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 May 2017 Poetic T
Joshua Haines
I approach most desires
like a competition; can I
**** better than him;
can I be famous at twenty-
-three since he was famous at
twenty-four -- I must be able
to sink better than him.

God, it is exhausting. I
feel like I'm dancing with
a machine; a phantom that
I can never catch, for it runs
on my blood; my insecurities;
my passion -- and, boy, oh boy,
can I attest to having plenty of
  that stuff, ladies and germs.

I think, truly, that I am
encompassing the American Dream
I think is utterly flawed; that I think
is futile in nature; that I am sure of
is the closest thing to Hell, in this
Godless, spiritually motherless
dark shoebox of sudden collisions;
this space of useful and useless
results, splayed onto and into
our hearts, asking for reverence.

There is nothing  I want more
than to be sure that my importance
is not illusory. I am not sure if
I am real.
 May 2017 Poetic T
Joshua Haines
They tell me to lay down
and to please look at the fish.
Notice how they glide
in-and-out of the cool-blue
water; how they don't have
a care in the world -- they're
fish: one out of millions;
mindless; alone in packed
tanks; alone, jammed in
metal cans full of corpses
and low-quality mustard.

Putting the mask over my
perfect nostrils, my straight
teeth, they say Don't be afraid;
listen to my humming; how it
will blend with the high-pitch
screech you hear, now; becoming
an equilibrium of torture and
fantastical strangeness, unbound
by Gods, by Persons, by Loves.

Inside this perfect dark,
you cannot think beyond
the giant broad strokes that
is the world sweeping by --
and it is marvelous, the
buoyant miseries floating
above your head; my head
of ambivalent visions;
the Earth's core, a furiously
violent brilliance, ablaze
beneath my feet, under
layers of confounded
deathly masquerade; a
mask much like mine:
an egotistical reflection
brought out by one's
feeling of gigantic import-
-ance, despite hanging
from the vastest of ceilings;
a wannabe church in the sway
of jungle mind; primitive instinct.


***

You know you can wake up
  at this point, or so they say.
What does it all mean, to which
I murmur, I don't know. It's
hard to say what I know; if
anything, all I have is doubts.
All I can muster are regrets;
I wish I could return to that
perfect dark, confused and
semi-philosophical; all-
pretentious: a feeling of
being bound by brokenness.

They tell me to chill out;
you use semi-colons like
they're heartbeats. Focus
on whether your chest
holds validity.
 May 2017 Poetic T
404
Remorse
 May 2017 Poetic T
404
-

I'm sorry
I keep apologizing

-
 May 2017 Poetic T
Nat Lipstadt

The Underground of HP

~
I do not joke

underworld, underground,
a subterranean nether-land,
a dark net
of a peculiar type of
wonderful human trafficking

all pathways are Venetian style,
each traveler rides in a tricked out, camouflaged gondola
of their own reckoning and design,
upon "rivers of good company"^

***"dude - ain't no such thing I seen
on o dropdown menu
provided by the House of York***

you are correct and yet, you are
correctable.

the way in
to this far more real world
than the surficial one
where you currently reside,
but only half alive,
is where poets speak
in the pentameter of plain english,
exchanging kindnesses and
magic tricks, tidbits of loveliness,
poems of sheerest nylon delight

their private revelations,
their second skin
home to shared state secrets
that are close guarded,
confided confidences, confident completely,
that nothing can rise exposed to the glare of the casual observer,
the accidental tourist,
who writes but
of and for the occasion
for self-glorification

the way in you ask?

don't make me laugh.

no one will extend an invitation -
memberships do not exist
you must invite yourself.

look to the frescoed, vaulted Vatican ceiling,
see the Creation of Adam,
a single finger-extending,
breathing life
when touching his/your reciprocal,
his/your creator

this is the way, the way in,
to self creation.

make the reach of your life,
stretch your soul across the terra firma of invisible terabytes
with the touch of a single fingertip

down below is where
the super stars reside,
who count not the vanity of quantities of cheap likes,
but who delight in the
rivets of insights,
well hid in the spaces between
line and letter
and dark secret messages,
trafficking in the best of
humanity, kindness

expose yourself, accepting your self
welcomed you will be,
accepted.

down below is where the real work gets done.

the realization, the actualization,
where the top of the tip
points down, the crown,
of the inverted pyramid

where poems are the
blood and stuff,
the kisses and the touches,
the ***** and the
opening into the berm,
the root, the stem, and the blossoming
of the real world of HP


^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1913140/in-the-river-of-good-company/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1915543/how-to-be-a-successful-poet-on-hp-in-two-parts/
Here's a little pome
From your little girl
Dedicated to the one
Who brought me
             to the world...

I wasn't an easy child
I thought it would be fun
To run through
              the house screaming
              tormenting everyone!

There was the time
              when I got "lost"
It must've made you bats!
But, of course, you found me...
               in a cage with feral cats!

I got lost on that Hawaiian trip
In that department store...
The largest in the country!
Couldn't find me anywhere!

Another time I climbed on up
To cookies on the shelf...
The top of those cabinets!
I could have killed myself!

Then, as I got older
I became more wild
I won't go into details
But I was a tough child!

I'm surprised I'm still around
For all the things I've done
I must be here to love you now
And I DO love you, ***!

Yeah, I'm surprised I'm living!
I've done SO many things...
I got high... could've been higher...
With a halo and some WINGS!

'Cause moms?
They can be tougher
They can do more than shout
They brought us
IN to this 'ol world...
            and they can take us OUT!

Here's to my Maternal Unit
Yup... you must've passed the test
And when God gave out the hearts

He gave you the BEST!


♡ Your daughter Catherine
Our neighbors kept feral Manx
cats. I got "lost" when I was 4.
The momma cat had had a
litter of kittens in a cage they
kept in the backyard, and I
decided I wanted to pet the kitties. That mother cat
was pacing and hissing for
all she was worth! I made my
mom frantic! And that sure
wasn't the LAST TIME! LOL!

I'm going to be gone most of the
day at a mom's day party...
Lord willing I'll be back reading
Tomorrow ♡♡♡
 May 2017 Poetic T
James Floss
It's not a debate to negate;
It's not one or the other.

Fallacy of false dichotomy—
Makes you think less of me?

He's dead.

How do we do this?
Thread the racism needle?

Carefully. Humanely. Sincerely.
Coltrane said "Supremely."

A love supreme.
A love supreme.
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