Lao Tzu’s Admonishment

Lao Tzu admonishes

Tsk tsk tsk

Buddha wags

A finger at me

Yet I am delirious

In my trishna

Avidya! a damned fool

Samsara the relentless

Loop is inevitable

An incessant carousel

From my first breath

Delicious! I devoured

The myriad creatures

Spellbound by maya

Suffering is our nature

To cling to reign over

Our humdrum days

To make sense of

Our futile obsessions

The persistent chaos

Swirling about us

Regrettably a few

Noble Truths will

Remain (blissfully)

Beyond my grasp

You see there is love

Quite a conundrum

And I want I desire

My beloved her

Lips hips breasts

Her easy laughter

Though the embrace

Is tragically temporary

Therefore screw you

Lao Tzu and then

I eventually apprehend

As Buddha smiles.

Lazy Sage

A lazy sage

Chuang Tzu simply

Acquiesced what’s obvious

All is chaos – broken

Then Siddhartha tossed

Suffering into the mix

(Gee thanks a bunch!)

Despite this wisdom

The sagacious formula

I learned helplessness

I was an inevitability

The nervous little dog

In the shock box

Will Dad bring home

Milk eggs hamburger

This time – next time

Auto health life

(Drive carefully!)

Will Mom be hauled

Home by the cops

Or locked up – how crazy

This time – next time

Will she disappear

With my little sister

Will she launch jelly

Jars at our heads

After seeking predictability

Reasonable assumptions

I now recognize mayhem

Now much too wary

Too vigilant to love

Suspicious of optimism

Heart races stomach churns

In obsessions and compulsions

And now the old augur

I also surmise

There’s only futility in

Solving our predicament.

Silence

I will happily remain silent, lips sutured, sealing ancient,

festered wounds (though hapless impulses tug at stitches),

my tongue a giddy atrophy, old car in its garage. I’ll not

wag or lash it anytime soon.

I know this silence, a wide horizon, an ocean, a silence

nearly as deep as magma sputtering beneath

the Laurentian Abyss. Awed by sublime, I only teeter

at its precipice, a wanderer in a Romantic’s painting.

I search my shelves for adequate locutions, attic, cellar,

spare room, to fit rather than buy a new articulation.

But my attempts remain clumsy, lumbering obstacles

so long as obsession hinders my intent (My mind

a fence row, nettles, burs and briar strangled in barbed wire.

There. There now.)

Does silence abide the absurd or pass unencumbered,

whistling through my ribs, wind through an abandoned

house? As the Buddha, a monk, I shall loosen my grip

on petty clamor, what’s futile, samatha, tranquility,

my singular desire.

This silence is (and I shall listen without interruption)

a breeze whispering through pines just outside

my window; the lulling murmur of phoebes hopping

and pecking across the yard;

the trillium pushing noisily though mayapples and loam;

with the morning sun, apple blossoms opening one by one.

I shall regard each arrival, each pink bud,

each white explosion.

This silence is (Though much too sentimental, I’ll try again.)

that warm afternoon, lolling in bed, when there’s nothing else,

when I apprehend, galvanic skin to skin, lip to breast,

I love my lover, when words are ludicrous.

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawingstitled Drawing Nirvana.

A Long Way Away

He’s at Lost Sock

About to order a quad

And a crogel

And he realizes that 

The person in front of him

Is someone that

He used to know

From the Peace Corps

Another volunteer

And no one

Says anything

And he isn’t sure

If she recognizes him

But he thinks

She probably does

And as she 

Gets her coffee 

And walks out of 

The coffee shop

He realizes that

Those Peace Corps days

Feel a long way away.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, the poetry collection “Takoma.”

Wael Elouny, star bridge between Egypt and Hollywood

Wael Elouny, 42 years old, is an Egyptian star, born in the cultural capital Alexandria, home of the legendary Bibliotheca Alexandrina. Wael Elouny is making his debut in Europe and the USA with the film “Ancient taste of Death …on mother pearl floor” by Antonello Altamura, a film with new philosophical aspects. Wael has a spontaneous character, a very lively spirit, a volcano of creativity. Wael, in addition to cinema, has experience in theater and television and is the winner of  many film awards.

Walking with Wael through the streets of Cairo, everyone recognizes him and stops to ask for his autograph, because people like Wael and he does not want to have the mask of the star. Wael works with big film productions, but is attracted by indie productions, overflowing with creativity and certainly a faithful mirror of current customs. For all this I introduced him to the Italian director Antonello Altamura, 50 years old, for “Ancient taste of Death” an indie movie of the Hollywood Art Film Production, based between Hollywood and San Francisco, so the production is Californian in cooperation with an Italian production.

It is a film that links the dramas of the Hollywood golden age with the enigmas and dramas of ancient Egypt at the time of Cleopatra VII. It is a film where the world of the invisible and the metaphysical acts on reality, which, elusive, never, really allows itself to be fully identified. The scene I shot with Wael is totally immersed in this context. The character of Wardal, who has two souls, goes to the oracle of Siwa to meet Bayed (Wael Elouny), since he is opposed by Ottavio-Ottaviano (Antonello Altamura in his debut as an actor). Bayed advises Wardal against eliminating Ottavio. Wardal rebels against Bayed’s advice, which he takes as an insult to his power, which he sublimates by saying: “I am history”, while Bayed interrupts Wardal’s abstraction-delirium, who points a gun at Bayed, but Bayer’s charisma prevents his assassination and Wardal, consumed by the drama, falls at Bayer’s feet.

Wael and I wanted to shoot the scene in Arabic, under the supervision of the great political journalist of “Akhbar El Youm” Ph.D. Ahmed Elsersawy. On that day in December 2024 Wael was busy with two films and I with a television recording. We both wanted to shoot that scene which in the film will be called: “I am history”. We repeated it several times and each time we enriched it with a new idea, in five hours of work, pressed by our other work commitments. There was a perfect harmony between me and Wael, a great professionalism. Then, from Cairo, we made a video call to Antonello Altamura in Turin. Wael and I were very satisfied with our work and Altamura likes a lot that scene. 

Here is a true story of our world of cinema, here is an important step of cooperation between Californian and Egyptian cinema and the Arab world. There is a project to create a solid bridge between Hollywood cinema and Egyptian, Saudi and Arab Emirates cinema through a colossal film festival. Fingers crossed.

John Portelli, Maltese-Canadian author and retired professor, is planning to edit a collection of poetry inspired by the awful situation in Gaza. All proceeds from the sale of the book will be generously donated to poet friend Ahmed Miqdad who, together with his family, have been suffering great pain both physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Portelli has already helped Ahmed by co-authoring a book with him “The Shadow: Poems for the Children of Gaza” (Horizons Malta, 2024). From the sale of this book he donated 1400 euros to Ahmed via the office of the Palestinian Embassy in Malta. He welcomes poems for consideration for this collection which he aims to be of very good quality. To publish the book we also need to collect some funds. 

Thus far he has found donors who have contributed 350 euros toward the publication of this anthology.  We will need another 350 euros. Any donations are welcome.

 If you wish to submit some poems, please email John on John.portelli@utoronto.ca.

English Major

Back then they’d step out of their story

Their novel, their play, their poem and

Speak to us, deal with us. We knew them

And they knew us, where we were, where

We were going. We were quick to quote

Them when it fit. We’d nod when we saw

Their relevance playing out in front of us.

Being an English major in the 60s gave us

The material we needed to deal with the 60s

And the world it was making for us. We were

A crowd in a world of crowds. We had years

Of wisdom playing out in what we read and

What we heard in our classes. Shakespeare

And Milton, Becket and Ginsburg, Heller

And West – our lists were impressive and

Seemed endless. What else did we need to

Face what was coming at us? Years of it and

A life bolstered by it. What could go wrong

With this? Everything that could go wrong

Of course, went wrong. And all of it seems

Flimsy now – and turned out to be just that.

Where did all the 60s English major go and

Where did all that wisdom sneak off to?

                   Dreams

They show up in my dreams

People from my past, pass by.

Some silent, others saying

Things I remember them saying

Back then, safely in the past.

Some go by, seem familiar, but

I can’t recall their names. They

Are background figures, passing

By in my dreams like they did in

My past. Dreams do that these

Days, present places and spaces

Filled with characters that made

My past what it was, part ceremony

Part show, part story. They came in

In real time and now get their cameo

Appearances in my dreams. There’s

No explaining when and why they are

There in that dream on that night. I

Try to connect them to my present

But they fit uncomfortably, even if

I stretch things, connect some piece

Of my present to my dreamed past.

No they’re separate now, out of control

Playing my life out in these stray bits

Of my time.

                Joker

Been telling the same joke

living that same joke

For a long time now

Minutes of it and years of it.

Been laughing at my joke,

Even after I heard that one

About only a fool laughs

At his own joke or jokes

And I’d be foolish enough

To laugh aloud, join in

The general laughter

All around me.

Been a street clown

A circus clown

A stand-up comic

Part Laurel, part Hardy

One of the three stooges.

I’ve chuckled and guffawed

Been chuckled at and guffawed at

Been the butt of many jokes

And played the punch line

For all of it.

come see the skinny-necked sparrow leaving tracks in the snow

Nijinsky brought his own moonlight

and everything else 

was papier-mâché

a caterpillar curled up on the grain of firewood

she tested the strength of the bleach on the tip of her tongue

how the picture of his mother became a mirror for fixing her hair

a congested bear on tv hawking honey-flavored cough syrup

taking turns telling me why I need a Titanium phone

there for her first pickled onion

remembering the birthdays of the dead

it was the strawberries in the shortcake he didn’t like

—————————————————————————-

the breakfast of a champion

leftovers and

christmas cookies

the breakfast

of a champion

how much liquor

in the coffee this

morning

whatever it takes

to avoid the inevitable

chasing death like

a whore in church

that dark haired vixen

of the teenage years

imagine if she would

have said yes and all

this bullshit would

have never happened

imagine if you were

actually someone

worth saying yes

to

————————————————————————

a visit to the doctor before a snowstorm

blood pressure of

someone in perfect

health

blood sugar of

someone that will

be dead in a few

months

more scratches of

the head than i have

seen in years

but as always

what designer drug

will the insurance

pay for

i guess the pain

can wait

i suppose all this

booze is here for

a reason

———————————————————————–

flirting with disaster

one of these nights

one of these drinks

will probably kill

me

i feel like i am an

expert at flirting

with disaster

a quick tongue

will get you

places in these

sordid circles

she does believe

we are going to

spend forever

in harmony

i hate to break

it to her

but the chances

of that happening

are even worse

than my impending

doom

—————————————————————————

just a few inches

snow on the way

now the panic

will set in

long lines for

gas and groceries

jesus christ

just a few inches

some stupid fuck

will ask where

the hell is global

warming now

this is when i

would love to

grab him and

tell him about

the good ole’

days of four

fucking seasons

instead of just

hot and cold

———————————————————————-

into something beautiful

and here comes

this angel willing

to grab me by the

throat and drag me

into this century

of course, as much

as i want to believe

she has my best

interests in mind

this fucking wall

i have been building

won’t allow my

complete belief to

grow into something

beautiful

this is where the

distance apart

is my friend

allows me many

miles to get my

split brain back

into one

i hope those stunning

eyes meet me on some

edge of the world

and we both decide

to fucking jump

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is a 3 time Best of the Net nominee and a recent Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s been recently published at The Beatnik Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and Yellow Mama. He is currently working on a yet to be titled book of new poems. You can find him most of the time on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)