take me away to a different place
I had never been there before
but it smelled like memories
the sky meeting with the ground
in a haze of heat and dreams
far off from the tilted axis
and the rotations of day and night
music plays but our headphones
aren’t plugged into anything
where we walked and walked
and our shoes never wore
our feet never sore
and the horizon never came to meet us
at the train station
where no train will ever come
we play in between the tracks
throwing stones down the river
to watch them skip
mile after mile after mile
out of sight
texts were notes we drew in the sand
that the wind would never blow over
the clouds blowing low over the model houses
every bench a billow of thick smoke
dancing in still air
on the fringe of night
I had never been to this strange alien place before
but once I arrived,
I never wanted to leave

Hey hellopoetry people,
I recently had a poem of mine published in the Ezine: **** Art Let's Dance which is published through Nostrovia Poetry. I will also have two more poems published in issue #5 which will be live this August. Tell me what you think and give Nostrovia and FALD your support and readership.

http://www.nostroviatowriting.com/issue-004.html

Keep scribbling,
Harry J. Baxter

For every single time I stumbled on loose sidewalk brickwork
I have allowed a so what? smile to cross my face
this is no roadmap
flat as the earth was all those years ago
this path is uneven
and littered with fragments of the lives of others
others who at one point may have walked down this same sidewalk
only to stumble on loose brickwork
so what?
and each parked car
that I may have kissed while backing up
has its own life
maybe the owner spends hours in discussion
how the hell did I get that scratch?
well you are welcome -
so what?
and just maybe
if you call that number
stenciled and fading in the weathered concrete beneath the bridge
you will have a good time
so what?
the homeless man I saw one morning
taking the cans out of my recycling bin
and putting them in a duffel bag
was once a ten year old boy
who did things that every ten year old boy does
so what?
and maybe every single dumb poem I pen
makes its way into the heart
of just one person
and maybe they just fly upwards
into the atmosphere
where they dissolve into wind
*so what?

We used to play guns with sticks
and we all knew how to die convincingly
with playing cards in our spokes
we summit hills atop motorcycles
ratatatatatattt
we walked through woods
explorers and pioneers
waiting for dinner or supper or bedtime
when summer was another world entirely
and the stains on our clothes
told stories
and not worries
We would carve sticks into spears
with knives our mothers did not know we had
today we hunt pheasant
we never did catch one
but we made dens deep in the woods
and climbed trees until we didn’t know how to get down
the hay bales stacked four stories high
in the farmer’s field
was a jungle gym
and when the farmer chased us away
in his combine harvester
we were playing Jurassic Park
back when girls were silly, annoying little things
that none of us were quite sure why we liked
and fights were forgotten within the hour
we had better things to laugh at
a marble composition book filled with ****** raps
and graffiti designs
we would take stones and make them into entire planets
but before long
our shadows caught up with us
a stick was just a stick
a bike just a way to beat the heat
and we were all too aware
of the special effects

take a walk to air out my skull
the summer on a week long break
no sweat forming on the brow
the cemetery almost empty
on this Saturday Morning
graves, mausoleums, and monuments
as far as the horizon will carry them
all contained by the twisting limbs
of great ancient trees
I am worrying about things
like the rent and the electricity bill
and the milk and sugar
azucar y leche
and how many cigarettes I have been smoking
these men and women
will never be alive again
to worry about such silly things
victims of the civil war
brother against brother
victims of the passing of time
breath against breath
one and all
strolling down riverwalk ave
the old train tracks running along
the spine of the James
always flowing
streaming
as birds dip in and out of the banks
and the shin high grass sways
with the music of pleasant mornings
and see a family
small children running up the grass hills
only to sprint back down at double speed
not a moment spent out of breath
and I think back to that time
when we found a quiet corner
and let the lighter light up a bowl or two
for the dead homies
and how much we laughed when one of us fell
and how much we gasped
when we saw the small tent village
of homeless people living in the wooded outskirts
their clotheslines bare in the gentle breeze
How insane it is
that we should all
walk through this park
the scent of what life promised us
fresh in the air
as we lazily stroll
through a vast field of corpses
immortalized through monumental history

Voices lift us higher than any
lifted high in locked bedrooms
voices of angels
steeped in risk
and pure love
I come across silly
or played out
or too strong
a beat up beatnik wannabe
with too many beer stories
of *** drugs and rock ‘n roll
but from an early age
the words of men turned me into
my own depiction of heroes
wounded warriors smiling in vain
despite the spite of the jealous majorities
they cast out fishing lines
and hooked me with hooks
narrative to musical to comedic
limelight and broken bic lighters
and way too much baggage to
take on tour on planes
they connect through the telephone poles
an ethernet port into my ear
I may sometimes come across
as thin as spread butter
but the voices are still all
bubbling up inside of me

The roller coasters never used to the scare me
it was always the lines which I feared
waiting and waiting and waiting
allowing my mind the space to run wild
with images of crushed, collapsed, metal
the loops and the speed never scared me
the rickety clank of the old tracks
or the hydraulic rumblings of the new
these things never scared me
it was my own mind which scared me
the certainty with which I knew
that I was never going to wait in another line
ever again
that after this,
all would be like before I was born
the hazy dark silence
of an unconscious mind
But the roller coasters?
I always used to enjoy the roller coasters

The bohemian youth are dancing with the moon
with the night
pressed firmly on their backs
the wind of a thousand seas
they tick like clocks until the world is broken
down at their feet
all around them they build up their anthills
only to play God with magnifying glasses
taking the train or bus
to broke or bust
with cackles echoing off the graying apartment walls
blowing out clouds of intoxication
into the night sky
just so they could call it art
they are building pianos out of old photo albums
and listening to all the songs
they have heard a million times
and yet still do not know
taking the missing pieces out of
abandoned cable boxes
and talking on phones of
styrofoam cups and string
waiting for the day to become night
to stop all of the nonsensical
jibber jabber
with ironic t shirts they found on the side of the road
shooting city crows from the air with BB guns
and eating greasy sandwich after greasy sandwich
in the early hours of morning
beer and beer and beer and disappointment
no noble cause of nobility
for the wannabe outlaw to hang on to
no titanic monolith of strictures to rebel against
just a pair of worn out sneakers
and an empty compass

The air is clear tonight
I am relaxed
overeager hooligans
are shooting fireworks
into the face of the muggy
night sky
The light summer breeze
smells like her
my head
is swimming with words
the right one always on the tip
of my tongue
the right one always out of reach
a family on the sidewalk
out front of their house
the women fat and weathered
the men unkempt and wiry
small children running around
laughing
and a disabled man sitting in the open door
of a car which blares bluegrass
and I am yet to walk the hills
where does this trail lead?
or better yet,
what does any of this mean?
blah blah blah
yaddah yaddah yaddah
tonight,
none of that matters

Take my ashtrays
and throw them in the street
where the ratty, shirtless children play,
sure
go ahead
drop my keys down storm drains
never to be seen again
when the skies all open up
and the rain pours out of them
it will be like you
showering me in your glances
from the other side of the desk
this train has no known destination
and I can’t make out the turns from drops
but I do know that we’ve been off track
for a few miles now
and that this boxcar is dark and dusty
no breathing room to light a fire
no time for the canned food
******* I am really lost
China st is closing in all around me
and I could have sworn I’ve seen these houses before
phantoms from some long lost dream
teasing the fringes of my memory
this necklace sitting on my desk
amid the ash and dust and ink and carvings
is my favorite thing I don’t own
my tongue is the frayed leash
which allows my mind to wander
off on infinite miles in every direction
My heart is a drum
sitting in the back corner
of a garage sale
and my words and my cigarettes have a lot in common
because inevitably
I just end up
blowing smoke

all the good luck in the world won't save you
from yourself
we were born as four young men
all at odds with something
we couldn't conjure a name for
a masochistic lightning bolt of self-destruction
streaking through us

the straight man
doing everything right
with a bottle of soda
which gets so shaken up
that it pops and spills over
on drunken occasions
body becoming synonymous with temple
a place of worship
with a strong love
for vicariously living the southern life

The anarchist
spelled ID ID ID ID
is getting ****** up
and thinking he ***** up
all too often
Mr. Insomniac
Mr. smoker's hack
ash stained fingers slowly yellowing
as the hot Richmond sun
turns our skin to leather
He is brave
he is impulsive
smart, but not smart enough
to figure out how to get out of his own way
some would say criminal
he would say unlucky
I would say
What's the difference?

The anomaly
much older than the few years he carries in his hand
to skip away as stones
across the pond
of awkward, confused, troubled adolescence
at home in front of a room full of people
doing stupid ****
in clever ways
making them laugh and laugh
at home locked away for countless summer days
in his bedroom talking to strangers
in some online video game
he reminds me much of myself
which is why I have always carried
the chips on his shoulders
close to my heart
because if we raise him right,
he'll be better than all of us

The OCD CEO
the creative type
with a metaphorical hippy flower in her hair
a teacher
a healer
a support beam
and a ******* basket case
gifted in the tongue with the art of embellishment
and when her kingdom comes under attack
she uses love as a shield
and guilt as a sword
she can read all the words
but only if they are jumbled
in the precisely right order
just because
"That's how it should be"

The King of Abdication
made of steel and iron
as still as a stone until
the scent of blood reaches his nostrils
so strange to see the visage in the shattered mirror
of cold, calculated, killer on the battle field of capitalism
nerdy, awkward, silent on the battle field of human relations
A rolling stone
who always rolled on back home
who taught me
that sometimes you have no other option
but to buckle down, take the hits
be a man and finish the job
as well as you can
frugality and hard work and yaddah yaddah
surprised me when he told me
"Sometimes you just need to jump,
Jumping was the best choice I ever made"

The Rebel,
highly frustrating
intelligent
confident in his lack of self-esteem
unaware of what happened in those hazy years
to lead him to reach out
to total strangers
like he was begging for a new toy
"Look what I made! Isn't it good?
Please tell me it's good.
Please tell me I'm okay."
who never liked being told
"I'm older than you, so do what I say"
so he made it his own personal mission
to do the opposite whenever he could
regardless of what it meant for him
and in his mind
he paints himself as missed genius
too intelligent to ever be happy
with the world he lives in
and in everybody else's mind
he is a whiny little kid
in need of a kick in the pants and a job
a grade A reality check
before his burning protest
leaves him stranded with no bridges
a hermit of his own making
constantly looking for that human attention

The cast is in place
the audience are taking their seats
but this isn't a play
not a comedy, tragedy
not a hope
nobody knows how it is all going to end
but like fair weather NASCAR fans
they are just there for the crashes

Warning:
To all involved
Tomorrow D-day comes
Move out from bunkers
Retreat to the family unit
Time has ran out of breath
And is panting on the sidelines
She wasn't a dime piece
Slightly better than a nickel
And my choices scar her thighs
My memories
Already miss her taste
That I never knew
She was always there
On inebriated nights
When the stars tried to call me home
And I
Will never forget her

I dropped out of school after my first semester of freshmen year. My parents had just gotten a divorce. I was in a state of perpetual, adolescent, hopeless confusion.
I've always loved stories. Fiction or nonfiction didn't matter. Just as long as it blew my mind. I, like so many before me, was going to be a writer. Not just any writer either. No, I was going to be part, Hemingway, part Kerouac, part bukowski, and part Thompson.
The decision was made. I only had one problem: I couldn't tell anybody my plans. I am a privately educated kid from England. My path was laid out before me. Hard work to college to minimal success to family life to riches I never knew existed. So I wrote up a fake class schedule. For some reason it contained multiple French classes... I don't know either.
So every week day I would "go to class". Which meant I was walking to the Bowe street starbucks with a pen, a journal, and a laptop. I wrote so much terrible poetry that year you could replace me with any teenage girl suffering from rejection and self-conscious body issues. But you know what? I put the ******* hours in. After a while I found something which I could pretend was my style. I started getting emails from strangers telling me how good my poetry was. I got a lot if reads - 100,000 before I knew it. My head was so big I had a hard time fitting through doors.
Have you ever got so high you forgot your own name? I have. The *** helped me ignore the constant whirring of anxious thinking. The drink helped me shed my politically correct layers of defense. The validation from my poetry ensured my needy feet would never touch the ground. My pride told me everything was fine. Better than fine.
So I started writing less and less. Started staying in more and more. *** fueled day dream benders became a regular thing. Icarus had never came so close to a fake sun.
People started to notice. Aggravating talks about my potential and intelligence. Horrendous awkward dinners with my family. My mum used to tell everybody that I was writing a novel. I didn't have the heart to say I was lucky to get one poem on paper everyday.
Friends stayed distant. Girls came briefly and left as quick as their legs could take them. I became a ghost, haunting the streets of Richmond with bohemian declarations of... "True freedom." Life had lost it's luster. My control was slipping.
The story I would like to tell is that I won. Conquered cultural wilds to paint myself a noble individual. But none of that happened. This isn't a story of my success as a voice of a generation. This is not a story of redemption. This is a story about a confused kid who gave into the temptations of spontaneous decisions. A kid who needed help and advice but was too proud to know how to ask. This is the story of coming to the brink, and not caring if you fall.
So where am I now? I'm back in school, dealing with feeling like I have severely underachieved. I am waiting tables for people I could care less about. I am catching up with my Friends and peers who have already surpassed me. But I am alive. I am still writing. I am here to tell you that life punches in no pattern. Haymakers come with jabs, and the bell always seems to far away. You don't beat life, not even on a technicality. You just give everything you can to try and go the distance.

Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality

see we don’t take anything too seriously
meet up at my place for some *******
splashing in a pool of **** your stuff
they only told us to do as we were told
so we always did the opposite
calling self-destruction noble individualism
take a GB or two or however many get’s the job done
I hear some medicinal **** is coming to town
and yeah grab me another beer
because it’s noon and today still looks ugly
muscles are tripping on lactic acid
stomach growling
but the coffee keeps the leash tight
when the word sober puts your teeth on edge
and the part-time gig scratches your throat
we’re the silly people who weave in and out
of anonymity
with music too loud
and choices too poor
the junkies and jokers are carrying me to the river
because it gets hard to paddle upstream sometimes
and laughter is really only the second best medicine

My brain is jumping rope with my responsibilities
my heart is putting pins on my seat
and my words are thumbing their nose
high as a kite with a *** addiction
laughing like it’s all I have to go on
I just put my sunglasses on
so the drive thru cashier
doesn’t see the glassy red mischief
taking a selfie with the planet
keeping in touch with my unhealthy habits
I’m not chasing
***** that
I’m riding the rabbit
excuse me sir,
but could I trouble you for the time
all I’m asking for is a few more hours
to play hide and seek with my inner child
and tickle the monsters under my bed
the voice in my head is off on tour
so the mice are playing cat
prowling the alleys of recess city
to find that fine feline
who tells me she’s a dog person
TV made my couch a dime piece
music made me see things differently
and writing gave me a false sense of invulnerability
so I write another poem
pen another cry for validation
told my mamma I’m shooting for the moon
but he’s one crafty *******
and my water pistol is full of bourbon
not sure if I’m crazy or sane
not sure if I’m playing the game
or riding a train to arrested development
but let’s get a cup of coffee
and debate waking up before noon

walking through artificial American Dream
where the air tastes like $100 shirts
and the fraternity of extravagance
the light shines through the perfectly spaced trees
to turn everything filigree
and all of the people
walking tall and confident
like plastic action figures of success
the silver spoon tastes bitter
when it’s been in someone else’s mouth
just like the $30 dollar entrees
and the four story department stores
these people are not my people
my people sport scars which they wear like tattoos
my people sport second hand cars with junked up speakers
A ferrari engine sounds like a the cries of every young kid
who falls into ghetto trappings of big dreams gone unmatched
and even the homeless people were eating ribs
drinking starbucks
with cups filled with ten dollar bills
the prestige drips down the wall
like fresh spray paint
to drip into storm drains
where diversity goes to die
this alien land of hostile takeovers
and university donors
where the **** is non-existent
but *******, cirroc, and xanax
flow freely
chemical castration of the lazy philosopher
an injection of man made ambition
where the hands on the Rolex
keep tight around throats
because being late to that meeting is no option
Children being driven around by chauffeurs in Bentleys
women being driven by the promise of security
I think to myself
I’ll never see the benefit in the scheme
which leads to El Dorado
and Atlantis is just a myth
maybe I just bleed the black and Gold and Richmond
like the ink dripping off my hungry fangs
to see the benefits of injecting a syringe
of Hoya blue liquid sapphire
to get so high
that I lose sight of the ground forever

She was walking down the street
and the way she looked -
the way she seemed to glide over
the litter strewn concrete
in that thrift store sundress -
punched me right in the throat
she said she didn’t have a name
said she was raised by wolves
Well I guess that’d make you a *****,
right?
she asked me for a lighter
for her American Spirit -
the turquoise box -
and she smelled like diner coffee
my ashtray
and cheap perfume
the black smudges of makeup
lining her face
told me that she was no stranger
to long nights
and I told her
I’m no stranger to
falling for pretty girls
maybe one day
I’ll be there to catch you
she said,
walking away down the street
disappearing into the spot
where the horizon meets my imagination
I pulled up my pants
and went off looking for a soft landing

“...I have no time for the ignorance of others.”
said the fool
“I know what I’m doing. I can handle my own ****,
thank you very much.”
Said the marked man
“I’ve still got plenty of time to salvage this thing.”
said the wrongful optimist
“okay, smarty-******* - what would you do?”
Said the *******
“I do just fine on my own. Im better off.”
Said the man, too focused on not drowning
to see the land all around him
“I’m better than that guy, why should I have to wait?”
said the novice
“I just need some more time to practice.”
said the wary apprentice
“I just need some free time”
said Mr. Self-deception - Self-appeasement
“I just need to rest my eyes.”
said Mr. I’m going to pass out on this couch
“I love you.”
said the stepping razor
“I’m happy.”
said the drug addled hobo
“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, I promise.”
said the teenager with a penchant for trouble,
as he stole smokes from his sleeping parents
“I need you to tell me how ******* incredible I am,
so I can tell you how wrong you are
with a real nice feeling in my gut
like a double shot of let it be”
said the silly little wannabe artist
“***** this place. **** all of these
over emotional teenagers
and **** this sanctuary
for circle jerking back patting”
said the sore loser
“Can I start you guys with something to drink?”
said the street corner beggar
as he looked for five dollars
to eclipse the gas light
of the speeding hatchback
“I wish you wouldn’t worry so much about me.”
said the skeleton covered in skin,
tendons,
sinews,
and strained muscles shaking from the nerves
“Want to go out tonight?”
said the bored future adult
running away from the sunset
“I just have no luck.”
said the guy who didn’t spend enough time
breaking walls and knuckles
in the basement of anonymity
“What do you have to say to that?”
Said Harry J. Baxter -
the smart-assed kid
in a 20 year old’s body
with an expensive pen
and dime store poetry
falling out the pockets
of his sagging pants
“What do you have to say?”
Said the empty blank pages
of the happily chaotic universe

The walls are vibrating
with sweat pouring
my artificial heartbeat
is the recorded sounds
of feet taking flight up sidewalk runways
pouring with sweat
heart exploding
and maybe if it does
I can get something on the page
for you magnificent sons of *******
but my appetite will be vanquished
in t-minus one hour
the extended release of last nights beer
and smoke permeating through skin
blow it in the air
to show the trip wires
my desk chair dusty and lifeless for too long
“how’s the writing going, Harry?”
about as well as when poets try to be real people -
so a lot of complaining and selfish procrastination -
but my crosshairs are all aligned
trigger finger itchy
the sarcastic, *****, dropout, “just rolled out of bed”
cynical wordsmith
with a chipper chip on my shoulder
and just like lays you can’t just have one
so I’m quick to 86 any competition
who are too quick to toe over my line
you don’t wake a hibernating bear
and you certainly don’t poke the starving wolf
when the grease from last night’s dinner
coats your skin like slime
my hands are shaking
and homework is due by the start of class yesterday
But I’ll be fine, Ma
I’ve got a mouth full of big talk
and eyes full of short sighted leaps of faith
my soul blows through alleys, avenues, and storm drains
and it tastes just like little kid medicine
something artificially sweet masking the bitterness
When I was a little **** -
making dens, kicking cans, and ringing doorbells -
they told me I could be anything
except tall enough to ride all the good roller coasters
so now, I’m a carnie in a booth
getting revenge on the world
by ignoring all the kids screaming
for me to stop the ride
I’m no artist
far cry from a poet
I’m a kid, too smart for his own good
too dumb to know better
to confused to guess at the ending
of this movie

I was in a rush to grow up
look Mom no cuts
just a stomach of disgust
and the fear that I might go nuts this year
........
I've lost all faith in a world so full of hate
and I don't ******* love music
I just use it to escape
but wait,
I'm caught between wanting to punch someone in the face
and putting a bullet in my head to leave the human race
everything takes its toll
but no there's no toll I can take
I haven't yet found a good reason to be awake
Introducing my corroded bumps I hide behind my smile
I'm angry with the universe for the way she treats me now
and keeps me down
stealing all my energy
feeling like my enemy
concealing my identity

I write poetry
Because it is easy
Mix metaphors
With simple similes
An awesome analogy
Don't let the diction get too decipherable
Don't let the fiction get too ****** up
We all know how a story should work
Make me emotional
Make me feel something
So I can feel human
Because I'm a lazy
Emotionally repressed
Kid with a shoulder full of chips
And a mouth full of ******* jokes
So make me whole
Mr poet
While I fantasize
About all the ways
You could die

You are all pigs
Well what does that make you?
Sweetheart, I'm no stranger
To drinking too much
And wasting my potential
You are no stranger
To having overshot your potential
And being an over-serious, pretentious *****
No, you are just some dumb kid
High on your impotent,
Pseudo-self-righteous rage
Yeah, and you're just some *****
Too afraid of the clinking
Of your own die
No, I'm just under appreciated
I'm a ******* visionary
Your head melts obviously
Gasoline ruining this perfect puddle
With ******* ******* rainbows
I wish you wouldn't swear
I wish this world worked right
And I really wish
We weren't all
Just a bunch of filthy pigs

A taste for being inebriated
The sense of dissolving completely
Into the silence of night
I learned how to spot a spinning room
For a cheap carnival, parlor trick
I can't tell birds apart by their chirp
But I can appreciate a beautiful day
Even when everything feels lost
Poetry gave me a voice
And taught me when to shut the **** up
It showed me to see the angels
Trapped inside of everybody
Begging to come out
But it also showed me
When to be wary of a lost cause
Poetry gave me a way to vent
When I could feel the chaos I life
Crawling up my throat
Poetry gave me vision and a fresh perspective
Poetry have happiness
And self discovery
And love
And for all the bruises I carry
I wouldn't trade it in for anything in the world

You painted me an image
Of rolling southern fields
Struggling to stand up right
Beneath the muggy, humid sky
You wrote me song
Called it city living
You never told me
That instead of the ambitious, bohemian dream
I'd cut myself - deep - on the edge of things
You gave me a small taste of your scent
It smelled like good tongue kissing
But it was never groupies with no *******
Only a constant stream of falling into
The hard concrete of an impossible love
With a beautiful angel
Back then -
Where the reds were rosier
And I was so impressionable
You promised me so much
Maybe I deserve these bruises
Which tattoo up my entire body
Weaving a story
Of willing betrayal

I'd sign every letter I write you with a kiss
Only Manila envelopes taste like ****
Besides,
Who the hell writes letters anymore?

There are two parts of me
One's a daydreaming little kid
Sitting on his ***
With an empty notebook
And a box of colored pencils
The other is a mean, bitter, cynical,
Angry grown up with a mustache
But **** does he get things done
As he drags the little kid
Along behind him
By the collar of his shirt

they say the working man gets a good night's sleep
well I haven't much use for sleep
see, in this jungle of a world
you have to be sharp
your wits a finely honed machete
to cut through thick overgrowth
to reveal the salivating predators
waiting in ambush
so the old saying gets a little warped
everybody has to sleep once they're dead
and everybody has to die
these lines all have final destinations
so I'm trying to convert my train car
into a roaming idea factory
with somewhere by the open window in the corner
where I can kick my feet up and drink a cold one
these cigarettes and cups of coffee
are fighting valiantly to keep these eyes of mine from falling shut
but already I feel myself drifting as these words stream through me
flowing off to some distant stranger's dinner plate
my body is made of heavy wood
not much in the ways of joints and movement
but I beg you
to crack open my skull
and siphon out these silly little poems
from the swirling wreckage

The thing about growing up is
you never asked to be a grown up
in fact
you never asked to be anything
not even to be born
and yeah yeah yeah
I know
your parents gave you a life with potential
a roof
and three square meals maybe
but they also gave you
expectations to avoid resentment
to burn brighter
and maybe you prefer the dark
or to spark up whatever drug you can get your hands on
they would really like it if you were responsible
but it is that possible when the thought of letting people down
has you not getting out of bed until 1pm
I'd rather see you smile than frown
but this clown is running out of jokes about how patience kind of sounds like patients
and this bottle isn't doing the trick
and the tricks I work to make this all come together
now seems a whole lot less important
the apathy can sneak up on you
guerrilla commando trekking through the jungle of your doubts
it was one hundred degrees when I went to work
and storming when I left
****, did I forget to close the windows on my car?
are my phone, cigs, and lighter still breathing?
am I?

poetry started out as venting
became something more
something fingers can never quite grasp
the word always on the tip of my tongue
so I always lose the plot halfway through
and end up rambling like the drunk closing down the corner stool
do my words fall on deaf ears
or do they spark the ignition of emotional explosions
so big they measure on the Richter scale?
Time will tell
I only hope that by the time
time catches up with me to tell me
I will be gone
far away
off on my next big thing

Take in a few more gulps
swallowing your pride
the only time this world makes any sense
is when the room is spinning
poor little baby bird
fell out of the nest all too soon
the ground is hard with tall grass
where predators lurk
listen up, kid
you need to learn to aim true
find ways to smile through pain
and yeah, it's okay to cry
just leave the door to your heart open a crack
do not forget to stand tall
the night sky is resting in your palms
each star a cosmic reflection
of every sleep laden dream
you've been smoking up all of my punchlines
that you didn't get
******* for the temptation
of somebody kind enough
to maybe love you for you
listen, little clubber
before this long winding road grows open
you need to make friends
with the man trapped in the mirror

She is starlight
Fighting for the moon's attention
As she moves in sync
With the peace of this earth
Sparking fires In the fields of my imagination
She coaxes me forward
Towards some beautiful disaster
My eyes caught in her gaze
As I float among the wreckage of my ship

She is a healer
Who never healed her own wounds
So she gives and gives
An leaves just the smallest trail of blood
She lives in a house full
Of punched out funhouse mirrors
With a bottle in one hand
And her not so innocent good intentions
In the other
She makes me feel like some dumb little kid
Riding his bike way too fast down a hill
No helmet, just a grin

The way she is so full of that nervous energy
You get the feeling that she is always moving
Kinetic
With eyes closed and music playing
The way she seems like nobody is watching her
She fixed her broken acoustic
By taking my heart strings
And strumming them against pretty fantasies
Just because she missed the sound

On this earth many do wander
Whether she has a flower in her hair,
Gum in her mouth,
A cute 2nd hand outfit
With cute first hand scars to match
Out there -
Walking with the weight of their clipped wings
Resting heavily on their back -
Are the fallen angels
And I wish I knew how
I might teach them to fly again

Give me poetry.
Life splashed over
Blank page after blank page
Time over lust
Are you ready?

today lead me to music
to beauty
to love
i'm usually the ***** poet
the drinker and smoker
the under achiever
but tonight
I feel capable of
inhaling the benevolent energy
of 100 suns
of swallowing whole
a whole a spoonful of love
I love talking in cliches
because **** being real
i wear headphones
so I can ignore the world
swipe right on tinder
Let me be your latest fix
I'm the smiling faced jester
looking to win the ****** race
but you make me happy
happier than minimal clouds
the sun is shining
I am red
but I feel as if
I bathed in orange and deep yellows
**** my poetry
this is a status check
I hope you all are fine
the people with whom I connect

I love the light
the way colors appear before us
varying hues and shades and textures
vibrant or dull
but always alive
the way light bends around us
to reveal a reality
an illusion
I love the light
for showing me that a dark bedroom
is nothing to be afraid of
I love the light
for filling me with strength
for healing me
that blazing ball of gas we circle
some cultures worship it
and I can see why
light gives life
light gives color
light gives darkness
and excitement
light…
the promise of something fresh
something new
“got a light?”

Crack a hole in my skull
to let some light in
I’m walking around confused
checking out the numbers
on the side of houses
I’m walking around whistling the theme tune
of a movie I never saw
in light tinted green through newly sprung leaves
I bask in the holy midday sun
everything so fresh and new
it makes one forget about mistakes
and tomorrows
and consequence
pour me a strong, cold drink
I want to live life
on an endless back porch summer night
where the insects and the trees make their music
as we slowly let go
of the parts of ourselves
which hold no real weight
cut me to see if I bleed
I bet the blood would never come
too thick from the sweat induced
dehydration
I’m drinking iced coffee
on an infinite stretch of broad street
I’m climbing the trees of my childhood
to pick the fruits of my memories
they taste like nostalgia
and they taste like you
how I imagine you taste
if we were cast together
outside of time
these are the musings
of a mind riddled with growing up

I am a purveyor of sin
sins the things which define us
which mark our character
and make us human
give me your sins
your ***** little secrets
too overwhelming for many mortal ears
give me confessions of lust
and passion
and rage
and jealousy
and I will give you beautiful stories
of times when sin saved the day
gave life to the mundane
give me your lies
the whopping big ones
just know that I have built my house out of lies
and am no stranger to their seductive ways
give me your dreams which became nightmares
your shame
your darkness
give me the parts of you
most people would never see

The sun in the air is a pinprick
And heaven is leaking through
Birds shot forth as arrows
Rip through divine scenes
Of colorful vibrance
With their songs
Infecting my idle tongue
With rhythms of untold tomorrows
Living inside of the holy kaleidoscope
Shaken in an infinite snow globe
The time is melting down the brick of city walls
To pool in the streets
Like gasoline rainbows
Clipped winged angels eating Eden
Without any notion of good and evil
Black and white
Reality flickers like static
And I am a man
Lost in the sanctity
Of a wonderfully calm
Vast sea

I am up at night
sending my prayers to anonymous strangers
because maybe they have the answers
maybe not the ones I want, but the ones I need
there is something beautiful about them
human blank canvases
potential for beauty
comedy or interest
their nameless faces
playing on the projector of my mind’s eye
the closest I have come to finding God

the streets are comfortably empty right now
silent save for the trash blowing down the streets
the murmur of an engine and the slapping of tires
but danger lurks off screen
a constant constant
men with nothing to lose but their desperation
and still the air is sober and calming
my head is racing and I am losing
I didn’t even show up on time
we all want to think we make the decisions
we all balk at responsibility
we have excuses
faces to point fingers at
I came upon a homeless man sleeping in a doorway
by almost tripping upon his pair of emaciated, ratty legs
he was sleeping
an absurd notion in his situation
just right there on the street
in some strange doorway
beneath an array of indifferent stars and galaxies
I stood there watching him for a moment
which felt like hours
and I don’t think this man dreams
I think for him a night of safe sleep
in a doorway
is his waking dream
Turning around I left him there
and the quiet streets of the city I love so dearly
seemed a lot less quiet

she came and went
just out of reach
like a dream escaping your mind
as the night escapes the sky
a whiff of perfume from a passing stranger
that takes you back to some memory
you can’t quite remember
unexplainable
I’m tumbling all over myself
fumbling with the words I know
and the language I do not
silly boy
I have some questions for you
and I would have said anything she wanted
so long as I could leave my message
in fingertip cursive in the steam on her mirror
I wish to catch you beneath back porch moons
a lightning bug in my jar
in hues of red passion
and purple contemplation
my hands running through her hair
fingertips gently tracing the arch of her spine
hobos walking alone through the railway dust
she is the claw game toy which fell at the last minute
I’ve been up late at night
scouring every darkened corridor and upturned rock
pebbles to be skipped across the pond
always looking for another taste of that perfume
maybe tonight
as I am resting in deep sanctifying sleep
maybe we will cross paths
and fall atop each other in a heap of love and sweat
and maybe in the morning
I won’t forget her

a man stands in an empty lobby of his apartment building
the night had hit its stride and was walking tall
in front of the closed doors of the elevator his finger falters
lingering just as the red display reads: 4F
he is confronted with a decision
up or down?
above him lies his apartment, his home
his girlfriend of many years
conversation about his day and the promise of a meal
then television and watered down beer
endless talking about the rent and what the new girl did at work
talks about relationships and the ever-looming future
what comes next?
the man pulls out his phone absently checking the time
below him are the basement apartments
and the apartment of the girl he met last week
when the trash chute was clogged so he had to go all the way downstairs
the girl who lives alone with barely any furniture and no heat
the girl whose brown hair always bears the sign of a good morning
tangled and askew
the girl whose thrift store clothing clings to the contorts of her body
so effortlessly
the girl who had once said
feel free to come over sometime. We’d have a lot of fun
I can keep a secret if you can
he pulls out his phone and checks the time again
he is late
his finger presses firmly against the up arrow
the elevator chugging to life
he fixes his shirt as the doors open with their familiar bell
the man enters the elevator and presses the button for his floor
and goes home

the children are all running wild among the crab grass
eating the wrong colored berries that their parents warned them of
just to find out for themselves
they play cops ‘n robbers
cowboys and indians
a gun is a stick is a gun
and I’m sorry to say
but that kid over there just shot you dead
you have to fall over now and play tragedy
a mess of sticks, plywood, and leaves is a home
they all ate way too much candy
and are throwing up rainbows all over the new carpet
crying over spilt ice cream melting on the pier
cringing not from the ****** skinned knees
but the expected sting of the alcohol
the only thing they fear is sitting still alone
now watch them as they try to ride the neighbors dog
and climb trees so that they might have the view of Gods
gambling their future for fun
not fluent in the language of consequence
and they don’t get too worried about what they don’t have
because they haven’t developed object permanence yet
not yet are they jaded from life
they run around in the hot sun with red ears and noses
until the sun goes down and their mothers call them home for supper
and we envy them only because they know so much less than us
and ignorance is bliss

the rain comes to wash away the sins of yesterday
so that new life might bloom
droplets of water clinging to bare limbs
become paintings of flowers by the morning
and you could use a little rain right about now
head as heavy as your sleepless eyes
stomach as tight as your constantly clenched fists
at night you get lost within the trappings of your mind
a dark maze of funhouse mirror illusions
and you pray for relief
prayers which do not come with answers
so you you search for something to hold on to
just for a little longer
but these solutions are lead weights disguised as floatation devices
and those water wings melt beneath the unforgiving sun
you so tired
you so willing to let go
so willing to be saved by whatever arms may find you
the couch is laughing at you
the TV is egging you on
and that girl who just walked by -
I think her name is nothingness -
looks so **** good
that you are way past the point of seduction
another day goes by only to become weeks
to become months to become years
to become a life of “if only”

do not be fooled by those
who only profess wisdom in times of darkness
these wolves dressed to be lambs
these monsters under your bed
they are not your friends
a match is useless without a strike
and a blazing fire is irrelevant in the absence of cold and darkness
take these times and wear them on your sleeve
let them be the reason you shine so bright
so that you might light up another’s darkness

Thunder clap alarm clocks
keeping you up at night
your fingers and feet
keeping rhythm with the patter of rain
against your dusty window
the nights are of an unimaginable blackness
and the days are as grey as the endless stretch of city blocks
gravity is trying to hold your feet to the fire
and you cannot feel a thing
the answer isn’t in the lock and key
the answer is what you are willing to do
to open Pandora’s box
love is not something you can find on a page or screen
love is the moon following the sun
until the time comes again where they can meet
a beautiful eclipse
life isn’t a roadmap route with point A and point B
life is the story of how that map came to be
so torn, wrinkled, and stained
and the weeds fighting their way through gaps in thee concrete
lust isn’t a sin, only a way to cling to childhood selfishness
peace isn’t achieved through self-torment
peace is befriending the voice inside of your head
so that the thunderstorms might fade
to reveal a picturesque summer day
and you have to be willing to sit through the show
to see what’s behind the curtains
and I truly hope you have the patience

The moon hung lazy in hazy city sky
the air silent and pure - untouched
and she was the anima to your animus
that pretty little thing you sat in an empty parking lot with
talking until three AM
she was touching her hair a lot
and you remember reading something about body language
which said that means she likes you
courage isn’t being born standing tall
courage is knowing when to follow your love off that cliff
courage is faith that somehow she will be there
waiting to catch you
a safety net made of shy smiles
and a nervous mouth filled with run-on sentences
and paint stained hands on your ribs
a soul isn’t some ephemeral entity trapped inside of you
a soul is the anger and lust and passion that directs you
all of these words are silly little fickle things
pigeons which take flight the moment you get close
all of these actions are breathless, frail things
old men and women determined to take the stairs
she told you that you she had fun
you said me too
and I want to see you again
she said me too
sitting there in that empty lot
the heater barely on in the car
beneath a canvas full of long dead stars
you took a leap off of that cliff
and for a moment
you forgot how to drown

I've been in a writing slump lately. I don't know why. I've been focusing on being a real human being again - getting back into school, being more sober, working more, making more money, working out, being more social. But whenever I find the time to write I just feel tired and want to sit on my *** watching tv. I don't know, this is just a rant I guess. I'm going to try to work on it. Keep scribbling guys- Harry J. Baxter

Me - “My Mum’s getting worried” skinny
You - “God I want you right now” beautiful
Us - “Are they hanging a painting up?” loud
It’s release kindled with belief
that you could find that corresponding jigsaw piece
and I’m a corner piece - easy
and you are an outdoor cat - hardly tame
in that pair of black workout pants
and that flowing dark hair
You are like Spanish
beautiful, strange thing I can’t get my tongue around
I’m like somebody lmaoing on a chat room
efficient with my lack of substance
laying on the bed watching you get dressed
I drag on my imaginary post-******
because I know you hate the smell of the real thing
unless its staleness is imprinted deep in my clothes
this disease has no known cure
the way the images slideshow their way behind my eyes
the way my blood is rerouted
every time I catch a smell of your sweat
or a memory of your taste
like faces on passing trains -
eyes locked momentarily
I went from student to drop out to student to lover of life
if life were a metaphor for the way you move those hips
you said you don’t know how to dance
well your tongue must’ve been taking night classes
maybe one day I’ll ask your last name
maybe one night you’ll say mine like a confession
but until then, special little stranger, keep bringing that *** over to my place

I’d write you a love song
but my ears lack the right components
and I would write you a ballad
if I actually knew what that is
I would make the hands on the clock
stand still so that we might share an infinity of moments
but all of my clocks are digital
I would buy you a whole closet and then some
fancy restaurants and swanky clubs
but I have five bucks and bills to pay
I would be honest with you
only I have such a hard time being honest with myself
I would be brave at all times
only I am riddled with fears of what comes next
I’d paint you a picture of perfect
but perfect is a word made up to make us want more
I’d give you more
but right now I feel I’ve got nothing left
I’d love you and be with you
but I only want what I can’t have
I’d be everything you need
only I’m a lazy assed poet
so I wrote you this

just be yourself
unless yourself is a ****** ***** *****
unless who you are
rocks the boat
because we don’t to get splashed
unless who you are makes us uncomfortable
climb down from that edge who do you think you are?
this isn’t a movie. grow up
as long as that is who you are
just be yourself
as long as who you are wears the same uniform
with the same lapel patches and flare
just be yourself
unless whoever the hell that is does better than me
the only thing more dangerous than a mob
is an envious mob
so who you are better be modest and humble
and mumble those bumbling opinions
because we don’t want to hear anything
we want to be told
just be yourself
unless you are afraid of social pariah exile lifestyles
be yourself but keep that trap shut
because this is a game of respect
and we are all your elders so stand up straight and tuck that shirt in
listen up kid you’ll never make it with that attitude
so shut the hell up and eat your vegetables
just be yourself
here’s ‘being yourself for dummies’ just to help
one tip - yourself better not be top shelf
talented is another word for targeted
so be yourself -
so long as yourself is a commodity we can sell
for high profit margins
to kids who are just trying to figure out
how the hell they can be themselves

the jingle jangle of those things you dangle
from neck stretched thin with shiny things
call me a magpie
call me a baller
a shot caller
a hip hop drama starter
kicks so fresh they came from the produce section
this flash of blood diamond on my wrist
costs more than the home I don’t have
if I hit the switch I could make that *** drop…
got my obnoxiously huge candy painted cans on my head
so I can only hear the ads I want
and these threads reek with so much swag
the sweat, blood, and tears of little brown and yellow people
I couldn’t give a **** about
dropping three hundred on my mall haul
and they have the nerve to ask me for the rent
sounds system off the hook plasma on the wall
more **** than an abandoned lot
more thoughts forgot than cops in krispy kreme
with a water gun and ski mask for when times get hard
me and my friends are going to blow two months salary
on lap dances and ******* fantasies
“Aint that new track dope?”
“Yeah”
“You heard it?”
“Naw, but they were talking about it on world star”
this floatation device is going to be too heavy
and I am going to drown in all of this fly
fresh to death