we thought we weren’t

all that i was
was a compilation of what
i wasn’t:
how we bounced a
deflating rubber ball to and
fro across white faded
lines on the schoolyard blacktop talking and
talking about trivial
things that led us to cover each
other’s cool gray surfaces so when
finally the romantic
disruption we had
waited for came we
realized there was this empty
sphere of dry air below
the other’s surface and
plasmatic energy, unstable, below our
own, a dammed-up deluge like a

sip of carbonated
drink; rising
anticipation for the syrupy
taste then the spiky
needling in the soft
skin of your cheeks as you
attempt to swallow and
swallow as the drink goes
flat in your mouth and still you
carry the lingering taste and the
memory of craving junk
food; now you
wonder what was the
appeal and the firmest
memory you retain is that of the
deflating rubber ball, worn, durable, and
unremarkable.

I Don’t Trust Spring

I don’t trust spring so I wore my winter coat
And now I am too warm thanks to duplicitous spring.
Fate moves too quickly for me
Like the important email I am waiting for which will not arrive,
But in reverse.
The world is too fast for me
Or possibly too slow.
The joggers are not over dressed
The trees sprout leaves in just the right amounts.
But I am left out of the season
Like an email which will not arrive.
Like an email which will not arrive 
I should go to sleep in my coat
And dream of the bare arms of winter.
And dream of the bare arms of winter.
And dream of the bare arms of winter.
I don’t know what comes next.

 
Revolutionary Song

There’s a great pale beetle in the brain of James Madison.
It crawls through his buttocks onto the cheese plate of Benjamin Franklin.
Cheese bounces like rubber upon the fiery honor of Alexander Hamilton.
The narrative journey wears the green plaid socks of George Washington.

Do not doubt it; do not doubt it.
History will swallow you if you doubt it.
We have found a fearless squid writing fearful poems in its ink sac
and they all say do not doubt it.

Thomas Jefferson winds up his wooden teeth
and they chew upon the wretched fungus in the eye of compromise.
In Paris they sing to the great wigs
marching on the cloudy rhetoric of Thomas Jefferson.

The ink sac is dry; the doubt drips like chicken soup
into the soul of the brain of the heart.
The origins of cryptids rise from tea like terror
and Patrick Henry holds a frisbee between his gleaming gums.

Every toss is a vote for truth.
Every miss is a vote for death.
The country stands strong as the pudding
that leaks from Daniel Webster’s forehead.

Do not doubt it; do not fear the porcine call
Of gregarious egregious sand worms in the stall.
JFK and LBJ come drifting down like fall.
Praise until you doubt it but don’t doubt it.
 

---------------------------------------------------------------------
straight from cuba
 
seek out the lord
in the piano bar
down the street
 
maybe in the
curves of the
beautiful woman
playing the bass
guitar
 
maybe the lord
is lining up on
the table in the
corner
 
or unzipping her
shirt a little as she
tries to make an
impossible combo
shot
 
seek out the lord
in a plume of cigar
smoke straight from
cuba
 
the lord surely must
be in this glass of
whiskey
 
you have to be
a little drunk to
believe in a place
called heaven
-----------------------------------------------------------
proud to say
 
spent the afternoon
listening to dolly
parton songs while
my mother was in
her physical therapy
session
 
proud to say
none of the
poems were
about the
obvious
-----------------------------------------------------------
the conversations get a little wordy these days
 
i never had the need
to keep up with anyone
 
never cared for kings
and queens, presidents,
principals or gods
 
got really comfortable
talking to myself at
an early age
 
the conversations get
a little wordy these days
 
someone wants to show
off all those thirteen letter
words they know
 
i know i am the odd one
 
the one everyone could
think would be the next
mass gunman
 
and i have never even
owned a gun
 
although the local gun
shop and i share the
same first name
-----------------------------------------------------------------
live longer than me
 
walking with my mother
up and down the sidewalk
on a finally sunny day
 
she wants to get more
mobile again
 
either she really feels
alive again or she is
determined to see if
she could live longer
than me
 
my anxiety has put
the money on her
 
it must have forgotten
how stubborn i really
am
 
i could probably live
to 100 just to fucking
spite everyone
-------------------------------------------------------------
who will check my emails when i die
 
the white noise
is meant to calm
 
dull you to sleep
instead, it is slowly
driving me insane
 
who will check
my emails when
i die
 
do ghosts need
dick pills or
have the desire
to contribute to
a political
campaign
 
sleep in the
sunshine
 
go drinking
at midnight
 
the lost souls
like to gather
at the corner
 
humming jane says
like we did thirty
years ago
---------------------------------------------------------------

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Black Shamrock, The Rye Whiskey Review and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Shahnoza Ochidiyeva

Happiness

It’s a great blessing that the heart beats                                
It’s a blessing the souls are alive and well
It’s a blessing to live safe and sound,
Tell, hey, person what else is needed?

It’s a blessing the tree of ignorance has died,
It’s a happiness that the hearts full of freedom
It’s a great blessing to be servant of Allah,
Tell, hey, person, what else is needed?

It’s a blessing to have big bravery
It’s a blessing to earn with difficulty
It’s a blessing fate gives us to feel lucky
Tell, hey, person, what else is needed?

It’s a blessing my mom says loving words
It’s a happiness that my father’s eyes smiling
It’s a happiness that our country peacefully living
Tell, hey person, what else needed you?
Imaginations

They say imagination has sharp wings
Oh, it flies anywhere
Which in human imaginations
Reach the heavens everywhere

They surrounded me too
Flew away towards the dreams
Filling my world with joy
Everything came alive around me

I travelled to Paris, America and Rome
I was on the seventh sky at that moment
That Turkey welcomed me warmly
But I missed my sweet home.

I saw so many places
Almost laughed for a moment
Looking at the purest sea
Missed you, my Motherland.

Turning the road of my thoughts
I returned to my place at once.
Strange joy, strange pleasure
A special feeling spread over my soul.

                                      

Ochildiyeva Shahnoza Abdivohid qizi was born on July 17, 2006 in the republik of Uzbekistan, Surkhandarya region, Denov district. Presently, she studies at school number 49 in 10th grade. She is a Captain of the Denov District Council of the Youth Union of Uzbekistan. She  actively participates different  national  competitions, festivals, gaining honorable places. Also one of the youngest and most active members of several international organizations. Her poems have been published in several newspapers and magazines. In 2021, the first collection of poetry was published under the name “Yurakdagi orzularim”. Samples of creativity were included in the anthologies “Türkçenin dünyadaki özbek sesi” published in the Republic of Turkey and “Talented voices of Uzbekistan” published in America. In 2022, her new book came out of publication under the title “She’riyat o’ziga ayladi asir”. Her new book which was called “Happiness” was published in Amerika. Nowadays her books are selling in 26 countries of the world!

Barbie 


“Dear Elaine,” she writes on a new postcard. “I saw Barbie today. I did. A Barbie doll come to life. This woman. I swear. That’s what she looked like. I was out with Holly. You know. Running errands. Took a break and stopped at Starbucks. Got a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino for me. A Puppuccino for Holly. And there she was. Barbie. No kidding. In a pink convertible. Barbie pink. It was. I swear. Driving down the street. Right in front of us. We were sitting on the patio. You know. Enjoying the sun and our drinks. When she zoomed by. Looked just like my old Barbie doll. I swear. She did. Oh, how I loved that doll! Her long, silky, ash blonde hair. Her bendable legs. Saved my allowance for months. I did. Bought her at Zayre. Spent all my money on her. Every month. No kidding. Lots of outfits. I bought for her. A wardrobe case. Accessories. Everything I could. Except that car. That pink convertible. Too expensive. But everything else? Yeah. I bought it. Only the best for my Barbie. And now, and now. Here she is. Today. Driving past us at Starbucks. In that convertible. Barbie pink. Just think. My Barbie doll come to life. Seriously. Forty years later. What are the odds? You know?”  



Who Knew? 



“Dear Elaine,” she writes on another postcard. “It’s like this. In this dog magazine. The current issue. Yes. That’s the one. An article on dental care. You know. For Holly. For dogs. It says dental chews aren’t enough. I mean. They say, they say. They don’t do the job. Not completely. Even though my groomer. She’s the one. Not me. Never me. No way I’m brushing a dog’s teeth. Nope. Not happening. Every month. She does this. Brushes Holly’s teeth. My sweet Yorkie. And then, and then. I give her dental chews. Holly, that is. Every day. I do. But these people! These vets. This magazine. They say daily dental chews aren’t enough. That I need to do more. Oh, yeah? Like what? Like dental powder. Alright. So I found some. At PetSmart. Kelp. That’s what it is. Just sprinkle it on her food. Once a day. That’s it. Nutritious to eat. Plus, plus. It dissolves plaque. It does. And tartar. That too. So I bought some. And she likes it. Holly, that is. Okay then. Mission accomplished. Good to have that behind me. What’s next?”  

Laura Stamps is the author of 50 novels, novellas, short story collections, and poetry books. Forthcoming: “The Good Dog” (Prolific Pulse Press 2023) and “Addicted to Dog Magazines” (Impspired, 2023). Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. www.LauraStampsFiction.blogspot.com   

Sod; What Are You Thinking?                                           

Silent.

Sod.

What?

What are you thinking?

Thinking? Now. What am I thinking, now? I am not sure. Why?

You’re sitting there quiet. You must be thinking.

Why?

Because, even if we’re not hearing what we’re thinking, we are always thinking.

That’s ridiculous.

Why?

Sod began answering with, Okay, it’s—but paused there to shift himself upright in his chair—since he had learned by experience that his habit of slumping down slowly by increments would end with a hot sudden stab of back pain, he’d made a fortress—a mental fortress—of stone, concrete, steel, and many more similar strongs, in self-defense, so long back ago, to pull up periodically—he straightened like that, ‘n, after making ten mental notes (viz old papyrus style) wh’ he hatcheted straight at the doctor, in the form of an answer.

I am not stupid enough, doctor, to have not over the course of my considerable years, formed a way and a passion to periodically sump away through side flushouts an’ mediatations created by my worksquad, which may cause me—umm, hummm, mmmmmm—discomfort, shall I say? Yes, I shall. I shall say that, I’ll say.

The doctor wrote feverishly along as Sod spoke.

Say I’m not stupid enough, doctor, to have not developed a handy hidden lever-style handle to push and flush out my bads s’pous’nal gullet—bad thoughts, the bads of my thoughts, which do pressure out expansively inside me, from time to time mainly, because, I know what your next question will be like 1, 2, 3, 2, 1, oh, and so, Sod; what usually happens to cause you to need to pull the lever and, that’s—eck aha ha ha-s-swat, there you go assuming I am the one pulls the lever, buh, no. I am not the one who pulls the lever, doctor, not the one I doctor pull, doc the do’ lever ‘oc, the do-lever doctor-doc, I am not 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Off.

Patooey.

Oh? said the doctor, eyebrows raised—then, who?

I assign a man. From my staff deep within. Within what, you ask? Well, within me of course. Where the hells else’s, eh eh e’, Eva, where the hell else, come dance with me 1, 2, Eva 3, 4, come dance with me 4,3,2,1; I assign a man from the troop riding ‘sides me, to pull whichever of the many levers i’sides me, why would I do it myself? Why then, doctor-oonio? Why would I do so myself that would render me guilty of what may might m’ mm happen. Y’know?

Suss.

Okay, but—Sod. What if the lever caused something good to happen? Would you take the credit for it, in that case?

Fing-pointer, up!

Many wrongs there, Seelie; embedded in that question. Many, many wrongs. First off, I did not pull it. Can claim no credit, therefore—oooooh. Second—what is credit? Credit to be taken? No, nah yah yah, silly! Credit is just another f’rm of guilty. Praise is just a milder form of—condemnation. Take France, Willies? Look out there; there’s France. The door’s open a crack. And a crack’s enough. Sess’pecially that there crack. Hello! Wide enough for a dog—but bear in mind, not a full pack. Oh no. Oh no. Much too expensive, that. Uh oh o.

Hey Doc. Where the hell were we?

We were about—here—yes here. I asked you what you were thinking.

And—that question is funny? Why are you laughing inside, Doctor?

I am not laughing inside.

Yes, you are, we all always are, and that what you said, that right there—that there you just said—s’ why we are all out of synch with ourselves. So ‘flicted conflicted feeling uneasy seeking out this doc, that pill, this needle, that powder, buck, not to mention all the hot mating gone, out o’ the world in this very bus we’re sitting in here, and now, ah, but no matter. What bus’s not useless without a driver. ‘tonomous or autonomous fleshly big small big-lickety splittereenianne’s spit; you got to let yourself go. We’re all laughing inside. Let it go got to let it go and, then. See it burst out ‘neath the forms all erect, meant to keep it back but, it is not to be held; is about to burst in every single and every married one too heenianiannes even—even in that far lick of an outcountry, the forms will blow their concreational slabberies, ‘nd, the damned incompetent workmen responsible for the failure will bite their lips bloody; just as Dumas’ musketeers would do all the time, when the going got rough, there they were bite bit bitten bitte—look the damned thing up, okay, because, I can tell by your faces—ah—that you do not believe me! Ooosh—so, I let it come just, like you all ought to do and, it slid out over what they wrongly considered their proper ways to be, and—like you doc, you’re afraid to let go; your proper way to be. Say no, I’m not, yes you are, not are no’ ‘re n’ e’ ehhhhh—let it damned go, you’d be better off ‘s me doc. Than you. I mean look at you. Just look at you. So sad, doc, so sad—that thing up the wall back ‘hind you there—that diplicotonious of what have you’s called—says you’re fully trained boy, so, let me see boy, how well you’re trained, let me see boy, let me see; woof, woof boy?

Woof woof?

Uh—eh. Where’s the doctor?

Doctor. Are you still there, doctor?

Now where the hell’d ‘e go this time?

Here boy here boy here boy here—

‘s whistledy-splick.

Jim Meirose’s short fiction has appeared in leading journals. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer”(Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson”(JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection”(Mannequin Haus), “No and Maybe – Maybe and No”(Pski’s Porch), and “Audio Bookies” (LJMcD Communications) coming in 2024. Gen’l info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose

sacrificed

at twenty years old i worked as a contract labourer for an engineering company. we would be sent out for stints of doing hard manual work in a range of places. the money was ok, and the other blokes were too. at that time most of us were doing life tough in some way.

one job we were on, we were instructed to pull down old buildings on an industrial sight in an outer suburb. the bosses of the company stood back watching us from a distance.
it was as if this urgent building demolition was undercover. nobody else came near as we smashed and bashed and sawed and stacked.

many years later it dawned on me one night as i watched tv, those old buildings had been made of asbestos. the air had been thick with particles and our lungs were also.
we were breathing it in daily, sniffing and coughing at the end of each shift and at home every night.

we had been used for months to destroy what they had seen as a health risk. there had been no protection or information for us; no masks, warnings, or concerns about the long-term outcomes. we had been completely sacrificed by the companies involved; seen as unskilled losers with no value or worth.

now decades later we old past labourers must be walking time-bombs. i’ve read it takes this amount of time for deadly lung growths to occur. to date i’ve taken no action; how can i? i don’t even remember the name of the employee it was so long ago. i know that seems ignorant but it was forty years before.

i feel angry about how thoughtlessly we had been sacrificed; question, where were the bodies to monitor treatment of workers? was there a union i didn’t know about? we were sent to all types of dangerous sites, and we did anything they asked us to do.

i don’t think it could happen in current australia or could it? and does it still occur in other hidden ways? do workers continue to be sacrificed? how many of those original blokes are sick or dead? it was out of our control. we are innocent victims

BIOGRAPHY Stephen House   

Stephen House has had 20 plays produced. He has won many awards as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council and Asialink. His chapbooks “real and unreal” poetry and “The Ajoona Guest House” monologue are published by ICOE Press Australia. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.