1) Your heart is so entwined into mine that I'm not sure if it hurts you or me when I pry it out with a crowbar and leave it on your windshield.

2) You're letting boys ****** you sweaty in your backseat and I just want anyone to write about me the way all my blank pages scream about you.

3) I've always been one to root for the underdog and baby we're a million to one shot.

4) You're the Dragon and the Damsel and I'm not sure what to do.

5) You're the draft I've been writing on for months. Art is never finished.

6) I'm wicked and I'm proud, just like every fallen angel.

7) That's not a light at the end of the tunnel. It's your eyes and I think I always knew it was.

8) There is no salvation. There is no damnation. There's only you.

9) And I'm sitting outside the Pearly Gates, cigarette perched in my lips like a crow.

10) Or maybe I'm sitting on the bank of the river Styx, I'm not much of a cartographer and Dante doesn't have time for fools like me.

11) My poetry is a lip-synched prayer and my goddess has turned a deaf ear to them.

12) I was replaced by we and me by us and you wonder why I don't know who I am when you're gone.
12b) You wonder why we don't know who we are when you're gone.

Can you feel it when you synch up.

The words just come easy and things just make sense

Flow. Yeah it could be flow. Write this stuff for awhile and you may might just know.

Glide. Yeah a word coaster ride. Man just. Go up slow. And the whoop di doo comes rushing up at you almost like a high.

Stride. Sometimes I can do a forty or a 400 sprint. Then I just drop in to the runners high. Can't stop won't. Stop. Won't even try.

Mojo. Maybe.
Duende.
Spiritual.

Gotta pull back and stop now. Or it's going to be shuffle and glide
Till I drop now.

Man is it me or am I really flying.
You the reader look up and see if you see me.
Passing slow overhead turning and burning.
Out of body.

I became unexpectedly aware
of a
magnet in my chest.
an anchor under my
breast bone.
soft, quiet, almost
unnoticeable.
until later pondered alone
in a dark room.

your polarity,
being opposite naturally,
drew me slow
through the aisles in
the theatre
past people carrying
jackets
into a park
where city stars
were streetlights and
our human discoveries
were serenaded
by the spring song
of homeless men pushing
carts up the street.

As our magnets gradually
synched
I felt the heavy slide and click of
understanding
coded into songs and on the fronts of
cards

and when I let you-
I saw colours in
your kiss,
noting that some matched
your eyes.
I found home in
your arms.
like a final orientation...
like being on a road trip my whole life
without even knowing.

Became afraid.

Because really,
who understands love,
when they've never been properly
introduced?

I miss him most when he is here, when he is close enough I could reach out and touch him. But only in places that are becoming routine. I reminisce back to a time when he would handle me like glass, when he'd run his fingers though my unwashed hair while I pretended to sleep.
Our first embrace.
When we kissed on the end of my bed, his skin slippery with angst.
My clothes wrinkled, synched tight around my waist getting caught between myself and the covers.
We were two brand new tension filled lovers.

The music's best on the dark
side of town, I heard. It seemed miles
from home, after waiting in a long traffic jam
But the lights finally changed
from glamorous shining to dull neon, covered in smoke
drifting up from drifters outside the Black Cat.

By the fluorescent green sign, a cat
was painted, its fur dark
as the alley I stood in, engulfed in smoke.
The cat perched atop Miles
Davis's trumpet. Bums hassled me for change
and a few drummed on buckets, jamming

with a harmonica player, synched as jam
and peanut butter. I stepped into the Black Cat,
and from the facade saw no change.
The lights turned low, the club dark
as the alley outside. A Miles
record hovered through the smoke.

The people chattered like bees, smoking,
waiting for the players to jam.
At last, the bass player laid down a line miles
long, the drummer chinked in, and the cats
began to groove. They chilled my bones with dark
melodies, pounding through spooky chord changes.

Soon sunbeams shone through the storm, they changed
to an upbeat swing tune. The horn smoked,
hitting riffs unheard, astounding the dark
faces gazing on in awe. They jammed
endless as the ocean. The cats
started to play a popular Miles

song.  The crowd hollered in Miles'
memory as the horn steered through the changes
with the skill of the legend of the Black Cat.
The band, nearly invisible through the haze of smoke
thick in the air, strawberry jam,
soon faded to dark.

Miles Davis’s ghost flowed through the smoke,
awakened by the chord changes, grooving to the jam.
The hippest cat alive or dead, now he plays in the dark.

Picture yourself standing on the sidewalk of a busy, noise - polluted street somewhere in the city. Today, these streets are packed with people, all going places (some seem to just be wandering aimlessly, in deep thought), crossing streets side by side. As they pass you by, a fusion of scents greet your nostrils: the different odors of their sweat, some even chance upon passing the unholy stench of gas both ways, from up and down. This makes you dizzy, though you can’t complain (aloud at least). The rattle of a street child’s cup of coins, you ignore that. You have way too much on your mind. Yet, you stand rooted to the spot. Smoke-belching vehicles soon decide to join the scene, emitting thick, black puffs of smog enough to send an asthmatic, or anyone for that matter, to the hospital. Some pass by as slow as turtles. Most of them, however zoom past you, leaving you in a momentary state of disorientation, your heart’s drum-like pounding the only proof of their passing. In the midst of all this, you unconsciously glance at your watch. 2:30, it reads. Suddenly, it occurs to you: The world moves so fast doesn’t it? We all must be racing against the hands of time, seemingly synched to the clicking sounds of a metronome. When does this race end? How much time does the world have? You start to wonder how much time you have left. Flashbacks of your life come back at you like a collage. One second, you’re younger and innocent. The next, you are who you are now ---- and most things you wish you could change. You, as an infant banging your rattle ceaselessly, tugging at your mother’s skirt wiping your tears on the first day of school. A vivid memory of the night you downed your first bottle of beer---too fast. Your first kiss was good (or better said, imagining what it’s like to be kissed). Oh, and who could forget you egg-rolling on the grass --- drunk? Do you remember the day you fell off a chair from happiness and shock as you checked to see if you made it in --- and you did? You can almost feel the weight of the school medals you garnered for speeches and writing competitions on your neck. You can almost taste the menthol from your first and only cigarette puff on your lips. The sound of your coughing says you’re never going to do that again. Heck, yeah. You made some bad choices, huh? Some good, of course – don’t worry. You’re not that much of a mess-up. You continue your reverie on the way home on the LRT (another one of the firsts you remember --- going to Katipunan. You looked so ridiculous, the only one with a huge grin on her face as you held onto a pole, finally knowing what it felt like to be a sardine in a can). Some time in the middle of the ride, still in your nostalgic state, you notice a bumper sticker stuck on one of the windows. It read “Slow down”. Under that, “What will YOU do now?”

I was the frightened little kid
Who got pushed against the wall.
I wasn’t terribly masculine
Had acne and was not very tall.
Or maybe it was my intelligence
Or artistic talent that drew the ire.
It was an ever-changing list
That drew my fellow student’s fire.

Maybe it was that my game
Was never quite there for sports.
Or maybe when I did not join
On jokes about **** and other sorts
Of woman demeaning quips
They had to have learned at home.
Parental misguidance one oh one
Not learned at school on the roam.

Whatever it was, I got beaten
And locked inside my own locker.
And I got called ***** and ***.
Now isn’t that a big fat shocker?
I got shoved around in hallways
And knocked out cold by a creep.
I didn’t even know the ****
But he decided to put me to sleep.

And when the faculty was called
I was suspended along with the guy.
The school’s policy it seemed
Was to punish both kids. Ask why.
I asked and I was told sternly
That the school really did not care
The attacker and the attacked
Had the same punishment to share.

Now, in this case, the attacker was
Known to be a ruffian and a miscreant.
And I was known to be a wimp.
So why give me unusual punishment
When I was already being punished
For not being some kind of snorting ****?
This was like the school system
Giving my jaw an extra and official sock!

It would be nice to say about this
That it was a totally isolated incident,
And that principals seldom pass out
This officially thoughtless kind of punishment.
But I heard that line so many times
I could have lip-synched right along with him
As the principal mouthed a policy line
From a time grown distant and dangerously dim.

School gym coaches called us girls
If we didn’t keep up with hand-picked brutes
Who enjoyed inherited musculature
And bigot approved physical attributes.
So those of us who were who we were
And could not manage mow down the men
At the line of scrimmages
Were called ‘lils’ and fairies once again.

Night air, so tranquil,
accompanied by you and me,
and an ever gentle breeze
soothing our decree.

Words so soft,
spoken like raindrops
making love to a puddle;
majestic discretion revealed
to the only two willing souls
savoring the sky.

Nineteen hours away,
you still manage to sink
into my welcomed chest
as our synched eyes caress
a harvest moon at its finest,

the royal glow ascertaining
a profound truth heavier than
the radiant Venus hanging below
on its translucent string,
swinging with the stars,
swinging in our arms,
in our hearts;
evermore.

My mood and this rain.

By Joseph Childress

This was all expected
Though
Not intended
I've been waiting for this moment
Of contentment
I knew this
Was temporary
Rarity at it's finest
To find
The kind
Within you
This was meant
This was unpreventable
The ability
To love from such a distance
The physical properties
Physicists research arduously
Is hardly relevant
Our spirits connected
Synched
Without wires
We became electric
Telepathically
Put aside
Our pathetic attempts
At being unsympathetic
And agreed
For once
For final
For I know
Our wants
Are far more than what we need
And these
Past few years
We're important

Thank you.

i'm so aware of you i feel like your breathing is synched with my feet,
and when you smile at me nothing else exists but the air between your mouth and mine
every time you laugh my stomach is in space, every other sound dissolves into ambient noise,
the electricity when you look at me the way you do when we're not you and i
snapping quick witted quips back and forth in our own language only we understand
when you're singing i know that i've never heard music as compelling, seen eyes as captivating
when you're in a room i can sense you so much that if i don't touch you soon the stars might fall down and rip me open
because being so aware of you is like heaven only when i'm dreaming and i have to wake up

I have flash backs...
You sitting down, watching me dancing,
Watching my feet, catching my eyes,
Butterflies flowering out of my heart,
Synched in with yours and the drum beat.

I remember your smell...
Swelling into my lungs, strings singing,
Soft, smooth skin, brushing past mine,
Like silk velvet wrapping around me,
Melting my every inch, making me weak at the knees.

I look straight at your chest,
Valleys of beauty behind the black vail,
Eastern art carved on your arms,
More spins, swings, sways, pauses,
Proses of poetry, flashing, slashing my heart.

Let us create, or just dance, or just be
You and me
Here and now
Despite every which, who and how
You and me
In my head
No one can take it away, only it takes me away from my here and now.

I remember when
You wrote me a poem

I was sitting on the window sill
It was morning
You held out a piece of paper
And you read it out loud
Your voice shaking
With such sincerity
You couldn’t hold it in

I remember the warm sun
that shone onto the city
And the room we were in
that held the words you spoke to me

Everything about that day
Is forever engraved in my memory
And thank god for that

Because I remember the night before
The lamp above the kitchen table
The night we both knew we had
Found each other from another  
Lifetime, in the way our hearts beat together
and our breaths had synched


I wish I still had your poem
Never thought I’d had to think about keeping it
It’s crazy the things pain makes you do
But now that I feel better
I wish I could remember you

He joined another list
of wannabees.

Now shifting his
focus on the path that lay ahead,
he got up from the twisted sheets
that covered his solo-bed,
walked mummy-like
to his cracked porcelain-sink,
faucet dripping.

He'd seen it before,
he'd seen it in the thousand yard stare
looking back at him, wryly-grinning
in the early morning gray-glow,
heart-stopping.

And he whispered,
lip-synched these words
between another cycle of dry tears,
"Ain't nothing new boy,
I know all about pain."

you laughed
and the tulips began to bloom
they didn’t care if it was june
or how the constellations moved
for i, the sun, had found my moon
and in my photographic mind
i’d see the timeless dance
we’d find
if you did stay
i’d find new ways
to tell you how much magic
can live within the space
of your warm hands
upon on my face
how every dream
of mine would drip
out from corners of your lips
how constellations in me grew
the moment my bare skin felt you
+Cosmic love songs synched to tunes
of my lost stars that sparked in you
but when you left i swear they
grew and now you
shine through
all i do

Lights hale in a purple glow
I laid alive on the floor
Trying hard to let it all go
the way
You used to float
on a beautiful wind
Your feet touched the air
that touched my skin
I wanted to hold you close
as if that was all I had
You nearly synched into my world
You made it turn to plaid.

When I came home and found you lying on the couch
Eating vanilla ice cream and watching Oprah
On a Thursday
I knew something was wrong
I always wonder if the way I taught you
To tie little pink bows at the end of your wrists
Cut off your circulation
Causing you to slice them open
Watching the blood pool beneath you in the bathtub
It rippled, so smooth and gently
So ladylike, as you have always been taught
My girl, I know you watched me in the mirror
As I synched my waist together with different diet regiments
Plucked the hairs above my brow and beneath my chin
As if my skin grew flowers beneath its surface
Now, as I find deposits of ash and *****
Hidden in the folds of your restlessness and depression
I know it is more than teenage angst
But I wait until I can longer deny your illness
I will tell you you are not sick
Even as the blood creeps up your forearm
The scabs are gasping for sunlight
As they peak beyond the seams of your sleeve
When you are sent home from school for being suicidal
We wonder why you never told us
But you did, my girl
My brilliant girl
Though your lips never formed the words
How could we not have seen this coming?
Your father will get defensive
His armor raised as you become child yet again
Fifteen, not girl, not yet woman
It will be hard for me to ignore you during an episode
But baby, I only do this because I love you
There were no training wheels before we were dropped
Into unfamiliar terrain
This sickness is a battlefield for us, too
But we still fear the untapped power of those little white pills
It is not that we do not want you to get better
We just don't want to lose
The little girl we have always known.

I.
My heart was in my stomach,
I couldn't look at you without feeling
something, like the something I felt
shortly before you broke things
off with me, but you came back,
You came back around in time

II.
You invited me in like we had never
left off in the shortcomings of November,
You still looked the same,
The house the same,
Your bed sheets felt the same
But your lips, a different story

III.
I don't know what I expected,
looking for change in places it could
never be found
I was searching then, and I'm still
searching now, but you already figured
that out

IV.
We flowed and synched so well,
Like when we sat side by side
one another at the small bar,
People stared at us as I laughed
and laughed...they don't know what
they're missing out on,
Not knowing you, or us

V.
I know that leaves us here,
Wrapped up in the unknown,
but second chances come few and
far between,
So I will take mine with gratitude
and an open heart,
Nothing more and nothing less

Truth legit ligament to power
respondbondobango

doing going going going

Quid pro quo
list/lust

if you list, you comprehend the action
if not the function,
of wind, wine-ding a round tuitive ish in a

future you were not expecting
so soon
so soon you stress about being around orr on

point in a wavy gravy kinda pop
as the *** watched boils
and the plot thickens,

we
be
ing ing in pointed on point, spears to tear

or pierce the peace construed awry by warriors
as an anomolous right used
dark gravity-like force
an affect con no ef
fecting up the guesses that prove we may not
know everything
at once,

like you can't meet you in yesterday, without being you yesterday,

now, walk a mile, no, two, if you think that detail would change
your role from conquered slave to free man,

rather than sychophantic napoleonic fanboy

welcome to the arena,
peacemaker, said the duke aholibahma to the okie pilgrim

in the desert home of Dineh, eh, and deep in the land
allotted the Navajo,

Black Mesa Trading Post, at the edge of the event **'izon,
ever emerges from, to now,
some how,

wisdom, some say, secret/sacred learnednknowns locktawayfsumday

priests with no secrets, likka guru wit no wuwu,
ora phool fullaphilaposers supping poses
ala
Team RC, to the Pokemon kids, could mean some same ideas,
on a fractally clearrer focus,
flat
two dee, details, me, the
in othawoidsvoiciferous meme,
I must define my terms, if I would converse,

with m'owndamnedfaulcitified self,
per se,
Jose.

we have seen, by the dawn's early light, a brighter next than
you expected,

but the wind goes whither it listeth, lust to know,

learn how spiders fly, on threads,
which divert photons
you've seen,

the gleem on a strand of nanoscale near nothing spider effluent

the affect is the project in this papeerry existance as mere
words un spoke but ever once existant,
points of being possible, by any definition save non-being, seeing as, we are
measured points on a line
upon a line
upon a line and on on on in series of threes, oh oh oh please

if puns were of course a common thread, after gaseous humors
have been made family jokes, once more,
in the spirit of
a good burp complimented, not complimentary,
like Saturday soccer trophies; then

the drama feels immediated.

Peacemaker, walks the sideline. Kitty, kitty

have you need of sustenance?
might we dream of the those days old man Hicks saw/sees?

The Peaceful Kingdom, after ever when now is inside your

owned ever, after the mornings of mercy renewal began,

it is a season in the maturing of fruit set aside to feed us,

thru the winter, we last gasps
cough corona level ideas
now qualiated as the dust in the manger,

seen as motes in the sunbeams beaming us into

no room at the inn, remember that band? Bullhead City, Christmas, 1967,

go loud... we have this story happening after the trip to San Luis
for ten dollars worth of dope and a pretty fat senorita, beneath a freaky crucifix.

If the crossed threads send forrth an uncertain signal, might our receiver be the

bit of all knowing needing the upgrade, being as how,

the fabric of reality was here before me? And I, before you, but

here we are, with Rodney KIng, axin' can't we,
all jest, and get along, never

growinginging ohhhld...

ten dollarrs was alot, looking back, it may have cost the poser
playing ****, on the street in old San Luis, Mexico, 1967, we are collecting the

scene, it
was different, when I was nineteen, I noticed less, but then
I'm me.

That is how time itself is synched with reality, if it hapt, it hapt, imagined or not,

if Jesus knew what I think he knew, regarding
adultery being sufficient, in ones heart,

to get the real feel, a referee must have experienced the game.

Oh, shame, the feeling; that was never the affect of sin, that is the affect of

powerless ness to prevent the past,

hssss, let pass the gas, vent prreee explosion, better to mary than to burn,

but the padres had ways, they say. I never went to the mission...

mental time travel, things don't change,
the traveller changes,

now you are the river you can't step in twice.

How's that think?

As the sensations deepen
Within, each passing moment arrives another brush
Against your skin.
The softness gliding below my senses
Acutely confirming we are One.

Each passing moment arrives more familiarity,
Recognition of a larger family.
One, actually.
I smell your particular blend,
Can imagine where you lay at night.
Your body pressed upon mine.
The feel of the point of inner action.
That singular point, where I recognize you.
Your eye shine synched with mine.
Everything is alright.

I've known you, all my lives.
We've risen with the sun many Times,
Slept under the moons hold.
I've held you for centuries.
Wrapped amongst your cocoon.
Your embrace is my senses,
I feel you now.
I allow the grade to be seen.
The beauty, weeping, screaming,
Pleading for recognition.
I see.

You, standing shadowed curled towards below, I see you, captured,
Crippled, contained within.
You wait to break free, shred, buried so deep,
Peel into surface layers, coax down the barriers,
Enforce, insist One.
I feel you near my skin,
Your breath rides my neck,
I know you,
You speak only in my memories

The vibrations being sensed, the message understood.
Release pressure, help some laugh
Cocreator of passionate screams.
Relax bodies, say I Love You, healing.
Just be me.

My librarian.
So calculated
Controlled
Controlling
Similar.
She's decided.
I'm decided.

Synched.

Last night we had a kiss,
and i hope it wasn't our final bliss.
Your lips are comforting, like a blanket wraps around a newborn.
Synched eyes melt from underneath your heartfelt ocean bay.
Hearts erupt like a volcano and you seem through my heart tubes as they tie knots together continuing to pump 100 beats per minute.
Pounding headaches and i can't do this, i'm ******* choking on my own heart right now

Words To Love: Interconnection

Crisis after crisis: interconnected.
Deeds apparent or invisible: connected.
Phases, patterns unalike, yet linked and ‘synched’*
With Laws pertaining.
Do not question, and be certain:
Every force contains its obverse.
Things expand and then contract -
Bodies, flowers - all its contacts…

Interacting constantly, the powers of reality;
Related somehow, here and now.
And so, we reconstruct, re-form;
Nature forming forms forever.

Adapting and accommodating,
Interacting and connecting,
Thus, collecting and correcting
Continent by continent.
Intra-, inter- without end.

short for synchronised

Words to Love: Interconnection 4.18.2021 Circling Round Reality;Circling Round Everything II; Arlene Nover Corwin

this is not your ******* wonderland
its my life.
my dimension
my frequency.
step the *******
and take your hatter with you
that Cheshire grin and all manner of sin
your schizoprenic dialogue
bores me to tears
you don’t have any relevance here
I’m off creating my world with my head
I don’t need your kind of body counts
I live in hope not fear
I said good bye Long ago  to your flouts
stop trying to hold on to me
let me go
your time was never
synched
I was never a part of you
and your lies though sweet
tasted untrue
now you wonder why you’re lynched?
false eyes and false hearts
I saw you had no soul
thtas why you wanted mine
so **** much
but I knew
and now it’s time
for you to ******* too
i have no time for your pills and ills
im off to make a garden
with Mary
shes quite contrary you know
she cuts off heads
and lays pretty maids in rows
about time she became compost
and you can rot with her
as you are transpfromed
by the light into a garden of free thought
creation and beauty
for the lack of a soul
i will keep mine
intact
and from it only truth
and love
will grow

Inspiration flows from the veins
reigns where once there were
dynasties, a destiny and the mystery
roads of the unhidden remissions

On the bed of roses, lies the beauty
a shine of unspotted fading gestures
Tilted metaphoric of synched moments
strolling on the myth of an autumn day

The glow of a heart that lights oceans
shimmering the waves of bluey strokes
those glistering movements of the untold
harvesting the arise of the siren responses

Smile lovely one, show the shimmer burn
like a fierce cupid aiming the toward arrows
of parallel sequences of the hot and the fire
the flame of unhidden kindles and twinkles

As the Caledonian pines unwind on a terrain
willed on the essence of a tantalizing dance
the echoes and the heckles of burnt seals
astounding the strength of another length

Last night, the time stopped and I ceased
sat on a log of peace minced in ventures
of lessons and visions, reasons and treasons
as the clock struck and the lock was undone

On the fervent course of roads walked before
as voices and hymns mashed within the storm
building mansions upon the diffused seasons
where life remains unbroken by bonded souls

Apotosis
the need to be needed at the level of corpuscular order,

tunnels flushing- usable to useless,
three cycles per sixty pumps synched
wavelike
recently discovered fact,

squeeze

them sphincters, wiggle that tail,

this is that, or
better said this is as that was.

That's over. we timed it.

Apotosis,
is a messenger, you might
see it as a program, a chron-job,

an I'll go rhythm from the ole Pepiton lexicon.

Apotosis of the completely alienated
right, if nothing works as well as all the evil let be-ers think,
then we know everything is getting better than that.

True, hold right in the side of your mind you are on best terms with,

judge the messenger by the message,

this is judging angels. y/n

get a grip, some such rights ain't
alienable,

we are on team earth,
**** sapient sapient augmentalatedus,

new construals of what we may be
and these words
are flowing where dry bones were,
last I noticed.

There is only one warmth in her embrace,
and it carries no allure
Vagrant hearts
Longed for home to call.

Hearts dwelled deep
Lip-synched to the ceiling as it muttered to her: "Dance under my roof, let loose of the chaos",
welcomes weary souls into it's warmth.

Fold the memories to last,
this is our sanctuary.