Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 36
Table of

Voice is a State of Skin
August 1, 2017

Velvet, suede, zebra
hides, soft veal leather
Fur, fluff, feather, febrile,
Powdered in a crepe way
Out of line. Mine. Satin
Slip into my bed. Pelt,
pelt a resting woman
with all she longs to hear,
feel, envelop your satin-
skinned, sultry voice, sweet
as a square of deep-pitched

              Cheetah and tiger
A yin-yang rotoscope of
skin, skin to shoot at in
the night, choke in brutal
neutralization, skin to rape,
enslave, to malign, burn, hang.
A sin to refuse to recognize the
skin of the mother of us all.

I love your skin, I want
to ally with and kiss away,
to heal from the pallor
of my own, from the arm
of law, skin of my brother
and sister, should not my
so-called race flee the throne
of oppressor in disgrace?
Yes, sir, your skin is as
color-conscious as mine—
Your skin so dear to me,
as dear as my own. Yet…

In the end, are we not all
the same sapient creature in
a blessed rainbow of hues?

  Joanie HF Zosike __

News Report
December 11, 2017

We don’t want to have a metal detector
every ten feet
We want to be live without a constant
invasion of privacy
A disgruntled livery driver blows it
in Port Authority
We cannot expect to stop every attack
The family of the amateur bomber was
escorted from the home
Anything that falls from the sky tomorrow
will be rain

  Joanie HF Zosike__

©C.TvM: Lijnbaansgracht
March 16, 2016, NYC

116 sheep, many of them pregnant, were
Shoved to the border of their owner's land
By centurion dogs possessed by driving
Their charges, in that way mean dogs do
Fangs glistening, they flaunted authority
As if they were humans herding refugees
To the torn frontier of their birth country
Forcing them against razor-wired fences
Neither letting them cross the frontier
Nor giving them sanction to remain

  Joanie HF Zosike__


Rust is a Mimesis of Dust
November 26, 2017

Imitation is limitation, and thus, the red domain of rust
Is somber, warming, comforting, as the brown of dust is
The gate we guard against. Mimsies will seduce us with a
Rapid rotation of states of being, here and gone. Mimesis
Projects a future, one of twirling the red and brown of
Nature, which we fail to detect as we crumble, rust to dust

  Joanie HF Zosike__
The Curator’s Indulgence

Would that I could jump on my virtual broom
Which, by the way requires no oxygen tank or peripherals
Because it’s all virtual

I’d fly beyond the limitations of flesh and mind
To every foreign corner of this truly godforsaken galaxy
And open a gallery

There I would show exhibits of great interest
To the brave souls crawling over the frontier of breath
Into a realm of cluelessness

In Room 1: a display of optical illusions occurring
In the navel of the optic nerve of the world on fire below
That’s a good one!

In Room 2: a display of what is beyond Door No. 1
Multiple outcomes, fresh fruit, non-stop information flow that
Washes the viewers clean

There’s just one more room, and it’s not numbered
Despite protestations about its worth, a jeweled case displays
A sacred human heart

  Joanie HF Zosike__