We were at the lofts
drinking beer and gin and whiskey
while the snow piled up against us outside
played some fifa
lost a few games of fifa
whatever I was drunk
Oh is it seriously almost three
okay me and Hayden have to go
It went bro grab bro grab
bro’s girlfriend hug
and oh look, there’s my gay friend
hug him goodbye
oh, his hands are on my face
oh, he’s kissing my face now
was that Saliva?
Oh Jesus
break away, make a quick exit
see you guys tomorrow or something
feeling like a ******* for feeling like it was ****** up for him to kiss me
am I a *** now?
**** I hope not
I like girls too much
but why did he do that?
everything was so great
he knows I’m not gay
and that I don’t care
but do I care?
the memory of unwanted saliva echoes in my head
I guess sometimes
your gay friend will give you a drunken peck on the cheek
I guess that sometimes
you have to not be such a close minded jack ***
and just deal with it

She said
“Oh you’re such a ******* comedian”
and I laughed at her face
I believe the term is
more than kinda *******
did I ever tell you the one about the
cynical poet with a substance abuse problem?
I know I have a punchline somewhere
in between all these smudged lines of ink
and then she said,
“You over think too much. Just shut the **** up and live.”
and I didn’t say
I live to think of you just shutting up and letting me *******
but instead I went with -
you are probably right. Let’s take a shot
it was a shot in the dark
no I shot the dark
for all the nights I spent barricading my closet door
because I am vindictive at times
and you are so full of vitriol at times
I call you little miss snake bite
and I’m allergic to antivenom
“again with the jokes. When was the last time
you said something actually real?”
when was the last time anybody said
absolutely anything?
“Sarcastic remarks again, huh?”
you’re **** right smarty pants
Then we got drunk
a risky proposition I found myself facing
you swaying to music I couldn’t quite hear
THAT made me nervous
I’ve always been terrified of turning ******
then you said,
“What music?”
and that made me feel a little better
knowing you were possibly
a little ****** too
did you ever hear the one about the
probably in way over his head love struck
funny poetry guy?

Hey guys. Thanks for reading my stuff, and if this is the first time you have heard from me, I hope you will read my stuff. Lately I've been working on a sort of pet project of mine. An online space where young writers can showcase their work. So I started this blog called The Lost and Found (hbaxter94.com). But I don't want this site to be just my work. I've read a lot of good poets on here, as well as other places, and I wanted them to be a part of it. So I am hoping to get some submissions. Poetry, Fiction, Non-fiction - it doesn't matter. (Fiction and non fiction pieces under 3000 words please) If you write honest, powerful stuff which is relevant to growing up in today's post-modern post-internet era culture then I'd love to hear from you. Message me on here or email me at hbaxter94@gmail.com
I hope to hear from some of you wonderful people
           -Thanks Harry J. Baxter

percussion pounds painfully pleasant
boom ba dum boom
there is a certain rhythm
to the way people speak
skip across the plains of this globe
and you’ll hear it
at times when I am at my most idle
I can find my hands
going rat tat tat rat
we listen to hip hop
the scratching sound of a needle drop
enough to catch the breath at the top of the path
making your heartbeat stop
I always fancied guitars
strumming your pain with my fingers
but instead i found that words
pop pop pop
out of my mouth
like faulty machine gun fire
I’ll be your rhythmic drum for hire
waiting at the tail end
of all your punch lines
ba dum tish
angry kids pound graphite graffiti onto their desks
which say things like
SOS
Mike was here
School *****
for a good time call X Y and Z
make me an alarm clock
tick tocking in the corner
like your personal circadian metronome
see, people like we
don’t need a megaphone
we just open our mouth
when we knock our messages out
and let them find a place to call their own
a home for the percussionist

Somebody once told me
no matter what you say -
if you believe it to be true -
speak it with volume
My junior year of high school
I interned for a week
teaching English to middle schoolers
they were working on the creative writing unit
classrooms covered in posters which read things like
no tears in the writer, no tears in the reader
and other good inspirational stuff
some of the kids wrote poems
others wrote short stories
others wrote I don’t know whats
but they all told a story which to them
was an essential truth of life
just waiting to be heard
and when they got up
to share in front of the class
from the shy girl in the soccer shoes
to the tall joker
they all spoke with volume
because some things
are impossible to ignore

Let’s go trainspotting
or did I mean train hopping?
we’ll pick apples from the trees
out back under dark night skies
when nobody is watching
and we’ll drink water from gas station bathrooms
and coca cola from the glass bottle
Do you think
that before the cell phone towers were erected
people ever sent drunk letters?
Natives on Ayahuasca sending smoke signals
which say heyy!
I was thinking about you
and in the morning do you think they check the embers
and go oh ****
what did I do last night?
the chief is going to give me so much ****
the thing is
the things I say to you
with something in my system
are truer than all of the well calculated
across the room stares and smiles
and at night
while I stand lookout
while you pick apples
maybe I’ll drink some apple cider
and send you a drunk conversation
but when I’m with you
It’s like I’m drunk on puppy love
so you can believe
every text I send you

The sound of clattering plates
as a voice in the kitchen yells
we gotta sailor walking in hot
and the waitresses walk around the place
always just beyond the breaking point
wearing voices which say
we hope you have a great night
the plates they clatter
as the men at the bar grow drunker
as the redskins lose yet another game
No sir,
we regret to inform you
that you can not take your beer home with you
in a kiddie sized to go cup
the plates clatter
as the bus boys and dish crew
bounce to Mexican hopping beats
bustling and jostling their way through the six tops
a cart full of leftovers and the crayon drawings of little kids
seven o’clock sees the dinner rush
come and go
and still that sound
the endless clattering of plates
as quitting time rolls around
and a hundred people throw a hundred exhausted punches
at the same juggernaut of a clock
as they always have and always will
outside fresh air smells chemical
and in the car
alone on the ride home save for the passing
of headlights: strangers navigating the same dark
you still think you can hear it
the clattering of plates