GOAD 27
—for J.S. Strifling
Glittering smoke rises from reality roses. Even a bestselling
agent can’t move a dingy cellar. Presumption of innocence is
strained: don’t you
recognize the baggage
on that carousel?
One can’t imagine a
permit granted for
that murder weapon. Due
process aside, the defense
writhes. Sensing what it has
accomplished, the rifle weeps.
GOAD 28
The kids don’t wear watches no more. Those phone-
computers wipe their asses and everything. Drenched in pharma
ceutical opera, they
drag race on imaginary
highways & skid into
the palace of error. (No,
it’s not my cane & white
locks talkin’.) Reason may
adopt a rhythm, but rhythm
ain’t reason. Will the kids ever
locate invisible light?
MEMORY TACTICS
A fistful
of mustard. Gulped whole.
The fact spawning the occasion
is often repeatedly force fed.
He feigns ill.
To bypass depression-
inducing gatherings. A sealed lid
can be trusted. Let fine memories prevail.
CRITICAL REBOUND
Crises unburden folks of the
need to scrounge for “relevance,” of pressure to
heed
unnatural
diagnoses. There’s no
practical moralist on our staff; the lot hang
on by a strand of
floss. Let’s recycle each into an
accountable doer. Yet
should any grow allergic to threshold, out they’ll
tumble. Once the throttle’s regained, I won't let your
isthmus
down. No
reason it
should sink.
A previous contributor to Synchronized Chaos, I have published 12 books of poetry– most recently Zeugma (Marsh Hawk Press, 2022) and A Pageant for Every Addiction (Marsh Hawk, 2020), written collaboratively with Maya D. Mason. My Selected Poems & Poetic Series appeared in 2016. I am the author of Reading Poetry with College and University Students: Overcoming Barriers and Deepening Engagement (Bloomsbury Academic, 2022), as well as two books of criticism, and three edited anthologies. My work appeared in Best American Poetry 2007. My paintings hang in various collections. I am a Professor of English at CUNY-LaGuardia.
And I climb the staircase and a well-lit blonde bob smokes a cigarette in affair with no one and with eyes for naught but the night, and yet she still makes the effort to nod as I enter and this fills me with hope for the evening ahead.
And the lights are ambiguous at best as I walk the corridor and consider a former love or lover in a corner with arm encircling the waist of a current beau in sweater vest and boot cut. He is gesturing wildly and all eyes are alight as he swings his tale and I turn and head for the kitchen where I see Jess with teary eyes as she dabs her forehead.
Jess has not been crying, she has simply thrown up and warns me of this possibility as she hands me a pill and places her hand around my neck, draws me in and holds me tight whispering “sweet nothings” with a smile as I swallow.
I head toward the living room and find the couch pushed to the wall and bean bags thrown helter skelter. Sam Cooke sings sweet melody as a young man brushes the inside of my arm and says “Do you want company?” and “That’s a shame, a terrible shame,” as he steps away to offer himself to another.
A shirtless individual entertains a cavalcade and I lean in to hear “You’ll be surprised how many times you need to stab someone to kill the son of a bitch.” Pause, grimace, “A wise man draws quickly across the throat and gets the foul deed done in one quick go.” Pause, final rejoinder, “You must never forget the idea is not to bring death, but to simply withdraw life,” and they clap on conclusion and I realize I have just witnessed a performance piece as he takes a quick bow and then waves a hand across his face in attempt to deflect attention deftly earned. A girl in front of me turns to her side and insists, “This is nothing compared to his cut of Capote, now that is divine.”
And I grab a bean bag and head to a corner and sit and close my eyes and try to recall the melody of ‘God Only Knows’ as that never fails to bring a tear to the eye and tonight is Sam’s night after all. Leaning my head against the wall I stare to the ceiling and spy a spider in a webbed corner and lose myself for a moment as it – as if startled – hurries to one side.
A brunette drops a bean bag next to mine and leaves only to return with a drink and lit cigarette. “Charlie,” she says by way of introduction and it strikes me she is the kind of girl that will not age well. Cliché perhaps but her eyes are a blue most piercing, with a southern lilt that is oh so disarming and hints at inner strength most resolute.
She tells me she achieved her first multiple orgasm when a boy went down on her as she listened to ‘Smile’ on heavy headphones with eyes closed and only the odd lift of the hips to guide the way, she slept with her lit professor on a dare and was disappointed that a published author could be so unimaginative in bed, she owned two iguanas and had just finished the short stories of Hemingway.
I nod at each revelation and tell her I admire her sense of adventure, I own zero iguanas and I am considering hiring a cleaner before my apartment inspection a week from Tuesday.
Charlie takes a drink and a drag and points out the spider overhead, a cat brushes itself on Charlie’s leg and then on mine and Love begins once more.
Michael Tyler has been published by Takahe, Bravado, Adelaide Literary, PIF, Daily Love, Danse Macabre, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Dash, The Fictional Café, Potato Soup Journal, Fleas On The Dog, Cardinal Sins, Mystery Tribune, Other Terrain, and Suddenly And Without Warning.
Michael writes from a shack overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. He has been published in several literary magazines and plans a short story collection sometime before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and …
Rachel Corrie
In the time that I have been here
children have been shot and killed,
declares Rachel Corrie, who was appalled
by the Israelis’ occupation of the Holy Land.
Having borne witness to the persecution of Palestinians,
to tank shell holes
that fill their walls,
to discrimination,
arrests,
and displacements,
she stands before a bulldozer to prevent
the demolition of a pharmacist’s abode,
waving to the driver in fluorescent clothes,
who ignoring her calls,
proceeds adamantly with his goals:
to demolish farmland,
property,
and an American pacifist’s voice.
As a child, Rachel had publicly voiced her dream
to annihilate hunger before 2003
but died bulldozered by the Israeli authorities,
aged only twenty-three,
a brave heart
that was not intimidated by autocracy.
Silence II
I recline upon my bed and sit still.
This silence will not last for more than two minutes,
for yells, sirens, and vociferating mobiles
will shortly resume their daily dialogues.
I hunt for fleeting spells of quietude,
mere bubbles that burst
within fractures of seconds,
since noise has become an integral part
of the fabric of our private and public lives.
Most of the people I happen to know
fear silence,
a much-dreaded foe,
and associate it with death,
withdrawal,
or some psychological problem.
Ears are plugged,
flooded with torrents of noise.
Some TV sets are switched on throughout the nights
as if the angel of death is denied entrance
where music, dramas, or arguments are at work.
I envy the Buddhists their moments of peace
who look like daffodils in oases of green
and think that even a monastery
is a heaven I cannot attain.
What Might Have Been
You wish you could revoke a thousand decisions that derailed your life
and imagine a paradisiacal existence had you chosen otherwise,
a pathetic line of reasoning
for nothing can alter the course of your stars.
We were taught that our fate is written above our eyebrows.
Others believe it is visible in the lines of our palms.
I saw mine in the eyes of every enemy
who twisted their knives in my mind.
I indulge in no regrets
and avoid dwelling on the past,
avoid erecting monuments
for tragedies that blasted my paths.
I look ahead with a cynical smile
and expect the worst to come.
Perfidy
Dethroned and crownless, the convicted queen
has beckoned her subjects to kneel and pray
not to the skies who its children would claim,
not to the gods who torture and enslave.
A communal prayer of a wordless fabric
commences with a soundless tone,
a dirge for years of diminutive stature,
for frenzied hours that dissonance bore.
With interlocked fingers many awkward forms
betake themselves to swim to the coast.
The perfidious clouds that languish for havoc
now zestfully disband to open a door.
One streak of red that dilutes the streams
zigzags its way among pebbles and stones.
A pair of eyes that are petrified
look on at a scene from a severed throat.
Artificial Intelligence (AI) has swiftly become a cornerstone of our modern world, permeating various aspects of our lives. While its potential for good is boundless, there are also concerns about its darker side. In this exploration, we delve into the positive and negative uses of AI, shedding light on the multifaceted nature of this technology.
Positive Uses of AI
Advancing Healthcare:
In the realm of healthcare, AI is a lifesaver. It aids in disease diagnosis, drug discovery, and even personalized treatment plans. AI algorithms can process vast amounts of medical data, enabling doctors to make more accurate diagnoses and recommend tailored treatments. The synergy between human expertise and AI has the potential to revolutionize medicine.
Transforming Education:
Education is undergoing a transformation thanks to AI. Personalized learning platforms powered by AI adapt to individual students’ needs, providing tailored educational experiences. Moreover, AI can offer real-time feedback and assist educators in optimizing teaching methods, fostering a more effective learning environment.
Boosting Businesses:
AI has found its place in the business world, streamlining operations, and enhancing decision-making. Through automation and data analysis, companies can improve efficiency and gain valuable insights. From chatbots handling customer inquiries to predictive analytics aiding in inventory management, AI is a powerful ally for enterprises.
Revolutionizing Transportation:
The concept of self-driving cars may have seemed like science fiction, but AI is making it a reality. Autonomous vehicles are equipped with AI systems that process data from sensors to navigate and make driving decisions. This not only promises safer roads but also potentially reduced traffic congestion.
Environmental Conservation:
AI isn’t just about convenience; it’s also a force for environmental good. AI applications are monitoring ecosystems, predicting natural disasters, and optimizing energy usage. By harnessing the power of AI, we can take significant steps toward preserving our planet.
Negative Uses of AI
Privacy Concerns:
The digital age has raised pressing privacy concerns. AI’s ability to collect and analyze vast amounts of data has led to worries about surveillance and data breaches. Striking a balance between technological advancements and individual privacy remains a challenge.
Job Displacement:
Automation driven by AI can lead to job displacement in certain sectors. While it creates new opportunities, the transition can be painful for those affected. Preparing the workforce for this changing landscape is crucial.
Bias and Discrimination:
AI is only as good as the data it’s trained on, which can result in biased algorithms. Discrimination in AI decisions, such as those involving lending or hiring, can perpetuate societal inequalities. Addressing bias in AI is a pressing ethical concern.
Security Risks:
AI is a double-edged sword in cybersecurity. While it can be used to defend against cyber threats, it can also be weaponized for malicious purposes. Deepfakes and AI-driven cyberattacks pose significant security risks.
Ethical Dilemmas:
Ethical dilemmas abound in AI, from autonomous weapons with AI decision-making to the question of who’s responsible when AI makes critical decisions. Navigating these ethical challenges requires careful consideration and regulation.
A Balancing Act
The duality of AI underscores the need for responsible development and regulation. Initiatives and organizations are actively working to establish ethical standards and ensure that AI benefits society as a whole.
As AI continues to shape our world, it’s crucial for us to stay informed and engage in discussions about its role in our future. The choices we make today will determine whether AI becomes a powerful force for positive change or a source of unintended consequences.
In the end, the power of AI lies not just in its capabilities but in how we wield it. With careful thought and responsible action, we can harness AI’s potential for the greater good, steering it away from its darker implications.
Parvej Husen Talukder is a Bangladeshi poet and children’s writer, also a freelance journalist started by notable news portal bdnews24.com. He is the founder of Kavya Kishor International (KKI), an international creative commons home for creative creators and the editor of Monthly Kavya Kishor (Bengali children’s magazine). He is a student of Sylhet Science and Technology College, Bangladesh.
SiSTER FARANGIZ (For my Best friend and sister Farangiz) Today I want to write about my sister-FARANGIZ she is my close friend, my helpful person.
Actually, my joy is endless, now at the end of the post I will tell you why, I am the most precious person, my pain, my shoulder, my friend, my guide, my advice sister Actually, my sister is not Radnoy’s sister, she is my uncle’s daughter, but we are close in all things. When we are together, we are always happy and smiling. When I am with them, I always feel comfortable. They always support me. I don’t need any friends! I rarely have a friend I can trust! But I don’t need a friend when I have a sister! They are my sister, my friend, my advisor, my pain, my understanding, my listener, my comforter, my encourager, my protector, my teacher, all of them are embodied in this person. Sometimes we fight, but most of the time I think it’s because I get angry very quickly. My sister understands this character. Thank u for existence Thank u for all memorable moments. My dear. I can’t tell my feelings for u Just love u
Author Bakhora Bakhtiyorova Asliddin Daughter. Was born 2006 21 March in the Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently 17 years old. She is a future international journalist.
Future Leader girl of Uzbekistan If a person sets a real goal, if his intention is good, he will definitely achieve what he thinks.”
Author of translations of more than 100 scientific journalistic articles, participant of about 50 international forums and conferences, delegate of the Malaysian Youth Summit, participant of the international summits of the “Juntos por las Letras” writer’s association of Argentina. , Candidate of the “Double Wing” award of Uzbekistan. International speaker of “Shishiulash Global Youth Club” of Bangladesh.
Bakhora Bakhtiyorova daughter of Asliddin, a 11th-grade student of the 84th general education school of the Payariq district of the Samarkand region. The district has achieved several achievements in the region, the republic, and the international arena.
In particular, Bakhora is a member of Pakistan’s “Women and Youth Organization for Education, Culture and Art. Ambassador. Global Ambassador Organization Argentina, New Zealand Leadership-based “Global Goodwill Ambassador 2023” India Foundation “Development of Technology Methods” .Member of Bangladesh’s global youth club “Shishiuluash” international organization. Member of The Kingdom of New Atlantic Heritage Organization. Member of Argentina’s “Juntos por las Letras” writer’s association from Uzbekistan. Volunteer member of “Human rights” organization working in cooperation with “UNESCO”. Republic “Golden Wing” Association of Volunteers, member “Upward Growth forum” delegate. Articles, Great Britain, Kenya, Washington, Published in Argentina, India, Turkey, Washington, Uzbekistan.
In addition, Bakhora’s article was included in the anthology that was sold to 26 countries of the world.
Author Bakhora Bakhtiyorova Future International journalist
Salmon; salmon is a fish. She laughed to herself with her hand to her mouth as her fish husband gracefully swam shimmering with his briefcase and big shot suit and he quickly went out the closed behind him door, it was that quick it was almost so quick that he stepped right through the door, it opened and closed so fast, leaving Frieda amazed and amused and thoroughly in the pure dot of the moment; until her boys rushed in and noisily moved time forward again. As time restarted she dabbed and dabbed her chin and got dot after dot of red from this bumpy thing on her chin, that itched maybe or maybe she just picked at it because she knew it was there—but her hand went out and touched each boy’s head, and they headed out to catch the bus and Frieda watched as usual as the big groaning filthy First Student yellow bus came and stopped and reared and opened its mouth and toothily swallowed up her boys and now her boys were gone into the guts of the yellow school creature, but Frieda, being twelve and just short of forty at the same time, could not worry about the swallowing toothy bus that came every morning in the spring chill and she turned from the window with her tissue to her chin and went back in the bathroom and stripped nude with the blood dot oozing on her chin.
Shower time; alone relaxed long drawn out shower time. Fish belong in water but she had not been born a salmon she had just become a salmon when she married him but now it was time to swim, swim up the torrent of water raging down the falls from the chrome plated wide many holed showerhead hissing rushing foaming at the bottom; she turned the lever, hit the shower button, and here came the water she heard it while she was still dry she felt it when she was still dry not a salmon and here it came it came all over her all hot down her between her breasts and it hissed into the tub around her feet and she began. Salmon swimfish, here comes the water, Salmon swimfish, when you gonna jump in the brook, her husband had told her over dinner when they met a hundred years ago at the ages of twelve the water flowed he said they had made fun of him in school that way Salmon swimfish but he showed them all becoming the high powered lawyer, as the water flowed down between her legs but she always thought of him as Salmon swimfish as he swam away to his job after kissing her with his big cold fishy lips how could a person have such lips, well maybe he wasn’t really a fish but his lips, thick, gross, cold, and slimy—she scrubbed herself hard to get the kiss off her without knowing it was because she wanted the kiss off her and her finger went over the bleeding lump on her chin and she thought inside the cone of shower water as it sluiced the blood away, what about having this lumpy thing removed?
Would that end my life like I’ve been thinking? Or would it really be the right thing to do and Salmon swimfish might even like it and under cover of the rush of the water she soundlessly chuckled leaning to get her feet sudsy sudsy sudsy and tickling rushing leaning, water over her back, to get her little tiny shortnailed toes. She should ask Salmon swimfish what he thinks; and being knowledgeable of everything he would walk her through the whole procedure. First they’ll give you a shot in your chin to numb it—in the comfy chair you’ll be in—with a big super bright doctor’s light splat in your face, and words came around her cutting off Salmon swimfish, words she’d said yesterday, more real than the words from Salmon swimfish because his words had not been said yet but her words yesterday had; the past is solid, the future is mist; she had said sometime yesterday, oh at lunch, Yes! What fact it this, she had asked this new woman Carolyn; please distract me from this surgical procedure in this rushing falling water rinsing me what fact is this you have spoken of?
Office coffee mugs contain fecal matter, said Carolyn; these were words; words said yesterday by who? Who? Who? Oh, yes Carolyn. The new twelve year old heavy jowled new office girl said those words in the solidified actual past of yesterday; and yesterday Frieda was not in the hot shower having a shot from a long needle in her chin the Salmon fish would explain to her once they reached the misty future when she was told about the fecal matter. And the only thing it could mean is that people were not washing their hands after they wiped. She had noticed more than once that after an unusually messy sticky bowel movement a small smudge of feces would get on her thumb when she wiped. But she always washed it off in rushing water like the shower rushing water that she turned her small face up into, one last time to get its warmth, and then she turned off the faucet after washing her hands the same way she was reaching down and turning the lever to cut off the shower, pulling up a thick sheet of absolute silence, except for a few final drops and a throaty deep bark fart from the perforated chrome drain between her feet. But maybe not everybody washed this smudge off.
Maybe not everybody washed after they take a crap, maybe in a public toilet room they only wash if someone else is in the room and they don’t want the person to think God how disgusting that person didn’t wash after they came from the stall; if there was no one else in the room maybe half the time at least the person wouldn’t bother washing up at all. There’s no one to see how disgusting you are, no one in the house and the front door bolt thrown home, so step out of the shower and towel off unseen and if no one else in the world sees you toweling off, are you really toweling off? Like, if a tree falls in the forest with nothing to hear it does it make a sound? If I don’t see any fecal matter on my mug is it really there? At the table, in the lunchroom, after Carolyn had said this fact Frieda had said nothing but just wide-eyed dipped her face, mouthed her drink straw, and sucked up some soda. She toweled off her arms and her breasts and her back and her ass and her cunt and her thighs and all the way down from there before Carolyn dropped the next bomb.
And my brother Ricky told me too, said Carolyn, that while we’re asleep we inhale dozens of insects and spiders that live in our beds, too tiny to see; Frieda said God you make me gag—how can it be? She sat on the cold toilet lid and toweled off the bottoms of her feet; maybe, that is, she was doing this—because no one was there to see it. As she rose and moved nude through the room toward the mirror to admire her cleanliness, with no one seeing her or hearing her, was she really there? This froze her a minute as the tree hit the forest floor and the mirror showed her the shower had stopped the bleeding from the bump on her chin, and Salmon fish came up behind her and said the next thing the good doctor will do, is after fifteen minutes and your chin is good and numb, he will come with a pearl handled gleaming razor sharp scalpel and cut into you; blood will come; he will have a blue surgical mask over his mouth and nose and there will be a nurse with one over her mouth too, her hand full of white cotton to dab off the blood; they will wear clear masks over their faces so as not to get spattered with your biohazardous filth; and Frieda looked away from the mirror because she had seen no blood and wanted to keep it that way.
She didn’t want to see the blood that Salmon fish is talking about or will be talking about or maybe had just finished talking about. She hadn’t even decided yet if she would have the growth removed as she went through the door into the bedroom with the king size bed and all the pretty modern furniture around in all the pretty modern hues; she pulled on pretty panties, put on a pretty bra and kept on going busying herself as the surgeon cut all around the growth she didn’t want to know he was cutting so before you know it there she stood, all ready for her day at AD&D. She sat before the vanity to brush her hair, forgetting there was a mirror there, and as she saw herself the surgeon said there! Here! I have it! It’s off! And she looked away from the mirror as he held the little poor bloody lump of flesh up with tweezers for her to see, and deep sorrow filled her; it had been part of her; she had always said she would never have it removed why had she now why had she now? The poor little thing, it’s just a bit of flesh. Where will it end up? It is part of me it is me give me it back; and she glanced across the mirror accidentally, a moment of dread hit when the mirror came around, but her chin thrust out showed her; they had removed nothing.
Her finger came up. It was still there and it was not bleeding; and so Salmon fish swam backwards out and she looked up at Carolyn and took her mouth off her straw and swallowed the last of the mouthful of soda and felt herself thinking like a hammer drop what kind of brother Ricky does this woman have? Feces? Spiders? Bugs? In my lungs? My mouth my throat my lungs my tongue. Then, all at once, this woman Carolyn looked like she was choking; she had taken a big bite of her sandwich and it wouldn’t go down and she was trying to talk and talk but it wouldn’t go down is it stuck? Would one of them have to Heimlich this Carolyn? And then from her mouth might pop a small bit of bloody flesh that had just been removed from some woman’s chin, and it would lie there on the table and Frieda would feel her chin and—no!
But Carolyn successfully swallowed her throat full of food just as Frieda’s finger felt the chin bump and there was nothing on the table but trays. Frieda dipped her head and took a last suck from her straw and realized she was finished. She looked good in the mirror. Frieda was lucky she did not look her age even though her fortieth was coming and she thought as she rose putting down the brush what will Salmon fish get me for my birthday? She stood in the bedroom walked with her tray with the crowd and got rid of the tray into the niche of the wall and went across the bedroom and switched off the light silently and came to the elevators and all the doors opened. What would that Carolyn’s know it all brother Ricky tell her if she could meet him and see him maybe he doesn’t exist, maybe he doesn’t because I’ve not met and seen him; what would he tell her if he is real, about how a lump in the chin gets removed?
Would his story match Salmon fish’s or would it be more or less painful more or less bloody what is it with this Ricky, Carolyn thinks he knows everything. Frieda wondered one instant if her bright eyed the boys were safe at school and is Salmon fish sitting at his high gloss desk reading some paperwork as he rubs his chin thoughtfully squinting? How often does he remember or think of the fact she will be forty years old? She closed the bedroom elevator doors and stood there walking down the hall getting where she was going down the stairs off the elevator toward her cube, and thought the bump on her chin will be forty too—but what about this? She went out to the car—she sat in her cube—they say every seven years all your cells have been renewed—is she only seven or less years old? The very cells of her?
The car came into drive, the screen filled with numbers scrolling up all green and the car took her toward AD&D. Maybe she was right when she thought everybody probably feels like a kid. Maybe she was right, as the poles clicked on by and the wires from pole to pole dipped and lifted dipped and lifted as the car moved toward where she really was right now, sitting blinking at a computer with a small forgotten lumpy bump on her chin as she drove toward the tower where everything always was; Salmon fish wise, that is. Isn’t this right, isn’t this how it is? Isn’t this right? Isn’t it?
Jim Meirose’s work has been widely published. 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), “Audio Bookies” (LJMcD Communications), “Et Tu” (C22 press), and “The Private Adventures of Fresh Detective Gerdulon” (Alien Buddha Press). Info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
