Inverted Pentagram Haiku
© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

Hellborn mind infesting,
Egomania's vengeance,
Spellbound to violation!

Robert Ronnow Apr 3

In last night's movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan
the place I was priced out of. But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love, because of love,
the love that brooks no serendipity.

Here, in my family, love is taken for granted
except when it's withdrawn and then even the trees lose all meaning,
familiarity. Now it is almost dawn:
this and that must get done in committee or alone.
Don't reach, go slow as the day will allow.
But that's not what I came to say.
Perfect rest v. having a destiny.

A complete breakdown in self-discipline.
It begins by saying nothing I do matters under the eye of eternity.
Hamlet x 5 centuries.
Add to that all the science--chemistry, physics--calculus and music
I don't know. I have sat next to, at weddings,
brain surgeons and robot engineers. I hit the street
choosing a church on Fifth Ave. or Trinity Cemetery, walking the
      heartless city.

In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the murder
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt provides us
with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness, that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
In this way the seasons have been circulating for eons via convexity.

I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway.
You trust in genetics, God, prosthetics or prayer, whatever
gets you to the morning. That's when the sun,
a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second
warms yr bones.
You may remember an old lover who's gone before
or continues to exist on another plane, in another ecstasy.

Having installed a new toilet seat
and made a few philanthropic donations
I can kick back tonight and watch movies, right?
Not. I'm ridding myself of another addiction
like illegal drugs via caloric restrictions
getting enough sleep for two people or more
and reading none of the dry words in books from the library.

When there's nothing to do, when I'm bored or dreary
I'll sit still and watch from the window, I'll wait
for the weather to change, which it will.

"The relation between fragility, convexity, and sensitivity to disorder is mathematical."  --Nassim Nicholas Taleb, Antifragile: Things That Gain From Disorder, Random House, 2012.

www.ronnowpoetry.com
Sean Scribbles Mar 22

The steel inside my forearm
Has bent beneath the tremendous heat
Of the forest fire burning in me

How it roars and screams a passionate plea
Not of agony but of fury
Both in might and out of sight

With hands outstretched
Over top the sea of burning trees
And temperatures boiling over uproariously

You’ll hear the howl of this wolverine
As it drowns out the earthly screams
Of a forest fire

Insurmountable and unquenchable by any stream

This is how I viewed the scene Mr. Logan
Renée Brookes Mar 10

I purchased a ticket to your matinée.
You sold me on the storyline.
Boy likes girl,
girl likes boy,
live happily ever after.

Everyone loves a happy ending.

Here I am, front row and center,
popcorn in hand;
clueless as to why I am alone.
In this dark, cold, empty place,
I am alone.

Nonetheless, here for you.

The curtain rises, it's your time to shine.
It's just like you said,
boy likes girl,
girl likes boy.


There are no two hearts more in unison,
though it seems something unsettles his mind.

Thoughts of her lying,
Thoughts of her cheating,
Thoughts of her leaving,
bestow tragedy.

I am waiting.
Where is the happy ending?
I am here waiting to watch you love,
to watch you hold,
to watch you unite.

I throw popcorn at your deceit,
at your paranoia,
at your hysteria.

You ripped me off.
I now know why I am alone.
In this dark, cold, empty place,
I am alone.

Phase 1.
He will be missed.

that's what they'll write on your Facebook
tombstone,
after they'll scatter your ashes
all over the big blue virtual ocean.

small pieces of your memory
will end up on people's profile pictures
(the full black ones
are small parts of your
Nick Cave t-shirt).

they'll suddenly remember
that you once existed and
that they had the honor
of not picking up YOUR phone calls.
they'll share all your favorite songs
on their side of the wall,
saying this and that
and how you inspired them
through your nonsense.
they'll hashtag your big fat ass
with that special #RIP bullshit,
knowing that you haven't
slept well in a while.


Phase 2.
Something's missing.

that's what they'll say
after a couple of months,
when they'll look at the empty places
in their bookcases
and realize that,
indeed,
it wasn't a good idea to lend their books
to a depressed as fuck mother fucker.

they'll go online
and order new books
and try to forget your absence;
your song will be played again.
you'll be an echo one more time,
water under their bridge,
a white paint mark that they leave behind on the road,
on their way to the seaside,
a decent line
in a Romanian new wave movie
that makes them smile for a second
and then, after the screening's over, try to remember..

you had the choice of carving smiles into stone or
that of throwing stones into smiles.
what do you think people saw?

Phase 0.

you don't have to live a great life.
you just have to die a simple death.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBlNUkEVA4A]

Nora Mar 2

Honeysuckle queen
Charming, stinging, so serene
Royal subject I will be
Your venomous kiss
For which I plea

insp by the eponymous movie (1955)
Andrew T Mar 1

Late in the evening, the child takes off her reading glasses
And lays on the glass floor with blurry sight and an open reality.
While her textbooks blaze their myths
in the hearthside under the black coals,
By the window is a telescope
with a scratched up mirror, the knobs can’t be adjusted.

On the table are her laminated note cards
with trivial knowledge written
in fancy cursive.

The cards slip from the countertop and drift unto dust clouds.

That is suspended in a broken imagination.
Her handwriting sits on top of weightless ambitions
and sinks through the melting mesh net.

Cough syrup puddles pollute the kitchen sink,
purple pools of empty dreams.

Undercooked food for her thought
is smoking in the oven,
but she knows the smoke will clear soon;
all that is needed is time, time and space.

Everything that matters gets clogged
up in the sink’s drain, her thoughts,
and her sanity.

She once believed she had a connection with God,
but that illusion
Left her with a soggy tissue box
just like her high-school sweetheart.
Nicholas Sparks’s novels are the bottomless hole,
which she jumps into
each night, not even pretending to trip over the ledge.

The grandfather clock laughs with her
and doesn’t act his age,
Right below him sitting on a plush pedestal
is Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
The novel not the movie.
It sits upright with its legs crossed just as a lady would,

Black sunglasses to correct her eyesight
when everything collapses in a man’s world.

The stardust on the windowsill eats
through her emotional doll house, she
Yearns for a thrill like getting hit
by a chloroform dart in her breast. She desperately

wants an intoxicating heart sickness.
Wine glasses stand in line patiently
Waiting for her to fill them up
and then swallow their anxiousness away.

She thinks of her bubbly mother
who smiles while her Dad beats her.
But every evening, she ties an apron around her waist,
turns the chicken broth stew into escape from perfection.
She uses a wooden ladle,
but longed for a silver spoon

When all she had were Vogue magazines and the black and white pictures.

The girl get up from the carpet floor,
and leans over her half-opened window.
Outside the fireflies battle the moths
for the attention of a dying lamppost.
As the flame is cremated, a street-smart bum
rolls down the street in his shopping cart,

Steering the cart with the negative weight of newspapers.
The girl lies back down

And her lighter flickers
under a torn page of a child’s diary, she twirls around
Her spectacles searching for a woman in the reflection.
But she can’t see anything

human, just an animal
who lusts for a world that exists only in Tinsel Town.

Thoughts of waiting tables in the evening
and casting calls in the morning.
Another girl who wants to be a golden star
that never shines underneath a concrete sidewalk

MARK RIORDAN Feb 28

WARREN BEATTY AND FAY DUNAWAY
GET THE WINNERS ENVELOPE
THE WRONG PICTURE WAS AWARDED
CAN THE OSCARS COPE


LALA LAND WAS THE WINNER
BUT IT WASN'T REALLY AT ALL
THE ORGANISERS GOT IT WRONG
THEY REALLY DROPPED THE BALL


IN 89 YEARS OF ACADEMY AWARDS
THIS IS THE GREATEST MISTAKE
IT WILL GO DOWN IN HISTORY
AND GIVE THE OSCARS A SHAKE

WOW THE WRONG ENVELOPE AND WRONG MOVIE IN 89 YEARS AND THOUSANDS OF ENVELOPES CAN WE FORGIVE ONE BEING WRONG.

My jet-lagged self sleeps early,
wakes early, sleeps again, reads.
Having watched one movie too many over summer
I relish the sounds designed above- a click
of a door handle, bare warm socks gliding
across wooden floor, the scrunch of toothbrush
against the rusting metal straightening yellowing teeth,
the few lone cars across the street, that hazy
early sound that only light can make as it
becomes aware of itself in my dorm room. What
kind of camera lens would make this moment more
livable and is it already dead?

As is as is is as.

By the time I get home from rehearsal,
The world has stopped.
I'm watching the movie
You've Got Mail,
and earlier the director said
our cast had finally achieved art.
Tom Hanks is a businessman
with the heart of a philosopher.
Kathleen saw a butterfly
on the subway
She thinks it went to
Bloomingdale's to buy a hat--
I envision monarchs
preferring kimonos.

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