I ask what happens when, in tuning out
the bad, by tuning to any regulated
frequency, i project my voice about
the target frequency that lives in my head,

a function of my birth, in part, and I
miss out, a little, on total alignment.
I conclude that, because I always try
to tune out the bad, invitations are sent

I recognize her intrinsic brightness,
and, i say, she could not, therefore, be born
on this particular day. She’s in duress,
to have her provenance put to scorn

by those that, unlike me, don’t believe.
I ask, “can you tell me if we are
together, in this life, on some reprieve?
But if I don’t know—we’ll surely go far—

Driven up the wall by his questions; don’t know why he couldn’t wait until tomorrow—so, I take something additional to tune out the anxiety he is communicating. i understand he may be in a bad place—and needs me to carry some of the burden, at least for a time, which i try to do, but when he persists into the night, i must draw the line, and send it back. i do that however i can. in my case it means adjusting my medication intake. Since i’m supercharged, i turn down the antidepressant—since i cannot stop his questions for the evening, i increase the antipsychotic. i have no problem with doing this, for now. in time, we’ll see how things evolve—perhaps i won’t need to send so much of it back to him—or those that, as fans, would like to be privy to my general broadcast.

a child’s brain is not as structured as mine:
frequencies are more nonspecific;
to treat them as an adult, by design,
would mean that i, and my network, are sick.

My faster frequencies would find no home;
i’d be channeling what could never fit—
passing on a static riddled tome,
muddling what they will never acquit,

i assume, in the future, this is written,
and my prodigy might have read it;
so, as i write it, and, as i’m smitten,
he tells me what he gets from what i’ve writ,

and, in that way, the finished product
is a function of itself, something i
never wrote, sent back to me, tucked
away in the ether of his mind’s eye.

Don’t ask me questions that have questions
within them; start with the little things first,
and then build up to my prescriptions.
maybe i’m not ready; perhaps i’d burst

if you told me what you’re on about.
i find holes in my work, like anyone would,
and it makes me, too, want to shout
to the stars. But i always did what i could,

Gentle heart, existing on a stream, flowing down the mountain and all the way to me. God exists at every point in space, and it goes to follow that He exists at every point in spacetime. So when i talk out to Him, frequencies converge, and He speaks back to me in a way that resonates a little more clearly. This happens with practice.
My love also exists in spacetime, and speaking to that physical address, he, too, changes his tune, just a little, and we establish a relationship. But what on everything and nothingness? Existence presupposes, at least, an amount of nothingness, which implies that, outside of those boundaries, another amount of nothingness would exist.

Who lives in my eternal neighborhood?
the light in my DNA would be king;
surrounded by family, as i should
be, since they store the love He would bring,

my long term friend and confidante.
mending fences, then, with my family,
finding me, elsewhere, in my former haunt,
in great communion with his body.

How are souls defined? By an earthly life—and if, as i evolve, i reverse the aging process? Eventually, i shift to something similar, merging with 5D. Nothing, from that time, is lost; it’s all packed away, right where i left it. And if we live forever, and i write every day, then every piece is contingent to every other piece, and i retrieve them by going, little by little, in a chosen direction. The directions we take, on the web, as a whole, determine our next event, and the places i go carry weight—since my website lives in an important position.

feeling his rapture, carry me along. I shift to a different channel, speaking, as we do, in different places, at different times of the day, and, also, because it makes it harder for other people to get the whole picture—all the pieces that make the whole conversation make sense. there are differ-ent people, too, that i’m talking too, and they identify with one voice or another. We’re not ashamed, when we speak, of who we are—there’s nothing, deep down, to find fault with. There’s nothing to resist—we’re just people that love each other, looking out for each other.