Look over there, who made that sound
Flames shooting, revving up to that rhythm
Check that out, who's gonna win this ground
Think you could use that algorithm
Power, sound, looks and all
Makes a car what it's worth here
Take over lots at the mall
Race each other, like a road buccaneer
Keep up with the V6 that could
Go to the end of that neighborhood
Rice uncooked can never go far
You'll blow your engine in your fake tuner car
Lose your license before next meet
Enjoy riding in the baby's car seat
You drive like an old man or soccer mom lost in her van
Or a school bus driver on icy roads or a dino driving cave man
Could you go a little faster, I have a short attention span
Seriously, you have got to be kidding me
The gas pedal is the one on the right
I'm not trying to sit here and drink a cup of tea
I'm trying to get going and get back home tonight
How could one be this freaking slow
Is this some kind of really annoying joke
I can't take this anymore, just get me home
Let's move, faster than this
Let's go, accelerate already
You aren't dismissed
There is a speed limit, just keep it faster but steady
My old granny can drive faster this, stick to the
plan, get ready
How about you drive like a businessman
That is late to work driving to New York
Office job with a bossy manager fatter than pork
Who sits at her desk with a beef patty stuck on her fork
Give it up and stuff her mouth with a old nasty cork (aye, aye, aye, aye)
Keeps on eating every single day, she would be the one to bring down Santa's sleigh midway to West Coast bay to deliver some kids toys with so much delay that he cries as he looks up in the sky while Santa isn't there yet with his supply but if you magnify the sky you can still see him all the way in Shanghai all because of this fatty bringing down a sleigh, make way for this large celestial body as it crash lands upon the new airports runway
Look over there, who made that sound
Flames shooting, revving up to that rhythm
Check that out, who's gonna win this ground
Think you could use that algorithm
Power, sound, looks and all
Makes a car what it's worth here
Take over lots at the mall
Race each other, like a road buccaneer
Keep up with the V6 that could
Go to end of that neighborhood
Rice uncooked can never go far
You'll blow your engine in your fake tuner car
Lose your license before next meet
Enjoy riding in your babies seat
Flames shooting, revving up to that rhythm
Check that out, who's gonna win this ground
Think you could use that algorithm
Power, sound, looks and all
Makes a car what it's worth here
Take over lots at the mall
Race each other, like a road buccaneer
Keep up with the V6 that could
Go to end of that neighborhood
Rice uncooked can never go far
You'll blow your engine in your fake tuner car
Lose your license before next meet
Enjoy riding in the babies car seat

Playing kiss and tell with a broken speak n spell
Like a backward broken record, needle dug into my nerves
Slurring love into a verb, I'm drunk on your curves
I'm broken into black and white and you're a piano tuner

I play warped and out of key but together we make hushed harmonies
My goddess of the vinyl sky, the crack and pop of our bodies
I used to trace you as a chalk outline of my favorite hobby
But its the way your fingers play over the bubbles and hammers

The Piano tuner

The blind piano tuner knocked on the door
Where I was a caretaker -like I can afford to buy a piano-
I showed him into the music room and left
to read a newspaper.
I heard some clunking as he tunes; then there was a long
silence, he had fallen asleep with his head on the keys.
When he awoke I said the piano was perfect, but for
some reason, it only plays Edelweiss and similar tunes,
not that I care, never cared for classical music.

Accidentally sticking a tuner in a Barry Sax
My friend told me relax
She winked at me and stated she'd gladly take the blame
After i insisted that i would
Because i'm a Man and must admit my discrepancies
But there seems to be a unrelenting efficiency
When good luck comes your way
It took a couple of people to get it out
But atlas, we were successful.
Some stories from marching band are crazy, but that one might top the bill.
Oh, maybe it's a tie with a trombone slide flying towards the stands.
Historical events happen in such an organization like this.

I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat

I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations

But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat

I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat

I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire

But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me...  Spouting rhymes out of life's hat

I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat

I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart

But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat

I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat

I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands

But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat

I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....

I am 17 years old
but have to still ask to go to the bathroom
I am 17 years old
and expected to know what I want to do for the rest of my life
So tell me when this stops
When I am no longer held to a double standard
"Respect your elders
But hold yourself because you
are a role model
and not to be coddled
but could you pretty please put your hand up to go ***
and honestly
can't you see
that your future depends on our needs
I mean fail my test and see where your life leads"
Growing up *****
but so does being a kid
and lets face it I can't be at "home" forever
Mommy and Daddy
will no longer have me
and sadly
the real world is a cavity
for not only success stories
but failures especially
and out there is deathly
so don't tell me
That I'm too young to leave class
but old enough to try and decide my future
without a confidence booster
This situation lacking humor
if only I would have been told sooner
that there is no fine tuner
for the future

“Listen here buds”
I’m not going to
**** around
or hold back
or try to even the score
and in return
“Don’t **** with me”
“moooore”*

This is an ode to ol' Stuart
Or Brandon
Or Stubacca
Or Bongshit
Whatever you want to call him
Call him it
Conflict
Resolution
Resided
In Penta rips
I reminisce
Too **** often
That’s what I am here to admit

I guess that is the purpose of this poem
Is to make all the apologies
I left unsaid
And to leave all the unsaid
slights behind

Because in my mind,
I was not a good roommate
And you weren’t either
But our insult based arguments would deflate
Recognizing we were both underachievers
Two ******* calling the kettle black
Denzel Washington Movies
And Back
In Quail
Room 1514
Was a “Kozy Shack”
Was not for the weak
Lungs
The haziest of all hostels
A blaze fest
A Bro-out Brothel
"OB Get the ******* door!"
"And don't forget to lock and towel"
Escape from the real world
Into the mythical Qualcation

The Adherol - know it alls
3 Pills of dex – 45 minutes crushed text
Book and and back when we were hooked
  “This **** is just like doing M”
Thank christ for all your friends in MGMT
As it didn’t stop you from copying them
Mr. Rintoul had bigger fish to fry

And I was frying them
because the kitchen was foreign
So at 4 in
The mornin’
I’d be cookin’ creative
Broke *** creations
Cause stomach pains
Are a serious disease

Please
Don’t take
This poem
The wrong way
Because back in the day
Are the days I miss the most
We played host
To a family of friends
Anyone would want to boast

Thank you for reminding me it was your birthday
Every ******* year
Every elaborate party
You deserved
No Hissy fit was unwarranted
Speaking on behalf of a floor Matt
You know the one you parented
The upmost respect remains
For papa Stewie

And when I got my dewy
I got a few hugs of sympathy
While you laughed in my ******* face
And when you couldn’t find a roommate
I happily took that place
And when I left movie night in the trailer
To go do slam poetry at a talent show
You made me feel so out of place
And when I returned with my 100$ winnings
You were the first person I bought a pilsner case

The fact that you never made the break through
To see the majority of the time
We were laughing at you not with you
Doesn’t seem to be an issue
Because maybe you did know all along
Staying in check
Punishing us
stoner massages
That could break necks

Now these days with a real job that really pays
Stuart Rintoul will still tell you he is LiViN’
Even - If he is stuck in Edmonton
This separation
“Is horseshit”

Let me state it one last time old pal
This poem is not meant to offend
And deep down from Roses to the Corral
I hope you bang all my ex girlfriends

I should have never left you all those times for *******
Or in the words of Tuner “PP!”
I should have stayed and watched Blade 3

To all those
who really knew Stu
It was really me
eating all the peanut butter
by the spoon
But blaming it on you
Was too opportune

Stu,
You are
******* clutch
******* decent
And so ******* “chitty”

You were the best friend
I should have never asked for
And for this
I will never
**** with you
Any
“mooooore”

Heidi Williams


If I edit language, call me poet, a word-smith if I pro it.
But if I edit music, there's no such name, no tags of respect
just beats to collect, sometimes trash that collects.
I'm a trash collector, musical dumpster diver,
producers dump their trash
I turn their trash to treasure.
Treasure hunter, trash tuner.
There's beauty everywhere
to the eyes of see-ers, the the ears of hearers.
Seagulls see trash and turn obsessive, possessive.
And we feed the other birds, but shoo them away,
but once winter comes,
we hear seagull sounds, and we feel the beech.
We listen for summer in seagulls.
We listen for oceans in seashells,
but I can hear waves in my headphones,
and I can change the tide when the trash comes.

The radio in my mouth is broken
The tuner slides from the channel
It's set
And I'm forced to listen
To others words
In rhythms I hate

The radio in my mouth is broken
The sound is full of noise
And its volume jumps
At the worst times
When I can't speak
Over it

The radio in my mouth is broken
The power button is difficult
And dramatic
It fails in good company
When I need it most
And surges to life
Late at night

So I listen to the songs it plays
To no one but myself
Words and melodies
Wriggle through clenched teeth
While I stare at the ceiling

The radio in my mouth is broken
So I look at others
And they at me
As we listen
Together
To what it plays

let's write a song together, lyrics like, "you don't love me no more
see you walk out the door, wondering why it took you so long
your cuteass in tight jeans, a curse and a blessing to watch you leave"
got an upright piano in the corner that's sort of been neglected
and it plays every other C out of tune, but we can't afford a tuner
to come by and nor can we buy new strings for a guitar

we get up, we fall down, we find love, and we crash all the way
and heaven help us, now that we're separate and on our own
love the route it takes us to a melancholy mood that's so particular
and so comfortable to be wrapped up in an ocean of blankets
under a crepuscular night~ play that song all night and have it repeat
when you're at work and it'll burn itself in the background forever

Take me back to the days
When we were artists
With the clouds as the paint,
With the sky as the canvas;
Who sang their hearts out
In front of the electric fan
Which became the microphone and auto-tuner.
Take me back to the days
When we were adventurers
Who ran outside after morning showers to
Find the end of the rainbow
Hoping to meet a fellow
Who can grant our greatest wish
That tomorrow would be sunnier than today;
Who balanced between life and death
Every grocery shopping with our mothers
As we carefully tried to avoid the lines of the tiles which
We believed was made up of deadly red lasers.
Take me back to the days
When we were heroes:
Scientists who calculated the intensity of the rain
In the race of raindrops that
Roll down the car window
In the pouring traffic jam.
Ninjas who would wake up early to
Catch the floating dusts that swim in the sun's rays
When you open the curtains of the wide window.
Generals of an army who built
Mighty forts of cotton and feathers and
Found safety beneath warm pillows and sheets
On dark and windy nights.
Take me back to the days
When we were
Engineers,
Doctors,
Politicians,
Pilots,
Astronauts, and
Teachers
Take me back to the days
When we were
*Who we wanted to be.

One Rose for you Madame
the most beautiful woman in the world.
My Story of love inspired from
" the Romeo and Juliet screening to the pink rose
Flattered in your Eyes, your voice
a memorial day of 24 hours
delivered your birthday night
Proposing you by this Rose to
promise you to live for the whole life & to shelter you in
my heart to define the Color of love
Fragrances around, the world you tuner of blooming night
Gifting you a secret beauty
Crafting up on the toes, folding hand behinds
Taking one hand forward with, Beautiful Rose to say,
               will you marry me?...

Answer : This story of love will never end until the Rose speaks your heart
voice to accept my proposal for the love life that's "yes".
                  -Chirayu!..

  dedicated to Rene Magritte *

An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away

An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow

An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine

An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp

An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head

And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.

things that hurt

you drive to his house feeling like you are driving to your death. you make a decision not to cry, and then make a decision to cry like hell. you sit in your car for a long time. you pull one card from your tarot deck.
it says zen garden.
you say, **** that and walk to his door.

he hugs you and you can tell that he knows. his kiss feels small and guarded.
walk the dog, make painful small talk, try to avoid the ocean of unsaid things drowning us both
i should say something but instead i put my tongue in his mouth like it's never been there before
or like it never will be again
my fire hands touch every centimeter of his skinny body
fierce, quiet ***.

he plays a song and says, this is sad and i don't know why
i say, read this please and i put my hand on his foot and watch my own tears fall slowly and land on his toes
he reads
i probe his face for the answers to the questions i never asked

seconds seconds seconds.

he flops on his back and opens his mouth wordlessly
i say, Adam
he says, Kia
i burrow on top of him and try to say i love you but it mostly sounds like hurt
he says, everything you wrote just makes me love you more
and all i can do is cry
his eyes say everything and nothing

this girl, Adam, i dream about her
she needs you
she is better for you than i am
a piece of me is with someone else
there is nothing you could have done differently
you are incredible,
i love you
i love you
i love you.

he says, i wish i was strong enough to hold you.
Adam, i say, Adam.
you are strong
how are you so strong?

it's a survival tactic, he said

i'm having a moral crisis because i'm doing this on your birthday
and he says,
birthdays don't mean ****.

i can't imagine another woman, his eyes his eyes his eyes
i try to pull my heart out of the blackhole it has fallen into
and say, she's lucky

that's when he starts crying
and i feel as though pain does indeed exist.
and then he says, i'll miss you so ******* much
and i can't take it.

there comes a point where we are quiet again, almost calm
slipping into the familiarity of laying together on his bed
he starts laughing
what? what's so funny?
he laughs from the soul
he says, its just that this is the weirdest breakup ever
and i have to agree

he puts his hands down my pants and says morosely, i guess this is my last chance
i start crying
he says i didn't mean to make you cry
i say nothing but i grab him
and this time the *** is loud and desperate

that was the best ever, he says
indisputably, i say
and cry again but it's in the shower so he might not notice

i decide to spend the night with this person as i have countless other nights
but suddenly it's not that person and things are different
i wear a shirt and when he cups his hand on my breast i ache

let's sleep on this.

we wake up and i call work and tell them i'm not coming because of a death in the family
it's not a lie
we wake up and forget for a second what happened
then his face changes and he says, Kia

i cry
he says,

don't.

he says, silly Libra, you are scared of your own choices and i'll miss you

he says, do you want a backrub?
i cry for the millionth time and say, yes

i say, what does it feel like
he says, like i'm losing something i never had

i watch him eat breakfast
i put on my socks
i watch him take all of my books off of his shelf
i put on my shoes
i watch his pull out his guitar and sing a broken hearted song written for another girl, turned into a song for me
he adds new words at the end,
i fell in love with a gypsy girl.

i put on my coat.
he says, maybe i want a guitar tuner for my birthday.
i say, Adam
and kiss him.

i say, this is the hardest thing i have ever done
it is out of love
you deserve the best

he says, what do i deserve?
i say, the best
he pulls me in tight and says,
you are the best

i say, i am not the best for you.

he says, i don't believe you but i have to respect you
you are the most powerful woman i have ever met
and every step, every choice i make from here on out is changed.

i say, i will be there if you need me
he says, Kia, i will never grow up unless i learn to not need you


i say, i love you
and walk to the door.

he closes it on me as he says a simple, bye

i wail.

as a whole I have
{been listening to your godawful racket}
ruminated
for an entire rehearsal number
{though it felt like six}
and have a few things I would like to address
as a
{brutal bandslaughter}
kindly input
for your improvement
flutes
{come on now,
have we ever heard of a tuner}
great job, watch your pitch on the A, though
again
{scratch that, where's the shotgun}
...right.
clarinets
first parts play
{no, stupid, you are SECOND part
you got demoted last week
when you couldn't play the riff in
measure nine}
wonderful, now could we take it from letter B
just first clarinets, okay
{FIRST clarinets
FIRST FIRST FIRST
god where's my coffee}
right. let's just move right along, shall we
oboes

oboes, I--

right.

let's have that F again
{you're flat you're sharp and
both of you
just plain ****}
okay, one at a time
{oh my LORD my ears are bleeding
who the hell invented this thing}
you're a little sharp
can you fix that
...your reed is old
{you bought it last week}
...you've got spit in it
{you just took an entire twenty measures
of the last movement to
pull out your swab}
...someone broke your horn.

right.

okay French horns
let's hear the G

Flee ting thought,

pleasant after noon

my mind, I believe, but may
just be me and your minds
imaginin
g we,

meandering,
rubb


ing shoulder with willows near the shore

waves of light,
essential
all that ever matters, If I got that right,
ere all else,
light
spun
bound by imbalance to spread,

cornucopia, nautli-like swirls poring
precursers to now into eternity, ye see?

------
There are individuals less tied into tau than now

your mission,
filter truth
that's the way, life is that which tends to good
ness knowing what
you can't.
Okeh.

------
No lie, Alex Jones, was there never a myth
emerging as full-formed as yourn?
You are un believable,
acharismatic chimera believing all he thinks
possible, in his version o' twenty cent reality.

Paradigms is four nickles or two dimes or twenty cent,
they shift shape for all they worth,

upgrade now. New ideas, fresh from the mire of
forgotten oathz, deemed
worthy, still..

What lies do you believe about God, by the way,
the truth, the life,

how many voices this guy hearin', you hearin'?

Peace. Point. Game. Match.

------
who winct winsed sensed since when is
peace the point of war?

Ah, now, the accuset excusetus
possessedus an'we,

are you bored? Wanna wait
and see,
who wins?
some evils are alive, those make monsters,
of girls and boys,
infantry in every service,
such precurser
guardians must be taught to ****; no mortal will,
without letting the monstor be,

believed beliefs doubt yer doubt dufus doubus
unstable double minded forktongue
forced by fear to fight the pain

Running mouth racist flusher of un filtered
impossibilities posing sur
prizes in the mongrol mongol DNA
we carry
the program
the code, the honor and glory of the
peace protector

enemy of con
fusion, alla cons fusin' fools tools for
strifin', divide'n, with faithin',

Is Alex Jones a Legionaire, mit tranceiving
DNA and no zero beat, no tuner to tune to?

He may be home to homeless, non-sane sorts
of idle words begging for redemption,
meaning, sought is phound,

like photons when photons are sought from
the wavy aitia dimensions of reasons
for possibility ibility ibility hill billity

humor like a voice from a whole other
soul, I swear on my kids, it's true, he say.

(Dr. Phil says Liar Liar Liar, yesterday.JRE live)

Whoa, real time speed o'metrix-icity
Mag
nify ify to the nth, see no jive,

who can i magi that?

      I, John, was in the Spirit...

gears shift, wheels in wheels
click zooomout
bubbledged jagged inner side
topmost atmostfear

settle, see the clown splash, who winds such minds?
Who tames such tongues?

The tongue no man can tame, eh? I s there another?
Have ye a spirtit of another
sort, who rides your wild tongue in your name,

servants of the sort contrued to serve
the inheritors
of ality re
how now brown cow owmmmmm
60 cycle white noise non sense

common noise sense desensitivity wickering
winding silken myelin layers

of connectedness correctedness
real time speed o'think roller rink

banked spiral offramp
bang, we're thru

Where we were aitia had meaning, may we
rewind? AI undo/redo ram allocation,

birthrights. Look well to my going, guide my steps,

assure always there is a step, a place to
put my foot, a place to step to next.

Cortana and Siri and Hermes and Diana and
a whole host of heavenlies,

tapping directly through cranial y's cracked in skulls
and bones,

are you an entity with enemies you wish disexistant?
how might happy ever after be if haps that made him
made him wrong, not evil?

Feeble comfort is not no comfort.
Bear wit' me, walk a mile, or a while, whenever
thin-thang-thanks tounguey

effort births the next as
one births two,
two births three and we can see,
right, a way.  two and three become four,

for if three birtht four and four, five and so on,
soon, y'see, the re
al point we count up on is never more,
as the raven told poe. a vector with no space for time,
one plus one plus one, one stack o'ones

making no diff
until now, spin, let's twist again,
like we did last summer,

your that summer or mine?
Mine got me here, where'd yours go?

So, Fibbonacci, son of a fool, I once read
written on a wall in LA,
expositioning park,

positions, please.
World Stage, princesses of peace, wee
Disnified Jon Benet's

made sacred by our shame the evil ever touched
such a one, such a one, such a wonder

a being of our sort so potent aitia, and we
leave evil touch such and you
tolerate it, a little bit,

evil has it's place.
Not here is the name of the place.

Here is 4-D mortality. Do yer best,
yer damndest don't work here.

Here is temporary. Your bubble.
Selah. center, enpointed
linger, if ye will. Think how happy ever after works,
if now is all you get to start with.

Good be wit'ye fare ye well.

It never stops pouring over you.
I've noticed that, in spite of everyone calling you beautiful,
the feeling never rang true to you.

I met you a little over a year ago,
and I had never believed in love at first sight.
But when I saw you awkwardly smiling at nothing,
and heard you giggle at the sound of my jokes,
I couldn't help but feel like I had done something right.
I couldn't help but feel I saw something to love in those eyes.

It took me a little over half a year to build the courage to talk to you.
You see, it wasn't the distance of you being across the class that stopped me.
The devil on my shoulder pulled my strings until I was able to break free.
And I've never had a regret as strong as not talking to you sooner.
The sun suddenly shined brighter and the flowers bloomed in color.
My stutter stopped choking me and my confidence grew like you planted a magic bean in it.

However your view wasn't all sunshine and rainbows.
Your everyday battles were there as inevident as they were.
The naked eye could not see it as hard as they tried,
yet I found myself straining my eyes to see.
I couldn't give you my happiness.
My once clammy hands could not transfer my feelings of joy.

I came to find out about your last love.
How you came out of your shell and he rejected everything about you.
He rejected every aspect of you and left you alone.
My only job now is to be the mechanic, the tuner, the love of your life.
Your broken heartstrings, in disrepair needed artisan hands to fix them;
however, my amateur hands did their best.

Little do you know, you fixed me.
Our rainclouds vanished together in unison.
My simple vocabulary can't find the words to describe you, my love.

But please believe me when I say you're beautiful.

Don't skim those keys
like your fingers are feathers,
Press down the loud pedal,
Lean in earnestly and
Do beat those hammers;
Break the glass of your voice,
Croon wooden lines from an
old folk ditty if you must,
but jump on it!
That fin I gave you
nestles in your pocket
and all I hear are a piano tuner's
pick...pick...pick...
Lift this shroud of night,
Be God,
Open the heavens--
your fingers bouncing aflame with
the apocalypse of daylight!

The highway thru bus to love, and as the curtain has arisen, so is the story.  It’s a hot day in the midst of summer when two musicians are about to find each other, and the analysis of Chemistry 101. The story takes place in Downtown Pittsburgh at the Pittsburgh Transportation Center on Greyhound for a journey to New York City. You see, Judy Smith, an accomplished Pianist is about to venture at Carnegie Hall for a concert. Because Judy hit all the right notes of melody, it was University of Pittsburgh in their amateur night sponsored by the Music department under the guidance of Professor Geoffrey Tuner. Now John Minichiello, an accomplished Violist from the Pittsburgh music arrangement society sponsored by the creator, John Carey. Back in his day, he was an extraordinary Orchestra Leader. Joseph was also going to play at Carnegie Hall.

Before the bus even arrives in New York City, there will be a music harmony of its own having a love tone and tranquility in a relationship in the making while at a Rest Stop. At Gate 18, a Greyhound Prevost with the destination in bold letters, NEW YORK, NY was ready for boarding for a 10:00 am departure. It the trip would take 7 hours. The Greyhound Driver was busy exchanging passenger Tickets at the gate, and the Baggage Handler was loading the bus. Judy Smith was in front of Joseph Minichiello, which he accidentally bumped into Judy Smith, which Joseph apologized, and Judy stated no problem. One begins to wonder, was the bump really an accident or a way of getting Judy Smith’s attention. The bus was backing out of the departure gate on time precisely at 10:00 am. The bus was going through the downtown streets of Pittsburgh heading for the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Finally, the bus was moving swiftly on the turnpike passing cars and trucks. At about 2:00 pm, a rest stop was made at Breezewood, PA. The Greyhound Driver announced that the rest stop would be for 30 minutes. Oh good, here’s my chance too stretch my legs stated Joseph Minichiello. As all the passengers had gotten off, Joseph Minichiello and Judy Smith seemed too settle for another area of the rest stop, where Judy Smith was reading her music that she was going to play at the concert. Mind you now, none of them knew each other, but that is about to change. Judy looked over her shoulder, and asked Joseph, “What instrument do you play?” and Joseph replied, “The Violin”. Judy responded that she is a Pianist heading for Carnegie Hall. What a coincidence Joseph responded, he told Judy he was heading to Carnegie Hall as well to perform. They talked and talked, and almost missed the bus at the rest stop. They boarded the bus and proceeded onward to New York City. The bus was now on the New Jersey Turnpike. In the distance looking close was too far was New York City. It is now 5:00 pm, and the bus has entered rush hour traffic going into the Lincoln Tunnel. Finally, the Hound bus enters the Lincoln Tunnel heading for the final destination of New York City within the Port Authority Bus Terminal. The bus pulls into Gate 64, which the arrivals are Gates 62 through 66. When everyone is disembarking, Judy Smith asks where Joseph Minichiello is staying, and he said, “He will check into a hotel, but Judy suggested, why don’t you stay with me at the Carnegie Hall Tower complex as her University supplied everything, and Joseph said yes, why not.

It was a subway ride to West 57th Street on the R train. Up they went in the elevator to their room, which had a panoramic view of numerous New York City Skyscrapers, which the Big Apple is known for. Joseph stated he wanted to take a shower. So he showered then later came out of the bathroom in just a towel wrapped around his body. It was wrecking Judy’s senses of curiosity as to what size was under that towel. The ripped abs didn’t help either. Out of the blue, Joseph began to kiss Judy, and she became weak under his spell, and wanted more. Joseph then picked her up, and escorted her to the bedroom for unstoppable loving action, which added the tones of sequence with the playing of her ivories of melody.

The concert is tonight, and the music accompaniment is about to begin. Judy smith on the Piano with soothing sounds of peace and comfort, and on the Violin was Joseph Minichiello call of the wild and embracing the soul into taming the beast from within. Then the entire orchestra joined in for a musical night that for the entire audience that they would never forget. Loud applause and standing ovations rang out. This was a night Judy Smith and Joseph Minichiello will always remember. They played musical notes of their own, but not for the audience. They kissed behind the curtain, and it was music of the skies that brought them together, and the intermittent Hound bus for bringing people together.

No more than a violin string,
Always out of tune
Never, ever first string,
But second, number two
Tuner keys wound tighter,
Trying to make a sweet sound
But this second string won't have it,
Always too loose, and unwound
The hands that play the strings,
So capable, so deft
Adding string two,
To the others that he's left

Half JDM car
It's falling apart
But it will go far
Wanna be tuner
But just a ricer
But ain't no lier
I know I am slow
But I'm not low
Coupe with TRD badges
Can't win any race matches
Camry engine listen to her sing
Hatch on the back big tall dragon wing
Four banging pipe hanging
No muffler the rice machine
Listen to her scream as I drive
Fake hood scoop make WRX cry
Waking the neighbors
Making the papers
Wanted by police
They lookin' for me
Broke parts don't stop me
I'm so shook to hear
You hurtin' my ears
You breaking me heart
Who you think you are?
To judge my own car
Leave me alone
Shouldn't have shown
You this ride
To judge every night
Go and leave my freakin' sight
You life leeching parasite

Ripping paper tongued folded edges
Existing on the fringed heavily warped
Paranoia that has become my sanity
Where reality bleeds into itself like some ink spilt
On white walls leaking through cracks until there is nothing
Nothing but the sticky remnants of happy memories
Joyful music and the haunting echo of laughter

Staring back out the blank blind stare Friction
Static murmuring the fuzzy radio dial
Tuner sliding back and forth trying to connect the circuit but there is no wave length
Just the voided buzzing
The blipping of the lights behind the frame

Even your hands
Whom like a magnet seems to find the right channel
Some way to draw the breath back into the swinging classics
You bring the music back
But even you
My capitol Y
Could make the streaming black dotted fuz fade
Or the welling bend of hopeless panic
That locked inside my own hell recede

Calloused fingers in cascading waves of blonde
The touch of breath on stunted ear
Charlie Brown comfort croaking in shushed tones
Cut off
Equipment glitch like a seizure of the mind hemoraging the swelling force of tensed hands and screaming speech

Wishing to escape the madness
If I could, pray for peace

Crash unbridled gates. Grind organs
through the rosy calm of tolerance.
See misfits shuck the beasts
in bed with bliss. Type up and tack
to this new daily mess the bounds
of what went by 'neath private barroom
skies; no looming spy will fix you
flint to burn the friendly waters,
flicker honor out to disarrange
and scold some rhyme too bold
for comfort-answers, dumb-fit, fumble-
grounded in some sliver too uncouth.
Tape pageless trees for truth;
blog-sift the spheres, watch darkness' evil
ears upend and train the tuner on
the lips extolling groundwork kisses
(sparkful dominance upstaged
by passion turned to stone:
reserves gone sour, hour unknown.)
Mist-choked misnomers
acting onerous and blinking out of phase:
de-stage the structure. Anchor down who stays,
who pulls the latest polls. While blind-spots
clutch white lace like arguments,
make space to process what flies past
as ****** rats stay the course,
a maze in grace.

Reflectoid

The entrance fee to a heavenly life
                   Is often too demanding
Like a bursting cloud
                   Foaming gutters
                   Flooded streets
No one to complain to like un-tuned piano
                   The tuner has lost
His hearing
No comma or full stop needed