He is that high, dazed and alive
When you spend hours stealing
Glimpses at the stars
Like keys wrapped around a promise
To free you from these bars
Limitations placed so certainly
On top of you on top of me
I seek my way out
Like a star gazer seeks understanding
I’m planning on playing my hand just right
Putting you next to me
King of hearts at my side
Or maybe you are a joker,
Either way put on your poker face
We have life and space, set no pace
Like untimed steps under
A fall to far

Sing to me a jazzy song
From a time that’s far,
Dance with me
Dance along, move your feet
Make no promise you can’t keep
Just feel it
It’s like freedom but on fire
Like trust without certainty
Acrobat without a wire
Like letting go
A grand release
Like fearlessness
A found voice to speak
Passions pushed blood to cheek
Blushing past shades of pink
Pull you in, close to me
Fearless in you and me
Just fearless

I woke up with the sun in my eyes.
Then fell back asleep, too comfortable in my dreams.
Something about spending the night with you.
Again I awoke, this time panicking for I realized I was late.
That ******* alarm had been sleeping too.
I neglected my routines and left my four cornered room, practically falling down the stairs.
Punctuality is a human invention, I thought, don't they know it's unhealthy to always be in a rush?

Time has been accelerating as of late, it must be.
It feels like just yesterday I was working alongside my colleagues, paving away for our futures, healing a prosperous community of lovers and friends, finding true happiness.
But that was over two weeks ago, and again I feel like it was all just a dream.
Sitting here consuming microwavable meals as I hammer incessantly away at my keys hoping to find myself, what a vicious cycle.

Calm down, one goal at a time.
No time is wasted as long as it's spent living.

Something about today, something about this hideous weather and my failure to get out of bed, the guilt, the anger, the fear, all of it.
Somehow I knew that it was going to end with me gripping the side of a toilet seat, spewing my insides out, trying not to pass out as the cacophonous ringing I once described dazes and confuses my thoughtless mind.

Memory by memory...

Poetry, what an idea.

Crescendo at the pitch ,
the touch of the octave,
the slide of my ribcage.
Put me on the overdrive
the feel of the rhythm,
beautiful eyes in glimmer.
I can't believe we are back,
on the track and split laps,
the untimed togetherness.
At the start of the race,
where heat and mist rose,
steams in the gush of the ****.
Poised passion rose to the skies,
wetness and action felt so right,
the torrential evaporated rain.
My future lies in your bed,
on the blue walls with graffiti,
away in a continent afar.
Inside the cocoon of a time-space,
irrigated by sprinkles of growth,
where we hum through civilisation.

A gleaming thought projected from the lady so undetected
inside the fenced gate where she starred at the stones
the ghostly silhouettes underneath
a frightening owl shined his beak
Summer brighter than years before
She sits much nearer to the bedroom door
...for in shortened shorts and tightest shirt...a silence overcomes the earth
Waiting for the golden hour to chime......the lady fades away in time

We cannot call it my "mind" today.

It's better defined as
a malfunctioning mess
of kaleidoscopic hiccups—
untimed bursts of glitter,
and mismatched shapes.

Curves clash with angles,
overlap, transform, repeat,
until the nonsense makes sense;
until the noise becomes
a soothing hum.

Without warning,
the improper becomes
the most mouthwatering idea
we've had the pleasure to rouse.

Composed of little
ten-second films of us,
bare-skinned in low light,
shifting in tempting tessellations
that bump and spiral
in heightening rhythms
just behind my eyes.

Such thoughts
were never meant
for a box—
rather a shape
more taunted and tantric.  

These.
My wax-dipped daydreams
that do not beg
a single sip of permission.

When those moments be untimed to find more than those within the racetracks of your mind and on the brows as yet unlined,
is true love truly blind?
A scent,a rose,the bouquet underneath,who knows the paths that man will take to make the match,
but catch the flavour,savour well,we dwell but shortly here then disappear to find more moments, yet untimed as we ourselves are redefined,and the question still upon my mind,
is true love truly blind?

my writing, for you, unrhymed,
inspired, collective, untimed.

my wish, expired, worthless dime,
dropped, ignored, some great crime.

my love, for you, heavy climb,
unreachable, too far, too blind.

my ending, our tragedy, your prime,
soulless, tearful, wishful rewind.

our death, my wreck, you seem fine,
your words, my ears, tearfully unkind.

I believe, through days, through time,
but now, I know, you were never really mine.

I used to think this a term for athletes
Late in their careers
Past their prime

Yet I sit here now
Looking at the pill dispenser
Filled to the brim each day

Not long ago I didn’t even own one
Until the litany of trials and tribulations began
A never ending trail to doctors

Blood and ***** tests,
CT scan, then MRI, followed by
an endoscopy and an Ultrasound

Now four separate ailments identified
The fifth without a diagnosis
Stealth, planning an untimed attack

No grandparents, parents, uncles left
A dear high school friend gone at an early age
My buddy for many years departed

Now this
My youngest brother passing
Far before his time

A two week cold or flu sapping my energy
Then some bug decides to invade
So I curtail eating, on mostly fluids now

I feel weak
And exhausted
And washed up

Andreas Simic©

Refuse to call her Sensei falsely,
Respect a quality untimed to a technologic beep,
a beat more ancient than the tribal drum flow,
a wind more cold than the the Summit in Winter

flying Panthers as I walk through the door of my dreams, rolling over never a choice a gym dreary, rolling over never a choice a hymn ready no longer, resounding a frequent smile in simile, my two pairs of winds high in might bathe detritus with delight feathers at my finger tips, my eyes see me as my own Polyhedron and geometry, spiraling in a torrent of heart beats, charging my batteries for three years a hundred sixty-six weaknesses feel the eel's surface carry my mind's liquid purpose no knowledge for certain that the folks to my left knew the light of tomorrow hands intertwined homogenized in ****** desire function scarce Scarab singing Jazz music freely the dirt rotates feeling the stampede atop the Earth the near challenge is knowing who's shadow is whose or the ortho- light casts veils of it's own.

The soul's propose it's own flow the ego a serpent hungers forwards slithering towards the greens with flames on it's breath seeing the birds take flight above head a prey uncaught until evolution is now leaning towards radio hearing the frequent tunes as ribs to the cavity of a god's chest emanating the tree as high as Saturn the rings around our hands, the halo above His head, the debris collects the King in his Place. All are racing space to the widest in diameter, the scope of a day only governed by the light's loop around our perspective of "el dia y todo el mundo" as he please he moves as he moves he pleases, the winter cold cries for dusk earlier and earlier whatever takes to be the (one)Tidal a lunar crescent in hand bearing Psyche as a Moon as the key to stand, Hope lives in the dark, I pander a door around the corner lives the Lucy painting her soul's truth daily ignoring the outside chronology and the trigger of social trigger, Quickness to cut through and the jungle of introverted hyper-defensiveness I carry the torch of ages through my genes trenches giving in Lapis Lazuli and the Brew he brews, Pick an arcana and Spit on the text before you read the book backwards and burn the pages on around or atop of aQuirkiness of quarks as I part eyes elementary in school zones ticketed for seeing the invisible truth- daring to run for the North to south soon to dissect into the tree. Self a fear, a fear a self force seeks wrath angelic as Templars Archon for King Jame's Ire. Breed a triplicate not shadow nor shade, a vision neither Light nor Astral but a Visage of the Sane, an Image of the Same, a Nephilim of Samael, an interest of the Identity of Unknown total to the Matrices of the Evils of Man

A line of fire
We get caught in the middle of the skyline
Winds Past in silence
Courage under the moon
A clear rendition of suffocating white lies  
Untimed whispers hidden behind a window
Decades of emotions
Masquerade of an impatient Night
The storm, the dance drowning shades,
Unseen misery to a natural surrender
A pinnacle of my appeal
Steering at the naked dreams of a lover’s farewell
A silhouetted broken expression of risen desires
Into a thin wave of flight welcoming the rose
Falling through a passionate rebirth of the renaissance puppet
A morning light drifts your senses on journey of the heartland
Belittled by the night the moonlight brings serenity
Where only the clouds plunge their minds,
On an escape of knowledge pressing against crossroads
The Countenance of the sun, had visions of unheard tongues
Transporting her emotions through a portal of forgiveness. . .


Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2009

The snow in my backyard mildly thunders below my feet
Making a statement of solidarity with her fallen brethren, the autumn leaf.
I make the choice to hear her untimed song, rather than the complaining chorus of popsicle fingers.
Our ball of rain’s most miraculous makeup, hiding the blemishes of men and gods,
In my backyard, on a snowed-in, slow and lovely Tuesday afternoon,
the snow paints the moment perfect, and freezes it for just a flashing moment.
But perfection is too hot, even with mother nature’s Achilles-strength oven mitts adorned.
The moment melts.

The deer have been here, perhaps an hour or two prior
Based on the gentle, temporary fingerprint of existence they left behind.
They are perfect today, and I like to think them well-fed and basking in the holiday spirit.

The coffee is likely ready by now,
And the driveway is not going to shovel itself.
I’ll walk out my front door
And the snow will be stained with 21st century existence.
There is no known cure
And it is terminal to dreams,
But at least for these few frozen frames
I can pretend that the whole world
Is like the snow in my backyard.

I walked into the woods with you
To find a quiet reading spot.
You shivered, and complained about the cold,
But still trudged on through the snow.

We came upon a shelter.
Shiny, snow covered metal roof
And sturdy oaken timbers,
Undisturbed.

Someone had hung wind chimes from the rafters
And they played a merry tune
Of random notes, untimed clinks,
And spontaneous swings.

I watched your face light up
As we pushed aside trees
To enter this new haven
Undisturbed.

You'd seen the books
That someone had left behind
Michener, Kerouac, and London
Made their homes here.

We found our reading spot, my love.
Where we will forever
Replenish our minds
Undisturbed.

Time
untimed
makes
things
timeless

Shoved against a wall,
hands entwined
Overhead with mine.
Two souls slow dancing.
Slowing time.
Your body against mine.
Flightless bird,
Just make a sound.
Bound to memories
Bring me down.
Down to earth.
Where I can breathe
At a steady pace.
Plant my two feet in one place.
Forward moving.
A revolving door
With no exit sign.
You helped me shine,
If only for an instance
Before snuffing out the fire.
The flame in my heart is dying.
The wax is melting
And the concave
Of my chest,
Hollow it be
It will not rest.
Still it beats.
A steady rythm,
Ruthless and untimed.

I'm fighting for a future.
Bright.
To read, and listen, and write.
I know I speak in words untimed.
Half of my **** doesn't even rhyme.
Everything is processed and resolved
In time.
What does it mean to be human to you?
What is it like to constantly move?
What is it like to hold a gun?
On your worst days, what thoughts do you have?
Do you sit and face the facts, or run?
Speak in tongues.
Throw your hands up to the ******* sun.
And scream,
Scream at the top of your lungs.
I am human, and I, by far am not perfect.
I don't believe in perfection, actually.
Because in truth, flaws are reality.
And I've always been a firm believer that beauty is free.
I see it in the form of dead trees.
It's all around us all of the time.
All you have to do is open your eyes.
Just open your eyes.
Open your eyes.
Open your eyes.
And see.
There are deeper depths to the souls you meet.

No clock can lay claim
  to the moment untimed

Though hands finely set
  still a mystery divine

Each tick plays a cadence
  to what is now past

But what of the future
  its measure uncast

We plot and record it
  hours, minutes, they chime

As all fantasy escapes
  —this delusion of time

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

If you knew the words were killing you,
  would you choose then not to write

Would more calendar days still left to live
  make up for the darkness and blight

Would the time by days now measured
  equal those countless moments untimed

Would you die then forever—and over again
  or just once in an ending that rhymed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Our ***** have long erased the lines
Stone-chiseled into  monuments,
Fresh minds distorted by the signs,
Persuasive wine and sacraments.
The old salvation of belief
Hangs out like fossils by the creek,
Sustaining some with sure relief,
Who seldom give the other cheek.
In fear of lack of more than this
Untimed, uneven passaging,
The slow decline & emptiness
Of vanity and preacher's stumps,
As bridges see increasing jumps.

I spent a week turning you down in the hospital, if that's possible &
now I can plainly see that you are dense, even more denser than me
sliding with side-dish gourmands, sliced up in a roped-off boundary
behind cats ready to pounce on cream cake mountain's third bounce
where the future of 4 inbreds untimed challenges cousins unprimed
in the Kmart department of Walmart or the cart section at **** Mart

I spent a week turning you down in the hospital, if that's possible &
now I can plainly see that you are dense, even more denser than me
sliding with side-dish gourmands, sliced up in a roped-off boundary
behind cats ready to pounce on cream cake mountain's third bounce
where the future of 4 inbreds untimed challenges cousins unprimed
in the Kmart department of Walmart or the cart section at **** Mart
Like a ****** **** gettin' it on with a white woman, I ate cheese on
a spoon, with a hand throttling my throat so as not to puke too soon
into basins crescent-shaped, like a functioning kidney-shaped moon
You're **** when you cough, sexier than crapped-out Boris Karloff