whatever broken spanish i remember  she whispers to me in spanish when she’s feeling sexy  i try my best to respond with whatever broken spanish i remember from school her kisses are like the sweetest candy  of course, i’m a diabetic the human condition  i don’t mind the pain  i have grown to accept it  it’s part of the human condition  it’s the price for not killing myself as a child  my penalty for allowing myself to be stepped on, have my heart trampled and be constantly reminded that i was never good enough to begin with this weird void  another christmas alone  stuck in this weird void  all my friends live too far away  there’s no woman on this earth willing to even take the chance with me  too bad, i’m still a fucking dreamer  skin tough enough to no longer give two shits endless strings of lights  i remember the dysfunction from my youth at christmas  the eventual argument while putting up the fake tree and endless strings of lights  i learned all the dirty words by the time i was five  hated all the holidays before i reached ten years old  not exactly good while trying to incorporate yourself into the world the last hope i have  i look in her eyes and see all the fantasies i never got to have in my youth the last hope i have at ever finding love  her neon soul brings what little joy i can actually feel these days  maybe one day i’ll convince her there’s actually a future we could share J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, wondering where the lonely housewives are hiding. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Red Eft Review, Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, Chiron Review and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

GRAVE DANCING Listen Time howling Withering Time Dreaming Time Sleeping Where we dance Upon our Night’s desires Until the end Of days DARKLANDS “Ashes to ashes we all fall down holy is the machine” Into this world We come & go Descend Into history Or madness Or love  A longing Hate With A vengeance So into the Journey The voyage The abyss We go Searching For something Greater than Ourselves Perhaps A faith A truth A religion Or heroes lost But in the dark The darklands There are no Gods No beauty No voices Muses Or inspiration There is only Fame & money Politics & wealth Control War Devastation  Where your Existence Means Nothing But there Is a magick A force greater Than all this Called Truth That is More powerful Than any Darkness Any monarch Or any God Within you FUCKING SUGAR  There are times That living downtown Walking down streets At night when you hate The noise, the traffic The world as you experience Mankind at it’s finest  Going down the shitter The fat lady Screams on her Speaker phone at  Her man who I imagine In my mind To be a skinny little nervous Chain smoking weasel like creature Who flinches at the Slightest tone of her voice The loud fat lady Is asking him questions That sound more like an Interrogation like where Were you? Where did you go? Did you go grocery shopping Like I told you to? Did you Pick up my sugar? My sugar My sugar? There is an immeasurable Almost an eternity Of silence And then, a meek sound A squeak emits back as The mouse man replies “no” I.. I ….I … forgot it. What?! The fat lady’s voice Goes up ten octaves What!? You stupid fuck Fucking idiot Fucking wasted a trip Out to the store you forgot To get my fucking sugar?! You forgot To get my fucking sugar?! You stupid you stupid Fucking asshole my Fucking Sugar Fuck FuckFuck I’ll get my fucking Sugar myself!  I’ll get my fucking Sugar myself!  I’ll get my fucking Sugar myself!  And as I walk By her I smile And shake my Head as she Gives my an ugly Stare from her ugly Eyes & ugly face And then It occurs to Me that no matter What I do, who I Help or save that Humanity Is doomed POLKA WILL NEVER DIE I was born Raised on Johnny Cash And Herb Alpert Became a man Listening to metal Punk & goth But over the Years the darkness Came And all I have is Southern Goth Now & memories Of years, days gone by Nostalgia Oldies music Blairs from the old Radio  MotownStill kicking Ass the blues still Screaming truth But Polka Will Never Die Because it is The true music Of Satan Proof There is A hell Used To violently torture The guilty souls Of men Second  Only to Square dance Which The devil Created Himself BENEATH THIS BODY You arise awake Early in the morning The sun Its light Rises Upon the Forests The cities The beach Upon Your face We Become Motion into Moment Distant thoughts In our minds Telling us That something Is not right But wrong This life This world This song Trapped Within a self A world of Our own Making Our voices Suppressed Our hearts Denied But we go on Ignore the Impulse to Run Escape from The cages of Reality Reckoning But beneath This flesh this Exterior this body The spirit still Breathes the Voice still exists The soul that Merely waits For you to Find it the Poem that waits For you to Write it the Heart that Tells you to Find your true Self For Beneath this Body there Are no cages No restraints No laws Only sanctuary Only refuge Only words The light Through the Window Of the prison Wall AUTHOR’S BIO: R.M. Engelhardt is an American Poet and Writer who is the author of several books over the last two decades including Coffee Ass Blues & Other Poems, The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt, The Resurrection Waltz and others. His work has also been published by such journals as Retort, Red Fez, Rusty Truck, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Thunder Sandwich, Fashion For Collapse, 2nd Avenue, The Angry Poet, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Full of Crow, The Outlaw Poetry Network, The Rye Whiskey Review & in many others. His new book of poetry is entitled ” Dark Lands” published by Whiskey City Press, 2019. www.gentlemanoutsider.com  https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/rm_engelhardt

Deception 10

Until the right man or woman comes, will I become sexually faithful?

By deduction, you are presently exploring your sexual prowess with different individuals. In other words, you are obviously an infidel. Sexually, are you going to be faithful to your Mr. or Mrs. Right in the making? Time will reveal the answer.

In fact, the issue of Mr. or Mrs. Right is being approached by young men and women by a vague selection of ladies and men they have slept with. In other words, people choose the ones they intend spending the rest of their lives with on the grounds of sexual interaction-probably on the best of competent individuals they have slept with.  We must, in concrete terms, based on this context, define the terms “Mr. Right”. Mr. Right is that man who practically believes in chastity and self-control instead of promiscuity while Mrs. Right is the woman who demonstrates a chaste disposition and is never willing to let go of her body to gratify her admirers’ flirtatious desires in the name of a deceptive life-long union.      

Given those definitions, it is anticipated that individuals portray a chaste attitude rather than sexually around while awaiting their so-called Mr. and Mrs. Rights. As an employer, the vacancies you place on bill boards, newspapers and other media outfits job offers instructing interested applicants or prospective employees to come with necessary requirements for interested applicants because you have what it takes to fully employ their services.  Similarly in wanting to get a chaste woman or a man with self-control, it is expected of you to be self-controlling or chaste. Unfortunately, it is the other way round- people want chaste woman or men of great self-control without possessing these qualities.

If you influence people with promiscuity, how do you intend on getting your Mr. or Mrs. Right? You are like the employer not having what it takes to be one. In the first place, what makes you think that your right man or woman will come to you, given your not-chaste behavior?

When do you think your Mr. or Mrs. Right will come? Do you think the people you slept with are not the so called Mr. or Mrs. Rights?

To an extent, people who are sexually unfaithful have unknowingly been seen as sex objects. Hence, they become “used and dumped” by their partners. Simply, they are “replaced” by other believed-to-be-better individuals by breaking up or demise, separation and even divorce.  Eventually, these imbalances become eminent.

Don’t you think it is more upright to be chaste and self-controlling, preparing you for your Mr. or Mrs. Right than depriving people their sexual worth by displaying promiscuity, vaguely pointing the possibility of meeting your Mr. or Mrs. Right, denying people the worth of chastity and respect?

A School Mix

1.

Mary Jane Blalock taught me Algebra I. She had Mediterranean skin and jet black hair that she wore shoulder length. The ends curled up toward heaven.

One Monday she didn’t come to school. Mr. Guin, an old man who kept bricks in his back pocket to help him from falling forward, was her substitute. His hair was white. His skin was white. There was a lot of dandruff on his black coat and tie.

It was a crucial time in algebra. Seems that every day in algebra is crucial. Such a linear discipline. Don’t go to Square 2 until you understand Square 1.  Factoring polynomials. Anyway, we were stuck with Mr. Guin for a while.

I listened to what he had to say about the topic. He seemed to know his stuff. Even though my classmates were rude, he ignored it, as if it hadn’t happened. Maybe he’d seen a lot of action in foreign conflict and nothing bothered him. Maybe he just didn’t care about anything. But for some strange reason, I picked up on factoring polynomials and aced the test. When Janet Blalock returned, she gave me an innocent kiss of the cheek.

2.

Mrs. Schmidt, the art teacher, was having an affair with Mr. Jennings, the assistant principal. Everyone knew it and gave them their privacy. Their cars took bay at opposite ends of the faculty parking lot an hour before the first bell.

I made a bet with my friends that I could manage to secure videos or pictures of them doing whatever it was that they did two mornings a week. My key to the school (another story) finally had a purpose. The schematics of the buildings allowed me to guess where they might have their nest. Afraid to breathe, I hid and waited close to their makeshift bed.

There was fondling and giggling; partial undressing and penetration. Shelves rattled; glass jars broke on the linoleum. I forgot to take pictures.

3.

Mr. Ruffin was in love with the student teacher. We could tell by his latest poetry that he read aloud every Friday. We felt bad for his wife, and for Marsha, that he was behaving so badly. But who were we to confront an adult?

When my father died in January, Paul Ruffin and Marsha came into my bedroom where I was lying on my bed, avoiding the crowd of people in the house who’d dropped by to pay their respect and bring fried chicken and casseroles.

“Here,” he said, handing me a book of poetry. “This might not help. I wanted you to know that we are thinking about you. You should write about your feelings when the dust settles.  You might find some inspiration in this book.” Marsha grabbed my hand and squeezed.

“Thanks,” I said.  “Are you in it?”

“Yes, page 47.” He patted my leg and said not to worry about my school work. “Marsha can tutor you to help you catch up. She’s really good at that.”

“Ode to Drosophila melanogaster”

She had a difficult time finding the white-eyed

male under the microscope, and the red-eyed

female. I rearranged the scope for her and 

found it every time. “Here it is,” I said.

“Damn fruitfly!” she said under her breath.

I hear the diesel burps of yellow dogs

on the other side of red bricks. “You’ll miss

your bus,” I said. “One more time,” she

begged. I checked the focus once again, and

there he was, brilliant plumage, two globe-like

compound eyes, red like the sun setting before

a hot summer storm. She placed her palms

on the black lab table, slung her pony tail

to the side of her neck. “I SEE IT!” she

shrieked. “It’s so beautiful. I gotta take a

picture, Mister, somehow, please. The bell

rang and I had to send her out into the rain.

School buses don’t wait forever.

“While Australia Burns”

1.

Widespread panic, hot hot planet on fire.

One billion animals charred, burned – the silent

outrage, people dying, homes as kindling for a do-nothing

Oz sleeping on the job while oxygen supplies deplete themselves,

while freakazoid doxology fills up the smoky heavens; while fat tongues

vibrate lost hearts and souls; while the status quo is honored and worshiped

like Baby Jesus. You tell me not to worry, that these things happen;

natural phenomena; a catastrophe that doesn’t involve us.

It’s on the other side of the planet, right?

2.

I never bought the bill of sale that Gary Pounders

tried to deliver in mechanical drawing class. He tried to steal

my mathematical calculations, my format, and called me

Squarehead and Tree-lover. I stepped right up to the plate

on that one, and hit a high pop fly that flew over the river,

over the ocean, landing on the other side of the planet.

3.

Wouldn’t line up with the fire and brimstone spewing

from the pastor’s mouth, the End Times are here, unfolding right before

our bloody eyes. Waiting since childhood, when I first learned to read,

when teachers told the truth and said that boys should never cry; waiting

on confirmation that my foundation was sturdy and reliable.

4.

I tell you not to worry about these things, that it’s merely a predicament

of breathlessness, of uncharted territory, of excessive disregard of what the trees

were telling me long before we cut them down in order to count their rings. 

“Eating Paul and Getting Yoko Ono’s Drink by Mistake”

1.

I ate Paul with meatloaf today. Yoko

Ono drove by the window in a pink-and-white

Studebaker, ran the red light on the corner

as if it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there yesterday

so maybe it wasn’t there today, just something

my mind did to me.  I told him that his beard

looked good and mentioned how neatly he’d

kept it up

2.

since the last time I ate him in the German

restaurant, the one that was closed because

the owners refused to pay their taxes. The

brats were half the size they should have been

but no one complained. It’s not natural to hear

an oompah band crank up in the middle

of the day. Large numbers of Germans

make me

3.

nervous.

The Starbucks barista mixed up my order

with something that looked like a dead wren

in the bottom of some tar. My coffee was too

simple – a grande Americain with whole milk –

so I think my drink was for Yoko. That sounds

like something she’d order.

“Cold Storage”

While you are shoveling snow, I am up to my ears in wishful thinking. Traded day-trip to the

mountains for becoming one with the refrigerator. I find my childhood on the first shelf, the stuff that really matters. Latest left-overs, some sort of surprise that everyone fights over: banana pudding, Hawaiian pizza, cold turkey.

Inside its bowels, the filthy blood smudges from a leaky steak on a glass shelf, cottage cheese containers full of the most beautiful mold – dark gray fuzz with hints of lavender, and the oddest shade of blue. Bacon that’s in the preliminary stages of breaking down, rotting but ever so slightly; three craft beers, and part of a colossal green salad. There’s Kikkoman soy sauce, some left-over Yum-yum shrimp in a small white take-out; batter from unpoured pancakes, five brown free-range eggs, grape jelly, and all of the ingredients to make some damn-fine Bloody Marys.

I discover unimaginable things, unlike tuna salad and left-over vegetable casserole, pickled beets

perhaps? Ancient vials of pasty, caramelized substances. The vegetable bins, speckled and hard-crusted bottoms, dried juices from any combination of green thing and nerve. Meats, both raw and cooked, stare up at me like tumors. I want to kick them in the shins, move them out of here, warn them of pending doom, dark and mysterious. There’e a quart jar of mayonnaise with an expired date, two bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, a half-full package of Kraft American singles, and a dozen hearts.

There’s no compromise for what you keep, what you discard, what you treasure and hoard; what you give away to someone in need; what ends up being your favorite thing on the list. House all of it in cold storage, use it judiciously, timely, and as wisely as you know how.

John Dorroh spends time digging in the soil. He travels as often as possible and discovers fodder for poems and short fiction.  His poetry has appeared in about 75 journals, including Dime Show Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Ospressan, Selcouth Station, and Synchronized Chaos. 

Italian Historical Film Archive/ UNESCO Italian Friends of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina presented a homage to famed director Federico Fellini on January 19th at Hollywood’s Ruby Theater on what would have been Fellini’s 100th birthday.

At this event, Fellini’s last muse, actor and director Count Federico Wardal, screened for the first time his 2020 movie “Federico and Fellini” that reveals the details of the intense and unusual friendship between Federico Fellini and Count Federico Wardal. They met for the first time in Rome at Cinecittà in April of 1975. Fellini was 55 years old and Wardal, 16 years old.

The connection between them was strong despite the significant difference in age and background. Fellini’s youth had been influenced by the devastating misery generated by the Second World War, and Wardal’s youth, on the contrary, by the economic boom and the sexual revolution of the 70s. Fellini had worked to reach economic well-being and the full freedom to express himself artistically and Wardal had taken advantage of the permissive customs prevailing in his time. He left his family at the age of 14 and performed for large audiences, first as an eccentric singer-character who broke the traditional expectations for the bourgeois middle class at the time and then as an interpreter of the theater of the absurd acting roles from leading playwrights Borchert, Becket, Pirandello, Genet, Mrozek and a great leader of the Soviet theater, Vladimir Mayakovsky. Fellini in 1975 was already a living legend and one of the most spectacular icons for Wardal’s generation.

Fellini was drawn in, not only by the spectacular and attractive appearance of Wardal, but also by his personality that knew no barriers to artistic freedom in every area of life. Fellini’s entourage was beginning to age, while Wardal was totally ahead of his time, a volcano of creativity, and this aspect interested Fellini very much. For Wardal, Fellini was the great magical father, living his dream and immersed in the art he aimed to create. These are the main elements that drove the deep partnership between Fellini and Wardal.  

Fellini entrusted Wardal with the symbolic role of the adolescent Casanova in his film by that name. But a shocking event which had never happened in the history of cinema took place:  a high percentage of the footage of the film Casanova was stolen, including the scenes with Wardal and a short recited monologue by him.  For economic reasons, Fellini was forced to change the script of the film.  Fellini invited Wardal to recite some scenes of his role again, but, in the meantime, a strong depression had grabbed the young Wardal, who gradually disappeared from his mentor Fellini who in vain called him back for his films The City of Women and Rehearsals of the Orchestra.  This great broken friendship was, however, destined to resume its journey and here we stop, so as not to reveal the plot of the film Federico e Fellini presented in Hollywood.

But in Hollywood, during the screening of “Federico and Fellini” there was
an amazing surprise: at the 22nd minute of the screening, Wardal came out from behind the screen and performed Federico Fellini’s role live. This totally broke the ‘fourth wall’ and shattered the imaginary and dreamy dimension of the film, making it seem to the audience that the ghost of Fellini materialized on the day of his 100th birthday. Jennifer Glee, the creator of San Francisco’s local TV program Planet Glee and a multifaceted artist, intentionally kept secret the surprise of the live performance during the screening.

Hollywood’s Fellini 100 event gave in that way new life to the legend of Fellini, imprinted in the Walk of Fame and in the Wax Museum. Federico and Fellini is one of five episodes of film entitled La vita che fu Dolce ( The life that was sweet) written by Gabriele Luca Fava. The eminent Italian film critic Graziano Marraffa wrote about Wardal’s movie on December 27th, 2019: “Fellini and the alter ego, a game of mirrors …..in reality, the author Fellini has often had the need to express himself as an individual and an artist by seeking an alter ego in some of his interpreters to create new meta-narrative characters…. Now the internal and public confrontation between the last Fellini muse Federico Wardal and the director Federico Fellini, is represented in a filmic story implemented by a live performance that stratifies and diversifies the various narrative plans, analyzing the reflection on a reality that has become myth, on an unchangeable actuality: “THE SCREEN IS EMPTY”, long live Fellini!”

Marraffa continues: “The spiritual and professional alchemy between the two “Federicos” took place in 1975, during the preparation of the film IL CASANOVA DI FEDERICO FELLINI. Fellini says: “I made up my mind to tell the story of Casanova, a man who was never born, a funeral puppet without personal ideas, feelings, points of view;  an unreal Italian imprisoned in the mother’s womb… The unexpected and dazzling meeting with the actor Federico Wardal in the offices of the production company P.E.A., suggested to the Maestro the idea to entrust him with the role of the adolescent Casanova, but a short distance from the filming carried out…the theft of various original negative rolls on film in the Technicolor laboratory of development and printing in Rome. The mystery was not immediately cleared up, however the author’s attempt to re-shoot the scenes starring Wardal was in vain. If it is true that nothing happens by chance, can it be considered that the non-inclusion of this part of the work should be considered consistent with Fellini’s initial sentiment?”

The circumstances around the Fellini-Wardal friendship were so intriguing that now Susanna Mitchell Egan, a well-known UK writer, is writing a book about it. A submerged Fellini emerges from all this. Wardal says: “An unfinished work of art is an eternal drama.  A finished work of art only comes to life when someone remembers it … ” So both Fellini and Wardal wanted to leave their work unfinished, as an “empty screen” that desperately wants to come alive.  

As Jennifer Glee remembers in her presentation about the Hollywood tribute to Fellini, Mario Fratti, the famous Italian American playwright and author of the musical Nine, about Fellini’s movie 8 1/2, decorated with five Tony awards, told Wardal to reveal his story with Fellini because it is irresistible.  Finally, on January 19th, 2020,  after 45 years, that story came to life again.

The Fellini tribute will tour many countries. The event’s poster of the two F’s (Federico Fellini, Federico Wardal) was created by the well-known designer Armando Milani. The movie had the cooperation of Antonello Altamura and Javan Jiles.

View the performance and Wardal’s surprise live appearance here.

Graziano Marraffa’s review of the film.

L.A. Weekly’s description of the Fellini centennial tribute

The river people.

bodies

like a dried up orange peel.

bodies like breadcrumbs

on benches for pigeons.

it’s summer – they really do

look good. relaxed,

they hang about

next to the river. they

have nowhere

to be.

you could be jealous.

you could be.

walking in shoes

which dig at your ankles

and a new shirt

and a lanyard. bodies

like full crisp packets.

bodies

like empty beer bottles.

People in old situations

by 11, of course,

we were all a little drunk,

but they were

not as drunk as I was. impatient

with the favour of their company,

they rolled their eyes and frowned at me

while I yelled things to the table in enthusiasm,

like a precocious stupid child

allowed up past bedtime. this

was our reunion in winter –

a tradition every year

of friends flown home through christmas

to meet at a bar again,

and slipping very quickly

back to our old situations;

fallon the sharp didactic, baker clever,

gerry stupid and loud

and aodhain’s barks so passionate

they made dull subjects interesting.

and of course, I lost my cool,

silly as a kitten

misjudging its footsteps. giggly

and very embarrassing.

long-dormant insecurities, blunt attempts

at wit, a kid on a doorstep

holding cheap flowers

accepted from politeness by a girl.

all joy – it was spectacular.

I threw out my arms

like a diver, and flopped

so perfectly backwards.

Turkey soup.

when we’re done eating

my father gathers up bones.

each year

for one day

he developes an interest

in cookery. he knows

how to make

turkey soup

and takes pride in it.

his use of leftovers,

every part of the buffalo.

my mother watches.

we all watch.

he lowers the carcass

to the pot and adds water, gentle

as a priest

acting baptism. we’ve eaten

our fill, but nothing

must be wasted, he explains

as he scrapes down

some grease

from the plate

and fiddles about

with the tinfoil. if he could

he’d take gristle

from the sideboard, the knucklebones

out of our hands. we are sitting,

still in the hot fug

of appetite, a winish haze

and dogs

under the table, snapping for scraps

and frightened by the crackle

of christmas crackers.

he does it all

and then comes back to us,

sits down. it will simmer

overnight

and boil for days on end. the flavour

lasting weeks

going january

sour.

The basket.

a supermarket; light

in an antiseptic style.

salted redness

gleaming on apples

and tins of tuna. restless,

I open egg cartons;

inspect them for cracks

and make sure that none

have been stolen.

someone pushes a mop

on a spilled stain

of ketchup. teenagers

look nervous

and buy the cheapest wine.

someone goes by

with a basket of groceries.

the doors slide open;

they welcome the evening in.

The proposal.

we drink together

in her tired

and line-eyed apartment.

the housemate is away

and the light

all white on walls

the colour of paint

done cheap by the landlord

and only to photograph

better in listings.

the curtains

are grubby.

I push them aside. the sofa

collapses

like a man without exercise,

sagging at the guts

and the thin bone of armrests.

I look out her window

and take another sip,

ask quietly “how long

do you really want

to live here?”

in my pocket

the wire on a spare key glitters

with nervous hope

and the optimism of an unworn

engagement ring.

---

DS Maolalai has been nominated four times for Best of the Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019)