FUNCTIONAL POTENCY AND OTHER RELIABLE TECHNIQUES REQUIRING EFFECTIVE IDENTIFIERS

                                    We arrived at dusk
                                    and spread ourselves
                                    beneath what passes for a canopy
                                    since the sky was forever flaunting its.
                                    I set up my table
                                    which has hinged braced legs.
                                    The others brought tarot cards
                                    and scented candles.
                                    We welcome anyone who cares to pop in
                                    with the stipulation
                                    this is family run and
                                    propensities for peace guide us.
                                    “Is there a Tony here?”
                                    Tony is here, sending lightning bolts
                                    up people’s arses,
                                    even in death irreverent.
                                    His laughter starts our table a rocking.
                                    We won’t get anything done tonight
                                    regret he does not take us
                                    a little more seriously.

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia waiting for the end of the world. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Rusty Truck, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)—————————————————————————————————————————————————–what could be i used to look atbeautiful women and dream about what could be reality set in sometime around my late teens none of them look at me and think the same thing at least that’s how i’m explaining to myself why i am single still in my forties- ———————————————————————–of natural causes it becomes more obvious each day i will die alone i’ll be one of those stories on the news of some shut-in found months after he died of natural causes my luck, it will be on the toilet hopefully, with a smile on my face————————————————————————————————–in the sad facts another morning waking up alone entrenched in the sad facts that the world has decided you don’t get to be love there will be no holding hands on a sandy beach as the sun goes down no kisses under the stars no sweet nothings whispered anywhere near your existence insanity keeps you alive keeps you the heartbroken fool that still believes keeps you always willing to be punished yet again————————————————————————————-rivers of tears if it wasn’t for laughter, these days would simply be rivers of tears think of your pain as the last meaningful act on this earth the love of your life decided to live on the other side of the world the sun will come up again so will the skin cancer hope is only there for those that actually believe it exists—————————————————————————————–since forever left your arms embrace the painlike an old lover the distant echoes of years gone by since forever left your arms agony leaves a bitter taste the flowers all die before one last sweet whiff of a better tomorrow they will feed you this bullshit that all things get better with time happiness is not falling for the lie

The Anam Glyphs by Peggy A. Wheeler

The Anam Glyphs is another Beautimus Potamus book. This book shoud actually be read before The Splendid and Extrordinary Life of Beautimus. This book explains the Anam Glyphs that Beautimus would read every morning. This book also contains the same delightful humor. It also has some very good advice or suggestions that one could use their own life. I thoroughly enjoyed this one and the other on Beautimus. I am definitely a new fan of Ms. Peggy A. Wheeler.

The Anam Glyphs is available here.

The Splendid and Extraordinary Life of Beautimus Potamus

Wonderful book, which Ms. Hughes enjoyed as well! Also available from Peggy Wheeler’s website.

Chaco by Peggy A. Wheeler

Chaco by Peggy A. Wheeler is a suspense/adventure novel. It is about Chaco who is a “handyman” for Abigail and Russell walker. Chaco holds a secret that he has not told anyone. He has a Phd in physics from a German university.He has been watching the skies through his powerful telescope for solar CME’s. One day his fears come to fruition and the CME’s have not only knocked out power to homes and businesses, but newer cars will not run, no internet or cell phones. No way to communicate or cook. When people realize help will not be coming, people begin looting, killing each other and some lose grip of reality. Chaco decides the only way to keep himself, the Walkers, their granddaughters and the neighbors, the Pennymons safe is to go to a self sustaining commune the Walkers daughter lives in 800 miles away, most of the journey on foot. This is where the adventure and suspense begins and intensifies. I would recommend this for older teens and adults. This will keep your adrenaline going and turning pages until the end. It was difficult to put down and the adrenaline keeps going when you reach the end. I absolutely loved it and will be reading it again.

Peggy Wheeler’s Chaco is available here.

I come from Zambia, Africa. Unknown to most travellers, there exists a creature of myth & cultural memory called Chitapo. If you travel in the north, there are pictures around the Kafue area that depict her; in the south around the Zambezi also. She/they are part-mermaid/ siren, part snake, lurking in the depths of the rivers and lakes. Their enchanting song lures wandering souls into the water to drown. She is always hungry. In the half-awake, half-comatose state of grief, self doubt, fear of addiction or diminution, she appears to us. She’s beautiful and terrible, the snake ever poised and watchful, and we cannot look away… Do we dare embrace her? At what cost?

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Decades ago, autodidact & bloody-minded optimist kerry rawlinson gravitated from sunny Zambian skies to solid Canadian soil, nurturing family and a career in Architectural Technology. Fast-forward: She follows Art & Literature’s Muses around the Okanagan, still barefoot; her patient husband ensuring she’s fed. She’s won some contests, e.g. from Fish Poetry Prize, CAGO Online Gallery, Geist; and recent work appears internationally, eg. Tupelo Quarterly, Across The Margin, Painted Bride Quarterly, Literary Review of Canada, Connecticut River Review, Pedestal Magazine, Riddled With Arrows,Boned,and Anti-Herion Chic; amongst others. http://kerryrawlinson.tumblr.com/; @kerryrawli

WHAT THE SUN DOES

This is how the sun reminds

me of hell, everyday.

It pours its heat on the

soil to burn my sole and soul.

My body is butter.

The sun snogs me with hotness

and I become a lonely woman

whose vagina is awaiting

the company of her husband.

A boy once stared into my eyes

and prayed to me to let him

dip his index finger into me.

But I told him

butter kept under a scalding sun

is not meant to be touched,

you watch it die— and let it

find life again at the feet of sunset.

The boy stared at me again;

this time like he saw dark letters

of rejection brightening my face.

The sun climbed down my body

to create a shadow out of the boy.

BULLETS

I don’t know

what to call this.

All I know is that

there is this attraction

between my body and bullets.

I’ve heard of men

who defended themselves

with bullets.

I’ve hears of men

who won wars within themselves

with bullets.

But, here I am,

thinking of muting my body

with bullets.

This body doesn’t worth

self defense.

This body doesn’t worth

winning wars.

It is an incomplete building

stuffed with broken bottles,

ugliness, dirt, with no windows.

This building can never

own completion because

there will never be enough

resources to complete it…

except bullets; one or two.

When will you understand that

sometimes, gunshots are

noises that stop other noises?

MAR THE MAP

Sometimes,

                scars do not                 heal.

they make us Ill                 and drag us                 to

                           young graves. The scars

on my body are

                                                                                                                traps looking like maps,

leading strangers into different cities of ruins.                                              I don’t want their feet there.

So, I try to put a                                                          closure on this fissure.                         But these strange legs

still open them with toes.                                                                                 Sometimes, no matter how many bandages you use to cover scars, something will still open them

                                                                      and make them strive for air.

                                                                                                                                                                         I saw a billboard:

“Give destruction to every part of the path                                                                           leading to destruction.

Mar

the

Map!”

                                                                               So I… So I… So I…throw

                  this body into fire like                   pieces                   of                   pitiful                   papers.

Who wants to see proofs of his own                                                                                           destruction?