One of my favorite experiences pre-Covid was visiting a library or bookstore and picking up books, fingering and flipping through and reading the backs of each title with an interesting cover or concept. This month’s issue of Synchronized Chaos provides a ‘browsing’ experience as it includes a large number of submissions, each with their own themes, style, and flavor.

FYI Synchronized Chaos Magazine will host a free public reading, “Audible Browsing Experience” to coincide with the AWP conference in Philadelphia at Head House Books. Our monthly theme for this issue is a homage to the name of the reading! We have a lineup of readers and will host an open mic if time allows. Event takes place Thursday March 24th from 6-8 pm. Please sign up here if you would like to attend as the store has limited capacity due to social distancing. Head House requires masks and proof of vaccination.

Michael Robinson describes his personal, spiritual experience of salvation and resurrection. Hongri Yuan returns to evoke spiritual ideas, a world more eternal and orderly than our own. Chimezie Ihekuna’s screenplay Saved by His Grace explores the workings of faith in the life of a pastor who loses his son. Sayani Mukherjee bears witness to the last musings of a person who dies through drinking hemlock.

Hong Ngoc Chau dreams of a future literary career and shares the spiritual and intellectual transcendence she finds through the written word. Lorraine Caputo relates vignettes of reading, writing, and traveling, village markets and hotel room sunrises. Reading Don Quixote, she shares some of Chau’s idealistic spirit.

Chris Suah’s speaker’s creative journey allows him to move through loss and arrive at a balance of grief and joy. Abdulloh Abdumominov finds joy in reading nonfiction to learn and grow as a person, while Sushant Thapa celebrates the excitement of learning from both books and life.

Amit Parmessur describes the poetic beauty of nature and literature in elegant prose. Mahbub’s free-verse speakers do the same, finding stillness and grace in hearing the flowing river, embracing on foggy days, and even facing the prospect of death. Joseph Balaz advocates in Hawaiian Pidgin through wind metaphors that readers should face life with a mixture of calm and passion.

J.D. Nelson experiments with language as symbol, with the connections between letters and words, and words and meaning. Joshua Martin draws parallels between words and syllables as the units comprising poetry and the physical plants and bricks making up ecosystems and cities.

Howard Debs brings a historical perspective to the January 6th, 2021 mob attack on the U.S. Capitol. Patricia Doyne speaks of the history behind the racial categories of ‘black people’ and ‘white people’ and protests racism within the U.S.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan offers up observations of mini-scenes and encounters within the United States’ interior. Mark Young crafts work in a similar vein but on a smaller scale, looking at insects and impressionistic personal experiences.

D.S. Maolalai covers domestic quietude and drama: brewing tea and sunrise alongside romantic betrayal and storms. Linda Hibbard writes of the near-universal awkwardness of junior high school, not being a sheltered child anymore but not yet a young adult. Arthur Russell paints a portrait of a New York couple who has found an uneasy truce with middle age and each other.

J.J. Campbell conveys the loneliness that can come with singleness, illness, and caregiving, while Edwin Olu Bestman evokes the loss of belonging and sense of self that can come with the end of a romance.

Robert Ragan admonishes the ‘man in his mirror’ to grow up and move beyond an impossible love to focus on the life in front of him. Ahmad Al-Khatat also writes of the journey towards emotional maturity, how a gentle and mutual romance inspires him to become a more caring person.

In another piece, Khatat mourns the tragedy of sexual assault. Judge Santiago Burdon’s poetry also laments violence, poverty, and heartbreak some women suffer. He also speaks humorously of the confusion a man feels when his female partner reveals her interest in the Wiccan religion.

Amos Momo Ngumbu Jr. expresses his wish for the blind to regain their sight. Christopher Bernard urges each of us to take what steps we can to improve our world.

Jason Visconti celebrates the ‘electricity’ of a passionate human connection, while John Thomas Allen writes of the rich drama of a day in the life of a dumbwaiter. John Culp shouts out about his romance with exuberance. Ian C. Smith reaches for past memories and future knowledge that lies just out of his grasp, while Frankie Laufer speaks of our physical and psychological ‘collections’ – classic rock music, dolls, love and nostalgia.

Andrew MacDonald describes the way our minds make sense of complex, random human or natural events. Lorette C. Luzajic renders Hieronymus Bosch’s jumbled art into lengthy but taut poetry. Jack Galmitz observes the world around him with the eyes of a philosopher or painter, calling to mind Hume and the masters who painted country scenes.

J.P. Lowe reflects wryly on his past animal companions and how Bukowski’s experience with cats and dogs runs counter to his own. J.K. Durick also ponders his past, ruminating on society’s leftovers: what has changed and stayed the same as he grew up. Abigail George renders her past in an impressionistic essay, chronicling and reflecting on her search for family and romantic love as well as her development as a writer. Ivan Fiske ponders the history of Liberia from its connection to the liberation of American slaves to its present-day struggles and resilience.

Our hope is that this issue’s many resplendent offerings will inspire your own creative journey.

Drowning
this poem
is like the deep blue sea
rolling with numerous history
lingering in its sleeves.
at the depth of this poem
are dead bodies swimming to freedom,
bodies that have bumped themselves into death
while escaping the jaws of slavery,
this poem, too, is a graveyard
like the deep blue sea,
this poem is a diary
of many lives that never returned home
& dreams the sea waves have destroyed;
dive to the depth of this piece
you will see pieces of mama Liberia
swimming to the shores of freedom
wanting to be independent like the sun
with corruption glued to her skin;
she’s wearing a floater, but
her body is befriending the sea’s bottom.

New Chapter

While studying your lessons 
Do you wish to open the ball of clothy imagination? 
Do you care to lighten your path 
With a delightful conviction? 
While touching the books from your shelves 
Do you realize they are your 
Guiding kingdom breathing in you? 
The scent of pages of your books is 
A perfume of true human essence 
That has been inked by magical minds 
Surpassing generations. 
It can be the world you see with your mind's eye. 
What forgiving hands hold the books! 
A well-engineered nest of comfort 
Where even a winner of the world
Takes a dive of love into another precious heart
And losses his own. 
The teachings you choose 
Make you a teacher itself, 
A lifelong student deep inside
To appreciate the teacher of purpose. 
You may teach life a new chapter every day! 

2.	Pleasure Is the Forgetful Pain
Freshness, joy 
Height of bliss! 
Solitude is a name
Of beautifully alone early dawn
Even before good morning
Is greeted. 
Recollections keep finding itself in the 
Address of deep and dark dusk. 
In nature lies the truth 
The zeal to uncover, 
The moment to capture. 
The net of will casted to
Cage the wide sky is eternity. 
Forever the sleeping time awakes 
In one moment. 
The music of the rain 
Pleasure is the forgetful pain. 
In the atom of thought 
Simplicity chooses 
To become the only clarity.

                                                                                                                 Written by Sushant Thapa 
                                                                                                                                Nepal 

On A Night When The Crickets Insist

They are interested in power.
They have a passion for moving
large solid objects
with their minds.
They like waking up
and tennis, 
from which they draw
life lessons.
They like chess
as a metaphor
,
but they do not play.

They are past wanting
cars, watches or love
beyond affection.  They like 
frying
chicken in an iron skillet, 
and cornbread
stacked like a pyramid
on a dinner plate.

They don’t care about 
horses
except as backdrops.
They don’t know where
fatigue comes from
or where it goes.
Ideas, even those
filled with white moths,
are steamer trunks.

Their mother is 96.
Their daughter is 30.
They care about 
voter registration;
less so, but still,
to some degree,
about the minimum wage.

The moon is of no interest.

They have no interest
in construction sites.

At a reception, when
they see someone they
worked with years ago,
they brim.        Harto 
is the word in Spanish.

They have made 
their peace
with their partner,
though peace is not
what they thought
it would be.  

The center
continues to vibrate
like an impacted wisdom
tooth.  

They are clean,
sober and off Paxil.

On the walls of their townhouse
are souvenirs of longings
they once felt the possibility
of fulfilling

when a gallery opening 
made them sense 
that life
had been wasted 
on social missions.  

They love best 
at arm’s length.

They are not afraid
of famous or
powerful people or 
intellectual prowess
or athleticism, but
they love Simone Biles.  

They never
underestimate their
enemies, or mistake
passion for loyalty or
kindness for weakness.

The speed at which
the Earth moves 
as it circles the sun –
67,000 miles per hour --
is never far from their mind.

They used to go to a club
in the basement of an office
building in midtown
and nurse one beer.

People would sit down
next to them, start
a conversation, then
move on when they
didn’t respond
to the vibe.  Bees on
a blossoming tree once
meant something to them.

They like a Korean
barbeque place in Astoria.
They believe in God
without an ounce of anguish.  

They do not keep 
a clean house.
Their maid once quit
citing futility.

The hallway 
that goes 
from their front door 
to their kitchen 
has African masks 
lining the wall.

They are prepared for the end
that often never comes.

There are three people
whom they keep away
from their other friends
and from one another.

They sit on the board.

They have one cup 
of the real stuff 
in the morning,
then they switch to decaf.

They remember: 
on the Staten Island Ferry,
one New Year’s Eve, at midnight, 
in the harbor, out on deck, 
in the rainy wind with the woman 
whose idea it was to come, 
how their face felt, pelted 
with harbor spume and droplets
of rain, hurting, vivid, 
but they don’t remember
where they met her
or how the night ended.

They saw, early on,
the limits of what 
intelligence 
could accomplish, but
never escaped its
addictive gleam completely.

They like being in control
the way books put them
in control.  Pick it up. 
The book speaks. Put it down. 
It shuts up. Speaks.  
Shuts up.  Speaks.
Shuts up.   

It Is All Gone

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅,
𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔,
𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕,
𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉,
𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅,
𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅.


𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 
𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅,
𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅,
𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈,
𝒊 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 
𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚,
𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚.
𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝒊 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒏𝒐 
𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒈𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒖𝒕.


𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈,
𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈,
𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆,
𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚, 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚
𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅
𝒊 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆.


𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 
𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎,
𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒉𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒎 𝒐𝒇 
𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔
𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒃𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒆𝒅,
𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒋𝒐𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒌, 𝒂𝒏𝒅
𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅s.


Poem By: Chris S. Suah

RIGHT ON KEIA


Wen you play 
dis crazy game

nutting is really da same

so you go easy, easy,
and be right on keia.


No freak ‘um out,
just blow kisses from da mouth,

and make dem realize
dat you know wat it’s all about,

right on keia 

half and half
hurricane and gentle wind.


Watch da leaves in da trees

and see da various degrees
on how tings stay gusting.


Read it all like wun map
and give ‘um right on keia

half and half
hurricane and gentle wind.


No even trip it,
moa bettah you HIP it,

so bebop da constant cop

trying to arrest
your innate sense of reason

and continue wit 
right on keia

half and half
hurricane and gentle wind.


Keep it level to da eye

even dough 
you stay up in da sky

and make 
da buggahs question why

dey no can bring you down.


Deah’s only one way to play,
as you move from day to day,

right on keia

half and half
hurricane and gentle wind.



right on keia        Keia means “this” in Hawaiian.
HIP                      Acronym for Hawaiian Islands Pidgin. 

Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (HIP) and in American English. He has also created works in visual poetry and music poetry.  He is the author of Pidgin Eye, a book of poetry.  Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing and art in the expanding context of World literature.  He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.