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I found a portal in a dream
Slipped into a slit
Then came so fast
i lost track of singularity
the journey is recursive
took this road many-a-times
more rerun than detour
forgotten lessons faded on aluminum
                             etch harder next time
hard hitting truths don’t even hit anymore
memory is false knowledge                             unreliable
instead follow the dreams
they have plotted the path
  in stardust
                        and
                            ­     astral projections
those are big constellations to fill
i walk bare sole now
so why are my steps still timid?
Pre summer heat
Record temperatures in California
Ice melts into the streets of LA
phase changes into water
Human levees defend their own

Chants of shame incur a boiling point
The president demands a flood
Says it’s “to cleanse alien blood”
Adds force to the charge
The National Guard is on the offensive

“This is to defend our land”
A slippery ***** to Marsh
Shall all protests be met with early nights
Law is an inconvenient opinion
Meanwhile

FEMA has been distilled to vapor
What’s a hurricane season
Disaster evaporates into a state problem
The White House has a weather machine
This is my first crack at a response poem.
a swarm of physicists
sits in a room debunking
“the present”

                           logical deduction:
                             there is no now
                            (it doesn't exist)

                                           light years away
                                           on a podcast with nature
                                           a bug flys into my eye

I adjust course
                           a fork offers 3 options
the brain is an open mouth
                                          I sit instead
   an insatiable appetite consumes utensils too
This poem is literally based off a podcast clip. Inspiration Video: https://youtube.com/shorts/bdK540KUdWI?si=Ctf-KdP2D7tSRlyu
🙄
queer things deserve to be happy too

    tangentially

earth has swallowed me again
existence is so intimate
especially under the physical
i feel love in its many forms
a waterless stream flowing
      through me
                                   around me
soil is mother and sister
           brother and father
community consumes
                      like a hug
              also
        like a burial
in resting
                i almost heard my name
                  was almost quiet enough
                                       still enough
                                       present enough

oh   to be infinite           and            self-contained

i question the hierarchy of numbers
the triviality of zero
i have regressed to home base          again
does comfort know I have expanded
  ego is a shed skin
  recycled with fallen leaves
  before i die
                      make compost of me
let my love nourish
                                  that which isn’t yet
queer things deserve to be happy too

    tangentially

i am gay with life
death lurks
an imminent transition
i have zero to offer it
the trees are still counting up
i am not gay but i am happy for those who can now happily live in their truth. Happy Pride!
  Jun 2 Taru Marcellus
badwords
Beneath the surface of our giving,
A quiet echo, always living.
The hand extended, the gift bestowed,
Holds traces of what the heart is owed.

In every act of kindness shown,
A seed of self is always sown.
A smile exchanged, a burden shared,
The giver leaves their soul ensnared.

Transaction speaks in whispers faint,
Not loud enough to mar the saint.
Yet woven in the tapestry,
Is the thread of reciprocity.

Evolution’s pen, so deftly writ,
Has carved the rules; we benefit.
To give is to connect, survive,
To keep the fire of bonds alive.

But purest light, we chase, we yearn,
For altruism that won’t return.
A gift devoid of self, of gain,
A spotless deed, untouched by stain.

And here, the fallacy takes form,
A standard raised against the norm.
To cast aside what’s real, profound,
For lofty heights that can’t be found.

For in the real, the flawed, the small,
Lies beauty woven through it all.
A kindness fraught with give and take
Still soothes the wounds that living makes.

Should we dismiss imperfect grace,
Because it wears a human face?
Or hold it close, and see it whole,
A blend of heart, and mind, and soul.

The saintly act, the selfish cheer,
Are not as distant as they appear.
For even joy in giving free
Forms part of our humanity.

So let us honor deeds once spurned,
Where subtle trades of trust are earned.
And measure worth by what is done,
Not by the motives of the one.

For if perfection is the goal,
We’ll find no virtue in the soul.
Yet in the flawed, the fractured light,
Shines something real, and something right.

Reflection
Altruism is no saint’s domain,
But the hand that lifts through joy or pain.
A mirror held to humankind,
Revealing heart, and what’s behind.
A Reply to:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4926937/what-about-me/

**Synopsis**
This poem, Altruism's Mirror, explores the multifaceted nature of altruism, juxtaposing the realistic, transactional aspects of human kindness with the idealized concept of selfless giving. The verses acknowledge that altruistic acts, though often celebrated as purely selfless, are deeply entwined with human psychology, biology, and social constructs.

Through vivid imagery and reflective tones, the poem weaves a narrative that critiques the pursuit of "pure altruism" as an unattainable standard, likening this pursuit to the **Nirvana Fallacy**. It invites the reader to embrace the imperfection inherent in acts of kindness, emphasizing that flawed and transactional altruism still holds profound value in fostering connection, survival, and mutual support.

The poem also highlights the inherent beauty in altruistic acts, regardless of their underlying motivations. It challenges the dismissal of acts deemed "impure" for carrying elements of self-interest, reframing them as authentic expressions of humanity.

**Artist’s Intent:**
The poet aims to reconcile the tension between the ideal and the real, urging readers to move past the binary of "selfless" versus "self-serving" acts. Through this piece, the artist seeks to celebrate the complexity of altruism, emphasizing that its worth lies not in its perfection but in its impact. By embracing the transactional nature of giving as part of the human condition, the poem calls for a more compassionate and pragmatic view of altruistic behavior.

Ultimately, Altruism's Mirror is a meditation on human nature, inviting readers to find beauty in the nuanced interplay between generosity, self-interest, and connection. It challenges the notion that altruism must be pure to be meaningful, suggesting that the flawed, everyday acts of kindness are the truest reflections of our shared humanity.
  Jun 2 Taru Marcellus
Shang
the soft light from
across
the room
cast a shadow
on half of you
and i thought to myself,
i am in love.
her ******* were
still swollen
from the child we lost,
a quiet weight between us
that neither of us could hold.

she smiled her sleepy
smile and said,
"i want this moment to last forever."

and i thought to myself,
i will be okay.
i said this with more
hope than honesty.

and honestly,
i gave up on hope
the day you aborted our child.

i lay there,
a hollow figure,
a man made of silence and waiting,
watching you carry a burden
i had no right to share.

my voice, a whisper trapped
behind fears I couldn’t overcome.
no place at the table,
no say in the body
that carried what was partly mine.

the room grew colder,
not from the night,
but from the space
between your heartbeat and mine.

i was powerless.
like a shadow on the wall,
there but unseen,
a ghost with no name,
no claim to the life
that never had a chance to be.

the loneliness was a quiet scream,
a thousand empty hands
reaching for something
that slipped through fingers
no matter how tight i clenched.

and still,
there was love,
fractured, fading,
a fragile echo
in the hollow of my chest.
love for the life
that'll never exist
that I'll never experience.

you drifted to sleep,
the soft rise and fall of your breath
a reminder i could not change
what had been taken from us.
what was taken from me..

and i whispered
to the empty room,
to the child i’d never hold—
i would’ve named you
after the quiet.
for the quiet that followed
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