Happy Mother’s Day! This issue celebrates motherhood, parenthood, nurturance, and love.

Orzogul Gofurova offers up a sweet poem as a tribute to their mother, while Gulsanam Qurbonova’s essay highlights the true dignity of the complex homemaking and family-building work her mother performs in their household.

Sarvinoz Giyosova draws on spiritual language to express her respect for her mom, as Orzigul Sherova shares her eternal and sentimental love for her mother.

Abramat Faizulloev pays tribute to his honorable and caring mother as Ismailova Orastabonu honors the resilience and nurturance of Uzbek women. Lola Hotamova celebrates the love of mothers and the long heritage of honoring them in Uzbekistan while Xushroy Abdunazarova reminds us of the importance of kindness and respect for parents in the Islamic faith. Gulhayo Karimova urges all people, no matter how busy they are, to make time to honor their mothers and parents.

Nosirova Gavhar writes of a father’s sacrificial love for his young daughter as Don Bormon speaks to the beauty of friendship. Taylor Dibbert’s poetic speaker reflects on finding solace at a local dive bar after the end of a marriage.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva relates a tale of kindness to a couple traveling with a sick child.

Stephen Jarrell Williams sends up sweet, gentle love poems in an issue that also showcases a poetic collaboration between Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai (India) and Kristy Raines (USA) that is a conversation between lovers.

Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai’s solo poetry illustrates the intensity of romantic feelings while Kristy Raines‘ poems highlight the power of romantic love and emotion to affect one’s life, whether or not the relationship lasts. Ike Boat’s piece is the plea of a lover not to be forgotten.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa’s pieces acknowledge the sad end to a romance. Sadullayeva Darmonjon speaks of poignant instances of love given and lost, or not returned. Mesfakus Salahin laments the loss of a personal love and the loss of gentleness in the world.

Christine Tabaka’s concrete poetry deals with loss: of one’s sense of self, of life during war, and the passing of the “golden age” in art and cinema. Avaungwa Jemgbagh vividly remembers the day their father passed away.

Duane Vorhees writes of the passage of world history and of loves past their lusty prime that have evolved into sources of solace and comfort. Gulmira Nurmuhamedova reflects on the passage of time, her memories of her past and how her present will also, in time, become a memory. Not all changes that happen with time are necessarily losses.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde describes a smooth talker who breaks hearts while Nigar Nurulla Khalilova points out how humans can be as predatory as any creature in nature.

Faleeha Hassan mourns a friend lost to war as J.J. Campbell evokes his feelings of powerlessness in a personally alienating world. Tuyet Van Do’s haikus capture the grisly atmosphere of Gaza as Mykyta Ryzhykh mourns the world’s casual violence and homophobia through a variety of metaphors, including a dead kitten.

Karol Nielsen writes of the effects of the Vietnam War through the eyes of an American child left behind to play while his father fights. While less tragic on the surface than other pieces that present death and suffering, it still shows the separation caused by war.

In her poetry, Lidia Popa urges humanity to care for each other and the natural world.

Mahbub Alam laments the increasing heat and changing climate of Bangladesh and urges a return to environmental stewardship.

Sayani Mukherjee evokes the comforting presence of innocence and delicate natural beauty in a world that also contains genocide and war. Muslima Murodova finds peace by looking up into the vastness of the sky.

John Lloyd Casoy describes a moment of contemplation out at low tide in the wetlands while Lorraine Caputo recollects moments and interactions from her Central and South American travels in her “postcards,” J.D. Nelson notices small moments of surprise and relief in nature and human society, and Dr. Maheshwar Das sends up elegant poems of nature and spirituality.

Devika Mathur contributes an evocative description of the experience of meditation. Mark Young also turns inward, with his systemically generated poems from bits of text, recipes and instruction manuals, regurgitating life in the subconscious. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna probes the depths of meaning hidden behind silence. Vernon Frazer’s jazzlike syncopated rhythms of poetry adorn this issue, while Steve Brisendine explores our perceptions and artistic inspirations.

Muntasir Mamun Kiron crafts a poetic ode to the elegance and joy of technology: the creativity it represents and that it can make possible.

In a more satirical take on technology and global politics, Terry Trowbridge satirizes world governments’ battle over the cultural “real estate” of social media.

Referencing battles much earlier in American history between government and media companies over press freedom and defamation, Michael Ceraolo dramatizes controversies and contradictions in early American history through his poetry.

Jim Meirose crafts an off-kilter piece about neighbors and friends playing with different communications and entertainment technology.

Maja Milojkovic highlights the power of poets’ words to turn the world towards justice, compassion, and inclusion.

In a thoughtful essay, Jacques Fleury urges Black men to embrace a more complex, diverse, and expansive idea of gender and masculinity.

Bill Tope’s story critiques the way our society tolerates, but does not fully embrace, “others” such as older women and people with disabilities. Brian Barbeito’s piece reflects on a lonely hawk and on the solitary elderly, while Noah Berlatsky explores and lampoons the self-absorption at the heart of some self-improvement schemes.

In a different light, Brian Barbeito reviews Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey To Accepting Your Unique Self in the context of psychological survival in tough times rather than as a privileged form of self-pampering.

In another exploration of nuance, A. Iwasa interviews essayist Rikki Bransen about her piece “Faith and Authority: A Generation X Spiritual Journey” published in Microcosm Publishing’s zine Proud to be Retarded, where she discusses her individual relationship to autism, Christian religious practice, being female, and being middle-aged.

In another look at the journey of an individual towards wholeness and personal achievement, Adkhamova Laylo Akmaljon encourages readers to have confidence and enthusiasm in the pursuit of their dreams. Akramov also highlights the importance of perseverance in achieving one’s life goals.

Abdurazakova Murad offers tribute to an important teacher who showed her the value of daily practice for the skills she wanted to learn. Charos Maqsudova outlines how teachers can support the mental health as well as the academic promise of their students.

Dilfuza Namazova speaks of the importance of learning foreign languages, English in particular. Norsafarova Nilufar outlines the role of various parts of speech in Uzbek sentence construction.

Ogultuvak Atajanova highlights the importance of early education and enrichment for preschoolers and kindergarteners and the value placed on children in Uzbekistan. Botirali Sayifov highlights the importance of universal education to a free and productive society.

We at Synchronized Chaos intend our publication to celebrate literacy, education, and the diversity of experiences from people around the world. We hope that you enjoy and learn from this issue.

                   Children’s education in Uzbekistan

Today, Uzbekistan pays great attention to children's education, because the saying "The future is in the hands of the youth" is not in vain. This is the real reason why so much attention is paid to this education. Not only the Republic of Uzbekistan, but perhaps the whole world has paid attention to children's education.

In particular, the establishment of a step-by-step educational program for children in Uzbekistan and the establishment of free school education are proof of the trust and respect shown to them. By 2022, the rate of admission of children to preschool education, i.e. kindergarten, has been raised in Uzbekistan. Earlier, kindergarten education was not considered mandatory, but today it is determined that it is necessary in all regions. 

In this regard, laws and regulations are also being adopted. Various laws have been adopted to set the age of admission to kindergarten at three years old, to manage their daily food rations, and to prevent the educators from committing various violations. 

Kindergarten should be a place where every child can be taught basic knowledge, manners and respect. 

Laws and regulations are also being adopted in this regard. To govern the students' daily food ration, establish the entry age of kindergarten at three years old, and stop the teachers from breaking numerous rules, various laws have been adopted. Every child should be able to learn basic information, manners, and respect in kindergarten.

The major objective of kindergarten education is to get kids ready for school by teaching them fundamental ideas in straightforward 
language. 
Between 2016 and 2022, major improvements in kindergarten   instruction were seen in Uzbekistan. 
Between 2016 and 2022, there will be a difference in the number of  rural children and their kindergarten attendance. 

Today, there is a wide range in the caliber of education in rural areas as well. Children receive a lot of attention because they will be the future's   leaders. For their healthy development, a variety of clubs are being organized. 

The tradition of Eastern thinkers places a high value on educational  issues. They gave a lot of thought to the family and the upbringing of children within it in particular. The challenges of raising a kid in a family and solutions to those  challenges are outlined in the writings of intellectuals such Abu Nasr  Farabi, Abu Rayhan Beruni, Kaikovus, and Alisher Navoi.

Preschool Education is currently being attempted using the strategy of deploying "mobile kindergartens" to enroll preschoolers in rural areas. 

Four specially equipped buses dubbed "Aqlvoy" mobile kindergartenswere introduced to the area and are now serving children in remote  communities in the Hazorasp, Bogot, Yangiariq, and Khiva districts. Eleven stations in total are being set up, and a list of kids who will be taken to mobile kindergartens is being created. 

With the start of the new school year, this approach will enable 384 

additional children to enroll in pre-school programs.

Student of Karakalpak State University named after Berdakh, faculty of biology first course.  Atajanova Ogultuvak 

"YES, BUT WHERE ARE THE WHEELS?"

    --Albert Einstein, at 2, when presented with a sister



--What is woman? A boon-&-hex, sometime-mate / sometime-check.

--Oh, what's man? An egg-ego? A comicbook hero?

--A brain with bones.

--Mixed with chromosomes!

--Woman is the ultimate X.

--The Royal Comptrollers of Sex, we're architect-builders of children, passion's pilgrims.

--Man: atoms with kinetic glands, machines-with-hands.

-An electric orangutan!

--You Singer-Device, all undone! Man's the Iron Cross and the iron dream.

-An iron sculpture of sweat and jizzum.

--A puzzled philosopher's tired scream: Why can't women be a syllogism?



A FEMINOPHILE'S PLEA



If you want, get a job, it's fine by me.

Drive the tourist carriage, that's all right,

just so's I can ride your dick box for free.

You want to be a fighter pilot? OK with me,

long's I can fly in your cockpit highspeed.

I don't mind even if you want employment

with the Sanitation Dept. Just let me

work nights in your manhole, okay?




… RAW OF THE ROSES …



a



When we played at being young

we were all less old than raw

All were hangers, none were hanged

and all were knights of the Lord



And then the ordered murder

that joins the chaos of raw

succeeded the disorder

that normalized our Before



Our invisible missiles

and markless wounds from the raw

advanced to marches and drills

medals formations and corps

the glory and brotherhood

the backwardness of raw

the salute to blood and mud

and boredom broken by gore



Our red company carries

symbol standards of our raw

spear and aegis of ares

forged by the hammer of thor



b



it was one hundred years raw …

raw of spanish succession …

that great patriotic raw …

trojan … peloponnesian …



pastry raw … pig raw … kettle

raw … or the whiskey rebellion …

or la guerra del fútbol …

afghan raw … jinshin-no-ran



guerra de pacífico ...

or la guerre des trois henri …

crusades … bello gallico…

or the raw of jenkins ear …



raw of the oranges … the straits …

in the mahābhārata …

opium raw … the eight saints …

or the raw of the stray dog …



DON'T GET ME WRONG



Despite all these eons of together, you still want me to write you poems? Okay:

"the stars:scattershot across the purple night / like bullshit on velvet"

Don't like it? Terribly sorry. This lack of sweet poetry, can you forgive?



But beyond your vertical crescent smile

there lurks O swastika – Mons Lisa skinners box



When you sleep your closed eyes look like Chinese twats



Though your eyes no longer burn with magic

and this hour with infinite possibilities won't swell any more,

yet your quotidian eyes still warm the frosty air,

and I don't mind my time with you.

And your arms don't anchor my lusts as they did before,

and your form isn't the amusement park it used to be

when I was the new ride,

but your embrace remains a comforter in the cold winter nights

and the scenery's quite nice still.





WE WITHIN THE WHEELS: DALIT



At the temple festival the tables went humming under the cabbage, rice, and melons. The summer sun waning. The baldbearded helium balloons dancing grandly among nubile paper lanterns, buddhas bronze/rotund. Ah, the season it was of Experience Superior – the feelings of love and the perceived reciprocity of love, when, past all balance and sense and generational propriety, exuberant amidst the consuming and consumed, we two, lanternballoon-alike, food and Buddha commingled, music and the truth congealed.

That's why your paradox didn't register at the time.

And the Children happy as tadpoles aswim in father's river. And the Children pampered like feathers adrift in mama's balloon.



Now my beauty r  e  a  c  h  e  s   o  u  t  in search of your damp and hidden cottage. (Remember the crisp sunflowers asmoke unkempt against the steep/&damp scampismelly dirt path. Recall the rose-of-sharon labyrinth oft-credited – before and since – as the soul's taoWay, eelslick & serpent straight, into the nirvanic heart of notUnbeing.) Your thatched and pointed little house – it's not where last I fingered its locks. The knobs now I'm told are handled some other where.

But even so, blind and blind, my beauty reaches out

reaches                              out

my blind beauty reaches

                             out into cold and empty vacuum.

And the Children pampered like feathers adrift in mama's balloon, and the Children dappled in shadow ajoy in haughty first light.



Your holy mantra for the season: Iloveyou can't love you. And the rutting neophyte at your knees picked at the koan's echoed contradictions. I angled it in the light, squinting along its crosshairs, but the scope just would not focus. Flash powder applied, I tried to freeze it in its frame. But the quiver could never quite gel. Dusted for prints, but no proper whorl ever emerged to point its finger conclusively. "I love you can't love you." I parsed the riddle into phonemic meaninglessness but the significance never decoded. Affixed onto the acrylic stage for minutest examination, clarity persistently remained at yet one remove. Until Enlightenment came at last, slowly in a rush. I'd always known you'd go, of course, but not so suddenly. And not so soon. The painful puzzle pieces shuttered into place. And the Children dappled in shadow ajoy in haughty first light, and the Children, dapper as bluejays, agreed in bawdy verdure. I love you can't love you, Clause the first personal, in classic equipoise with clause two cultural. Subject-ckause by predicate controlled, the halving twins yining and yanging about, plusandminus all at once. The treasured self, forbidden/desired,  embraced/abhorred.



(My fellow anthropologists, take careful note: her heart's harsh judgment was conditioned by decades and millennia of micromacroforming. Metaphorically speaking, as such, I am the incest taboo. In those society eyes, I'm the faggot in the homophobic gym, the nigger in the genepool, the sheep in the unbleating humanfold. In objective terms, and all in econocultural conext of course, her loving me was always the equivalent of fucking the corpse.)



And the Children, dapper as bluejays agreed in bawdy verdure, and all us Children vampiric taters asleep in God's root cellar.



But the mantramoth, addicted, tethered herself to the tormented flame. The cycle doomed to turn and flutter, return and flutter, and flutter away. Return again, again away, covering and recovering the same old ground, rut ater rut after rut again.



And koan's mystery deepens.

But the Children happy as tadpoles.



TIME MACHINE



Echoless laughter

marked the mocking

rictor sardonicus

of our love,



showing us that time

is the machine

that shredshredshreds presents

into pasts.



And tomorrow’s rich

tapestries, which

were infinite once, have

slimmed to threads. 



Life’s chaos indeed

is orderly but

not in ways we have

deciphered.



Our universe was

not Galileo’s

and also won’t be

our children’s,



but all their loves and

all their changes

will still be all the same

probably.

Bring Back My Love Again 


Stop
Stop here shadow 
Where are you going?
What is your destination?
Where will your ship anchor?
The queen of time
The queen  of love
Come back
Hug me like butterflies
Bring back my love 
Bring back my love again
You bring back my love again.

You have gone drunk with greed
For the transitoriness of morning dewdrops
That will be destroyed after rising the sun
You are a collector of flowers
You change yourself every moment 
But you can't change the feather of love
 Everything bows to time
You have to bow to time
You have to be burnt 
With the fire of love
Stop everything 
Just stop everything 
Come back
And bring back my love again.

The moon of my sky is down 
Who will shake my heart?
Who will give happiness to my eyes?
Who will paint my dreams?
Don't think me as an old stone
I am not lifeless love 
My love is not lifeless 
Come and walk in my heart 
See the sea of love
Come back
Look at my face 
Here is your seal of love 
I can't wash my face 
I can't breath without your love
I want to hide in you 
Don't walk in wrong track 
Here is true love 
Here is true peace
Here is true happiness
Come back 
And bring back my love again. 

Have you touched the mountain of snow?
My warmth is  stored there for you
Have you smeared the South wind? 
In which the words of my love are composed 
Have you swum in the river of love? 
That just flows my love 
Have you heard the sound of love?
It is in my heart
Geometric love will inspire you to come back
A circle cannot change it’s center
Love is not love which is calculated
come back
And bring back my love again. 

Don't break the rhythm of poetry 
As my soul lives in it
Don’t miss the flight of time
Time is limited but love is long
Don't blame on your forehead 
As there is no true reason 
Get ride of the sins of the delusions
Which are full of crime 
Come out of the cave of darkness
As there is no vision 
No vision, no love
Come back
I will disappear your darkness 
Come back to the cave  of light 
Light is love
You bring back my love again. 

You tried to trickle me 
No, I am not fooled
Tears do not quench the flame
You cheated on yourself 
You have drowned in the sea  of injustice 
Yet only you are in my prayers
I love you from the depth of heart
I live in you 
Ignite the emptiness 
Fill the cup of love
Come back
And bring back my love again. 

May life be blessed
May the expression of the circle
And  the day -night of the moon -sun be united Immortality is in love history. 
The rain will come from the heaven
The desert will give birth civilization
Trees will spread their branches
You are asked 
You are invited
Come back
Please come back
And bring back my love again.. 

MINSTREL OF WORDS 

His sayings crashed against the walls 
His anguish was no more than another new frivolous tape, crowning a brain who played the game of errors 
Eloquence is not enough 

The heart oscillates tonight and slides off the edge of an eyelid, 
Wavering in the swamps of petty goodbyes,

Mercy... For the man who passes free from your shadow, free from you 
Mercy For those who analyze the foam of the underworld 
Wizards of the spike, 
Bonfire Bird Embalmers Memory
footprint ... Frozen 
His revolution celebrated the apotheosis of life in decline

Meanwhile, she continues to dream of a bed laced with rose petals.
She keeps forgetting the reality of her always coming back to a life full of sunshine.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE  is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina. Based in Buenos Aires, she graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, which have been awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers .UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

A precious fruit


Holding an apple is 
History circulating in motion
The first fall, 
The first digital revolution, 
The doctors' one way. 
It serves purposes of many. 
But i hold an apple
With my pocket knife
Make art out of a fruit
A nice butterfly, smartly knitted 
A map of my origin
It can be moulded in many
It can divide nations too
Wage a war 
Genocide and what not
An imaginative flair 
Of so many realities. 
Objects then are not objects
But a history 
Fighting against the white crown
The sun down ruling
Tearing the flag with just 
A pinch of writing. 

An apple can do wonders-
It saved my neighbour's 
Life 
A sickening days of chewing
The flesh and the core
The lady is now walking fast. 
Then I have heard
A boy of merely ten
Fell to a dark depth
A big precipice of high altitude
He was picking apples
An apple served his death. 
A precious fruit, I thought
And stopped my pen. 


May Days 


Rains in May days are like coins
The surplus is warm
The last drop, Tangy 
-An orange flush
Over my cheeks
To remind me
Flush away and heal
The poison ivy. 

In the afternoons
I look up, 
The violet vast spreads
In the open. 
A rainbow makes my sensitivity
A beautiful pool
Of coloured waters. 
Then I know howling storms pour
To mirror the humane 
Blanketed deep around
A vulnerable, little child
Coiled in wintry rage
The eyes are afraid to look open
And taste the earthly paradise. 

At night I walk open
The night plains
winged with doors of magic blind
A stairway to a fountain
The tails swim in the mermaid bliss
Funnel like, the soma
Wets the green flush 
and weed out the darkening thrush. 

Then, the castle of 
The mountain
Where cherubs lie in ditsy water
And sprinkle the purplish hymn
Of Almighty
And his blessed lamb 
In surplus rain of
May days. 


Spectral Shadows


A small child of buried past
Pocketed her memories 
over her little watch-
Ping out the unhinged wall
Over the bricks, 
Little tulips here and there
Lying flat over 
A cauldron 
Of Holocaust Shrieks
And template of dehumanized
Silence. 

The sudden fall of 
The writer 
And institutions that zipped 
Up his lips
Over testimonies
Later, he wrote a book
On linguistic silence. 
His fall failed back
Between two worlds
Masked and silenced
Words of Jews and
Zeroes. 

Dates of people
She remembered well
Her taped 
Eyes that grew up
Upon Seeing flashes
To Spectres 
In a whim
Of seated big men, 
Eating away within
The ruptured channel. 

On Monday, 
she met a friend
Of her past school 
Swaying by the river walk
Of little feet dangling above. 
Rosebuds after the summer haul
And she made friends
From one to many
And chalked out their birthdays
Like her favourite puzzle-
Two of them stringed out
She could remember too much
She touched the thumb
And cut the string
And sat down by the last bench 
With her little flowy skirt
And loosened net shoes. 

"I sat and counted
One two three 
I can remember all of them-
Her favourite way to dance in the hall
And how she made her first cut out
I sat then and became invisible
A whole bunch of rosebuds
In the afternoon fall 
The fallen petals, the trampled buds
And i sat at the end
Tallest and i counted
One petals two and three
With my bag of rosebuds after
The classroom went dingy
And i was alone
And it rained hard
Then I gave them my 
Umbrella and my favourite petals
As I sat with my
Spectral shadows
With my pocketed watch. 

Sayani Mukherjee is a poet hailing from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. She received her post graduation degree in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Her creative works have appeared in various international and national magazines  like Medusa's kitchen poetry, Litterateurrw, Beatnik Cowboy magazine, Third Eye Butterfly press, Writers workshop, Synchronized chaos magazines, Fiction niche, The quiver review, The Chakkar , Literary cognizance , Literary Horizon, Horroscope press , The romantic breeze including the literary magazine of her alma mater and several others. She is also part of various anthologies of poems i. e. ''Paradise on earth'', " Bleeding hearts and Mumbling Minds' ' etc. Recently her debut poetry collection ''ODE TO MERAKI'' got published by Authorspress, New Delhi.  She likes to engage her leisure in photography, cinema and arts. 

***
guilty nails torn off by a scream glued to a dead kitten
graveyard inside is a bedroom
the kitten sleeps and sees a red night in a dream
abdominal memories won't come out
dead kitten inside belly overcame fear of water
drowned in non-birth drinks as imperceptibly as he breathes
but where is the cat jesus christ?


***
How to be a corpse in a big house?
How to be a frame in a big house?
How to be small in a big house?
How to properly shoot neighbors in an apartment building?
How to scream in a very large house?
How to be silent? What is the right way to cry?
How to die right? How to be a child?
How to be an animal? I am overgrown-furry
I'm overgrown with a stub of a church candle
I grow like a tree for my grandparents
The apple tree is a Christmas tree on the neck of a drowned man


***
The water is silent: therefore it is on the lips, on the eyelashes, on the forehead, on the corpse. Water is a stone, and stone is silence and restraint. Remember how we were stones before we were born. Stone and tear: this is called patience. Thinking stretches like a silkworm over a wet path. Where are we going? Where does the rain fall? The dew conquers the grass. Tear after tear. Grass after grass. Face after face. Everything around is a reflection. Mirrors are silent because they reflect. God is silent because it is necessary. The person is silent because it is necessary. Man is the god of death, oh Lord. We put a candle for your repose, oh Lord.


***
black night knocks 
on the skull box 
and opens the crystal door

windy garden of silence
look carefully at your feet


***
Lonely kitten lost on the street
Lonely kitten with my eyes all alone on the street
Lonely kitten with my name is lost
Lonely kitten with my heart is killed
Lonely kitten is alone with the street

Loneliness vs solitude
The stars above are calling me on way


***
iron sheet in the eyes of hunger
fish float up and hang suicides on a tree
holocaust coast in the cold forest
the bones of the crucified on the branches in the cold forest


***
Black birds don't let the bushes bleed
Black nights prevent the grass from publicly crying
Blue skies forbid hiding scars in the dark

And in a room closed from the inside
Тhe continuous winter revels 
Іn the broken bone of a dying man


***
аnd when the soldier fell 
there was no one 
who could help him up


***
people don't want to die and I hate them because they die
pigeons compete with children in the race for breadcrumbs
oil in a pipeline competes with itself in the blackness
children compete with each other in false growing up
candy wrappers of the night in the red throat of the abyss


***
the imperceptible sky became a guinea pig
dove pretended to be kissing a dove
stone age everywhere
otherwise why were two guys in love pelted 
with stones and not with wedding cards


***
axiom 
of emptiness 
in the cemetery