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When the yellow/green face
of this furnace valley is smudged
with summer's first rain runs

I dream about dad again:
7 years since that hospital bed
in Georgetown where he turned

to wax and I turned to water.
In the dream I was so small,
he took me to his old '80s office,

the tan portable in the field where
everything was cheap wood panels,
thin mouse-brown temp carpet.

He sat me down by his blackboard,
jotted with number theory,
& left to retrieve a book he needed.

I sat among the dry sun and dust
until I realized I was an adult now.
Eventually a man came to the door,

& said "why are you still here?
Your dad died years ago,
& we need the room."
I break spines with ease
Finger pages
Lick lifeless words to ******

   Promiscuous bibliophile
I sleep with a band of books
Every night
Caressing words between sheets
Discovering perspective
In the margins
Reading is so sensual

My dreams are an **** of imagery
Subconscious hodgepodge of
Fiction     History     Poetry   &   Prose
Last night I dreamt of…





                                            Well I forgot
                   But I remember the feeling
   Of flying
                       Between this and that
I really be sleeping with multiple books every night
 1d
IrieSide
There the highs are,
then come the lows
this great flow
of mystery
that nature
has granted

it's part of the game,
some ancient pattern
that only few
master

this is a glance
of the Way,
an essence
of poles,
where all
is one
yet
there exist
opposites

the center,
of everything
go there,
and find
balance
 1d
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
 2d
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.
Uncovered consciousness,
truth from time stories stones tell,

great madnesses, raging troops of boys,
whose fathers wandered off

vacat

we wait, we wet the thirsty clay
we wait, we let it dry and become scripture.
so. some days vacat seems         we should slow it all down and look around, look at the tools we use... to speak to any free will interested... in survival
 6d
M Ignacio
in the cradle of my tongue
burns a small pearl

shaped like the moon
heavy as death

in the rift between shadows
pulls my skull into the earth

mouth and fire effervescent
sleight of winter sky  

in sheens of thick molten blue
cruel and raw

cut like god
cracks to life

the face of thunder  
in the cradle of my tongue beset

a pearl of blackest night born
my oath to keep
words slip like worlds between us
 6d
Damocles
Walk with me,
Tethered in interlocked fingers,
The gravel path, rain-stricken,
Petrichor mingling with pollen,
Tickling our olfactory senses,
Perfumed in her elegance.

Walk with me,
Through verdant wonderlands,
Where arboreal creatures dart in the rustling flora,
How their almond eyes spy,
Our synchronized steps as we tread the landscape,
Finding our great escape amidst the ancient giants.
Sit with me,
Under the umbrella of shade,
Where the canopies provide a light show,
As the sun’s beams dance in between the shadows,
Creaking through the cracks and holes within the curves of green,
We can be in silence, save for the avian symphonies,
And the fluttering of wings as falling tufts of feather puff,
Fall from their eager strides along the wind jet.

Fall into me,
As we watch the daylight die,
Tropicana citrus palette painted,
With the hints of pinkish Lilly and lilac purple,
Strike upon the dimming light,
We can watch the pearlescent dots flood the sky,
Under the careful watch of their mother,
As her waning half shyly hides behind the blanket of deep indigo.

Be with me,
In this dark cozy embrace,
Where the navy blue cascades through our forested restaurant,
A pyramid of dried logs, light to a flick and a flame,
The orange glow dances like a ballerina,
Interpretive in its many shapes and tendrils reaching skyward,
I’ll cook for you, a simple steak, buttered and brined,
Sautéed with picked mushrooms,
And asparagus,
Grilled marked and fire etched,
Medium rare, like these little moments.

Eat with me,
While fireflies strobe about us,
And moths surround the embers,
While diamonds sparkle above,
Winking eyes that encourage this,
A simple kiss on anxious lips.
Would you like to walk with me?
 7d
IrieSide
An electric force,
more resonant than
ten thousand suns

filtered a rhythm,
from universal fabric
the tear caused a glimpse,
into the infinite

he the sinner, he saw a star
something beyond the chains
and far from misery

catch this electric
and vibrate it from
your fingers

an electric frequency
more confident
than doubt

venture forward,
and trust in time
this magic force
of
synchronicity
electric.
 May 28
evangeline
It must’ve been the blackest of obsidian
The bleakest of tragedies
That fastened your bones together
And tainted what could’ve been yellow

And Misery must’ve had a millennium thirst
When she drank from the Styx
And spit you onto the world
To poison the ones who taste of it

Because even the flesh of the cold blooded
Will glaciate into an iron snow  
Will freeze over like rotted autumn roots
At the reticent touch of your talons  

Yes, there must have been some devilish prophecy
Spoken on the day that you ascended from the embers
The day the stars were misaligned
Off kilter and yearning to return to virtue

I’m sure that it must’ve taken a mountain of karmic cycles
Each more sinister, more corroded than the last
To shape the quiet vessel
That carries your deafening poison

Unequivocally—
Certainly—
Truthfully—

Threaded into the fabric of you was a venomous wound
And it bleeds and it bleeds and it bleeds
And you thrash and curse and wail into the nothingness
And we both know that even the nothingness pities you now

But I swear, hopeless one—
I swear I swear I swear
If not for fate
And the wickedness of your heart
I think that I would pity you too
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