boxes.  But thereâs 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.
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?
Thatâs 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 thatâs because youâve been listening to music for your whole life anyway,
so it doesnât 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?
Thatâs the problem with some people,
they donât 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 wonât kick you out.
And when it closes down and itâs 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 donât miss working at the record store where I did not work when I sixteen and 23 and 48.
Iâve been working there my whole life.
Mark too.
Thatâs where he found the Innocence Mission, in the section marked âMisty Dew.â
That was when he was love. Oh, right,
heâs always been love.
Matthew Lippman, Slowly in Prayer
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test bank for Essential Criminal Law 2nd edition by Matthew Lippman
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test bank for Essential Criminal Law 2nd edition by Matthew Lippman
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 todayâs 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
Product Details:
Language: English ISBN-10: 150634903X ISBN-13: 978-1506349039 ISBN-13: 9781506349039
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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 canât 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 Iâm 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 Springsteenâs 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 ân 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 collectionsâThe 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.
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 roofâs edge and watch for our universe. We can never see the whole thing. When we were children, the whole thing was as visible as todayâs 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 âSometimes We Stand At Roofâs Edge And Look For Our Universeâ
