An Outcast In My Own Life A white peach, a slice of green melon, and a peeled mango! They all have a delicate pleasantness, but the taste of you lingers. That taste has sweetened the bitterness around my heart. I cherish those moments when you are near. The shadows of apathy and uncertainty disappear and though I feel vulnerable I love the flavor. I once devoured the night and its consequences now I lay next to you, welcoming the morning light. You dissolved that feeling I’d be forever lost. I am no longer an outcast in my life.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
gleem toothpaste pepper yogurt purple — alert owlet the wrong orange — icicle painted silver lord oh lord — head of the larks nightly news epaulet — o’dell of the forest namely nothing — forked doorknob the proof of prawns — bio/graf J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
Poetry from Joshua Martin
Brute Neutron
radio wrist Squirm
the screen fit beneath
Chin Up! Up! Up! Up!
summoned away spork
shining obedient crux
of Pearl Squirrel groove
lips , shifts , blimps
crack a Tick typo Tips
A shark Barking elevator
muffin , an Oyster
Would that shake a Sack
a vegetable chair of Mutton
Strapping youthful vinegar
, the whine selects ,
a Ham application Antique
which Swats Drops , arrow
predicating Apocalypse
bLiSs ExIsT Systematic
touching warden stand
tall image continuation
process of eliminating
mayonnaise finger top
cosmos textile style a
shepherded earlobe jut
hut proverb maven raven
quoting adverbial mania
A spark, trembling on invisible sidewalk
the trip creases blending forehead
consternation windows merely a spine
to acknowledge murky phobia magazines
: ‘on that plane, sedated city’ :
left doubted
overall imminent
. . . . .
aforementioned pounds,
labored,
(maybe sloths) - - - unpacked umbrella - - -
facial stimulated brain
startled scenario hairs . . . . .
scurrying had to be addressed
, again, kick : [otherwise] blank
declaration , non-
binding , does fly , well-rehearsed skyline ,
landscape in clusters
a lapse, once upon an eyelash :
tallest boots of
dry tongue
Diplomacy
second grin
be,stowed
comparison
ROBOT transport
Vector
impale,ment
speaking,ing
of computerized
education cycle
symbolism
MaSteRpiEcE
sympathetic
SqUeeZe TOY
mermaid
lady-in-
waiting
AT aLL CoSts,
coattails
, neon PaLaCe
harsh
RePeAL,s
November
imaginary
report CaRd
security
celebration.
chock full o’ diameter
dystopian like a cracker barrel hobby horse
h00p earrings demonstrate soviet montage
while laser tag aligns itself w/ German expressionism
. New to older editorial cacophony
lashing museum studies,
tongue breaks fortress
then growls::
brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,
YUCK <end an automatic
sentence. :::
,, whisper a pinch
& viral a bald spot
yip-yip-yip-yip-yip
Communal section accustomed
Constricted table
negative light / slight
TOUCH detaches castle
from tree
LIMB (action judged
to slip prospectus into lemur)
Mainly,solid,trained,lucid,
abrupt sleep corrodes district context
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is a member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books O! fragmented glories (Argotist Ebooks), Prismatic Fissures (C22 Press), and peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
Essay from Muhammad Yusuf Zulfiqorov
War is a tragedy. It is an evil that causes pain and death to innocent souls. Children suffer the most from war because they are the most vulnerable part of society. War deprives children of childhood, peace, tranquility, their homeland, parents and, above all, hope for the future. I don’t just mean children in Ukraine or Palestine, I mean all the wounded souls who are crippled by the blade of war. According to UNICEF, from 2005 to 2022, wars worldwide have killed at least 120,000 children. In Palestine alone, more than 14,000 children have died to date.
Children should not die because of war. In today’s world, where we have achieved unprecedented heights in science, technology, and medicine, children are still dying. And this does not happen due to incurable diseases or natural disasters, but due to wars that adults start. War cripples not only the bodies, but also the souls of children. It robs them of their childhood, replacing it with fear, pain and loss. Children who survive war often suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, nightmares, anxiety and depression. Every day in the media we see this or that news about the victims of war, but you were wondering how we can stop these wars, how can I stop these wars?
As a tenth-grade girl who wears hijab and often faces discrimination, I am tired of being a passive witness with nothing to do. I became a volunteer, joined the boycott, started to express my motives and views, tried to convey my point of view to a wide audience and call for action. In addition, I wrote a manifesto with like-minded people and we started distributing it at school and encourage everyone to join. Today I am calling on the VOY community and U-Report to join my manifesto and help spread it to the youth of the world. The future is in our hands. We have a responsibility to do everything possible to protect the world from war. We must learn tolerance and mutual respect. We must resolve conflicts peacefully, through dialogue and diplomacy. We must do everything possible to ensure that children never know the horrors of war. We must do everything possible to ensure that this future is peaceful.
In my manifesto I wanted to call on all people for peace. War is not the answer. It never solves problems, but only creates new ones. We must learn to live in peace and harmony so that children can grow and develop in a happy and safe world.
“Manifesto: Childhood without war!”
Childhood is a sacred time:
Childhood is a period of carefree games, the first steps towards knowledge, and the formation of personality. This is the time when children should be surrounded by love, care and safety. War mercilessly destroys this world, leaving behind only pain, fear and suffering.
Children should not be victims:
No child should become a victim of hostilities. The war spares neither adults nor children. The projectiles do not differentiate between soldiers and innocent civilians. Children die, are injured, lose parents and homes.
The future belongs to peaceful children:
A peaceful sky above your head isn’t just a dream, it is a vital necessity for children. Only in a peaceful society can children realize their full potential, grow up healthy and happy, and become builders of a better future.
We are obliged to protect childhood:
Each of us must do everything possible to stop the war and protect children. Our voices must be heard by the leaders of this world. Let us demand an end to the bloodshed and violence.
Join us!
Together we can make the world a better place!
Poetry from Marina Pizzi, translated by Maurizio Brancaleoni
Translated into English by Maurizio Brancaleoni
From “Intimità delle lontananze” (“Intimate Distances”) (2004)
49
Deadly feedstuff
deserts of rules
multiple misdeeds
mocking snoots.
I descend the stairs of a splendid atelier
eaten up by the sun’s comedies
cats get flat out of slack
the shadowless gallows of cicadas,
a few meters away the new cemetery
(serving the
soul of future)
dishes out gendarmes sharp with bolt cutters.
From “Vigilia di sorpasso” (“Eve of Overtaking”) (2010)
39.
at the back of the job of resisting
the wind is called a swinging of blasphemous
sphynxes riding a broomstick.
rust soaring above the nape of the neck
forerunning confetti of death
I am. long face I shall not have your
love, but you’ll see I know how to resist
the partisan anecdote in the crag
of the eventide. choppy sea in the soul to see you
from under the case that approaches me dead.
From “Il cantiere delle parvenze” (“The Workshop of Semblances”) (2010)
42.
my theatre shortens I ride on others’ coat tails
in the havoc of the index by the hour,
other snake-like cases of heartache
when they announce that boredom lives
close to break-even with ash.
actually the angel’s play
babbles the impossible to the stones
the lyre stained with axe sewage.
to die of boredom like a tortoise
like the little girls in the hollow dunes
transported by the furies of the waves.
the crash of the virgins is a reddish
tide, demented the trip
with dizziness. in a wrinkled jacket I stand
and see you leave without engaged scratches.
I like to die holding a lantern
with a stash of iris overwhelming me
feeding my discontent by my side. what happened was
that I slit my wrists tomorrow, take off my clothes
I walk naked amid the cypresses that exalt
the dead by denouncing the nape of the neck of charity
fainted.
From “Cantico di stasi” (“Canticle of Stasis”) (2012)
6.
The window of discontent
along the courses of my sacrificing
the throng of the marsh. inside
the diamond I see the basket
of useless stigmata. I am long in suffering
this Martian of anxiety.
bootless the notes do not explain
the misfortune of moves without respect
the guiles containing the arrival
on the substitutions of the wind always against
the benefit of the all-standing lighthouse.
in competition with the winning swallow
may boredom withdraw which gives the cinereous staff
of the burden inside a reason to cry.
here one immolates the greed of contending
only downpours with vising drops.
in the hands of the surf’s mercy
the scoriae in one’s hands are the affection
of people who died in the garden of marvels
so they say in the tales of vanquished nuptial beds.
the soldier’s fear is the dynamiting
fence. here if you run away in a hurry
may luck open the wind and to hell with stinginess.
From “La cena del verbo” (“The Supper of the Word”) (2014)
31.
The struggle of dawn will cause my breasts to die
Torture gerund waiting at the world
To ask for peace without stealing anything
Neither the commas of the time passed
Nor the full stop ending a child conversation.
I train you as if you were an Olympic woman
Satiated panic without an affront
Nowadays there’s a Hercules driving the sin
I use up my coma on speakerphone
And clean out with the chorus of the fibs about
Gazing at God the beloved Jesus.
61.
Sluggish swamp the sea by now
It flirts with the lighthouse the last game
When children come to the sands
And strokes, locked up adrift, rot.
I shall be my construct in vain
The livid dawn of the one who often dies
Under the sindons of fingerprints.
A dream of you will be my eventide
The naked syllabary of the meek lighthouse
And the holy gazelles’ irenic messenger.
Sinister love the raft aches
This harrowing fate of dying
In the seesaw of the shadow or of the pitch dark.
Easter backpack to gaze at your face
To have a raft in the name of service
Refuge as the bad habit of running after each other.
Marina Pizzi is a contemporary Italian poet. She was born in Rome, where she still lives, on 5-5-55. In her literary career she has published over fifty books of poetry both on paper and in electronic format. Her poems have also appeared in various journals and anthologies.
Maurizio Brancaleoni is a writer and translator. He received his master’s degree in Language and Translation Studies from Sapienza University of Rome in 2018, but he has been translating at least since 2012. In recent years he localized the prose and poetry of manifold authors, among which Thomas Wolfe, Adrian C. Louis, Justin Phillip Reed, Jean Toomer, Dylan Thomas, Herman Melville, Scipione/Gino Bonichi and Amelia Rosselli. More poems by Marina Pizzi in English translation can be found here.
Poetry from Pascal Lockwood-Villa
Redirect to Self To Sleep, Perchance to Dream I come home in Eucharist Body slanted in brown-and-broad-faced praise The simple shape of this Gemini Made for Taurus (I’m born again Among stars) The fabrics that strecheth and bindeth me are no more, Cast away, deemed false Deemed sacrilege Deemed too cool I’ve always wanted to call myself a r3b3l I’VE GOT NO CAUSE TO PROVE IT (apologies for the outburst) This is my temple, my history. This is my sacred Hell This is my poisoned Heaven I ask you to come and worship Hand in hand with me And live neither dead nor awake But dreaming all the same Dreaming till dreaming becomes too much to bear and the urge to lead some great parley with the sandman bears strange fruit Skin bagged like dying men Flesh downy like sheets I ask myself: Why do we (always) Worship what we can never obtain? The static of the commercial world wedges a sea of product placement into my endorphin-dependent sludge I used to call you brain But you have since become (insert Egyptian word for brain) So that a witty comparison centered around the ancient belief that The brain’s only purpose was to hold apart the ears and the heart Did all the real thinking I suppose they were mostly right ‘Cept I don’t think that makes me any smarter considering my track record I still pray to altars of IKEA wood and Amoeba plastic I still try to use hooks to remove the wart I call reason I would lay with Morpheus happily (speaking as a straight man) If it meant the sleep was dreamless And deep And the clock stayed silent For as long as I am waking There is nothing left to do But if I dream Then there is the lover-shaped void that I tried so hard to fill with broken people Never bothering (until now) To see if I fit myself --
Story from David Sapp (one of three)
Taxi at the Peace Bridge
After a four-hour layover in the Buffalo bus terminal, after crossing the Peace Bridge in the middle of the night and disembarking again, an honest and earnest young man, I naively informed the customs officer I would be “earning my keep” in Canada. Big mistake. No one told me what to say. I was pulled aside, ordered to go here and sit there, and watched through the windows as the other more fortunate and savvy passengers climbed aboard the Greyhound and pulled away, privileged to be trekking into the dark expanse of Ontario.
It was during the Reagan administration. I was escaping trickle-down economics by heading toward Kingston, at the eastern end of Lake Ontario, to a little run-down farmhouse and a few out buildings, a place called “Dandelion.” It was a modest commune in the middle of nowhere, at the end of telephone and electric poles. About ten Canadian and American twenty-something men and women lived and worked together there weaving hammocks, tending an impressive garden, smoking a little pot now and then, and generally attempting to live a simple, peaceful, egalitarian life according to the utopia in B. F. Skinner’s Walden II. This, I thought, was my moment, and this might be the place where I might find an authentic sense of self – to pursue my ideals. And just maybe find love. When waiting with my dad for the bus north, the zipper on my bag split open. Dad took off his belt and cinched the whole thing closed. What was I doing? We both choked up, and my feet were heavy on the bus steps. My ideals faltered, but I found a seat.
Turned away at the border, I was dazed, lost, my future uncertain – with no idea what to do next. A taxi must have been called. The cabbie led me to the car, picked up my bag, placed it in the trunk, opened the door and motioned me into the front seat. On the way back to the U.S., he quietly provided me with instructions for another attempt at the border. He seemed to recite these directions from experience: walk nine blocks back to the Buffalo station, find the number 10 city bus to drop me near the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls. Ask the bus driver. He’ll know. Try again. Lie. Keep it simple. Years later, on a nostalgic visit to Dandelion with my wife, we drove over the Peace Bridge corridor in daylight. It was all concrete and asphalt punctuated by orange construction barrels and lines of big rigs. The few grim buildings were blockish and dull, the water flat and gray. This was exactly what I felt and imagined when I travelled this way that night.
After dropping me on the U.S. side, as I watched him pull away, I realized that the soft-spoken cabbie didn’t mention the fare. Still reeling and as that was the first time I rode in a taxi and was unfamiliar with the protocol, it did not occur to me to dig out some cash. He gave me great advice and didn’t charge for the ride. What a good human being, such a contrast to the cold demeanor and the crisp, impeccable uniforms of the customs officers. The U.S. officials asked for identification and questioned my citizenship. I stated too sarcastically that I was just turned away in Canada. Where else would I go? Dawn was breaking as I quickened my step through the Buffalo neighborhoods. I wondered, what if it was raining? According to the cabbie’s prescription, I found my way to the Rainbow Bridge and though I was anxious about where to go next if I wasn’t turned away again, I paused and took in the horseshoe falls halfway across, beneath the American and Canadian flags flapping side-by-side. The vast immensity, the roar of the falls, and the swirling mist were breathtaking though fleeting. I recalled the painter Frederick Church and his portrayal of the sublime landscape. I considered, momentarily and perversely, how fortunate I was to be in this distressing predicament. At the toll booth I paid ten cents and when the pleasant woman asked about my stay in Canada I declared, “Just visiting friends – a week or two tops.” She smiled, knowingly I thought, and waved me on. Somehow, I found a bus terminal, my ticket was good for the next connection in a weird bit of luck, and I took a seat next to a kindly lady who reminded me of an aunt. We talked of Canada and Ohio on the way to Toronto. She spoke of her grandchildren. I wistfully described my grandparents’ farm in the rolling green hills of Knox County. She needed a little reassurance that I was not a runaway teenager. The passengers on this leg of the journey were a stark contrast to the rough, sullen crowd between Cleveland and Buffalo.
At the Toronto layover I browsed through the World’s Largest Bookstore and picked up a corned beef on rye at a very loud, bustling, and confusing delicatessen – my first deli experience. I was ordered by the patron to go here and stand there. From there I made it, thankfully and uneventfully, to Kingston and Dandelion. But I didn’t find love. It was all worthwhile I suppose; however, after four months of hammock weaving, jerry-rigged construction projects, wincing at residents’ attempts at self-taught guitar, and listening to pointless petty squabbles between couples, I determined that people were about the same everywhere and that my ideals could be actualized most anywhere – even Ohio. I discovered that authenticity prevailed more in the kindness and generosity of that Buffalo cabbie than in the subsequent months playing the enlightened hippie.
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.