RUN-ON SENTENCE
And my Eternity
Allowed the Time
my Heart
Stands Fallen
to the next
moment
where I Am Now
And looking at what I thought
WAS Me felt GOOD
Knowing
WAS I BORN HUMAN
or the Path Beneath me
Grows these Legs to
Walk
Where I AM
turns to wind &
Dust to
Swirl in the shape
of a Heart
where flowers
CAN GROW
AS I AM Always
Kissed Knowing
Kissed As if again &
Again
where lips find
OUR Smell
And I am Reminded
I AM Human.
by John Edward Culp
Friday morning
December 9, 2022
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Mary Croy
Crab Nebula a tenuous spoon bent into black whirlpool joy at a trillion volts orange whispers out just touching the void thankful for unencumbered elements what's it like to spin thirty times a second? do you get dizzy? what would Lao Tzu have to say about you? rings form, concentric trying to hide the numbing density you've thought about slowing down taking a look around the neighborhood but that's best left to the wear and tear guys or the wishes of the slide rule you lost some of your shine over the last millennium but heat and beat they're all yours acorn sermon live with the acorn sermon that sits for a long time in the stubble fields that seems boring until it razors home greet the duck as a distinguished guest quacking tales from hither and yon he knows both North and South and his wife can tell East and West words dangle on cool air come fall they sprinkle the ground racing again in spring then everybody talks summer and sun waits for blossoms to sweeten the life history of my body Right index finger: Carbon created in a supernova in the Sculptor Supercluster 8 billion years ago, travelled to Earth via Sculptor Void Left knee: bone atoms from a Blue Giant in Leo Supercluster 6.8 billion years ago White blood cells: material from Fornax cluster, type 1a nova over 5.5 billion years previous Hair: spun from a molecular cloud in the Andromeda galaxy, carried to Earth via a comet 3.7 billion years ago Eye: a rain of organic material from the small Magellanic cloud, 4.5 billion years travel time All other parts from unidentified parts of the Universe. Estimated travel time: 5-10 billion years Aldo Leopold at a pure stone table I write in a way cognizant of bumps, ridges and purple flowers Coolness in the wind seeks out its own kind of day dream the peculiar symphony of trees holds a memory of seed, the last rainfall and buttercup sky curved pathways lead who knows where? Overhead a small plane plies cloud, but the labyrinth branches ground eyes and birds soar sound.
Mary E. Croy lives in Madison, Wisconsin where she works as an administrative assistant. She spent nine years teaching English Language Learners in Ha Noi, Viet Nam. During her free time, Mary likes reading poetry and hanging out with her cats, Buster and Gabby. Her work has appeared in Better than Starbucks, Woven Tale Press, and Valley Voices, among others.
Poetry from Sophia Fastaia
Moon Meets the Sun I remember when I first saw you, your shining face smiling at me from afar Said the moon. You are so bright, so golden and sweet I can almost taste your laughter how it fills the holes of my heart with joy Said the moon. I know I hide in the shadows I am shyer, only showing my face once in a while but when I look at you, I light up You make the darkness go away as you smile and fill the space around me with warmth Turning my world into the perfect place Said the moon.
Poetry from Robert Stephens
Living in dreams The dead do not die When you expect them to. They live on, Ghosts trapped In the minds of those, who loved them, feared them. The living don’t live When you expect them to. They exist In the trudge of reality, Living in their dreams. Dying in their lives. Ghosts live in the dreams of others Family friends and lovers. And the living live in their own dreams With lovers friends and family, With strangers exotic places a hopeful future, With the past of their mundane world. The dead don't die, The living don't live Because of dreams. Unusual places I have been Each with their own moment salted into the web of my memory A tenuous painted contrail A trail traveled many places The smell of a place evoking It is the one stool ramen stall next to a small westernized Chinese hotel In Wuhan It is fool's gold sparkling on a dreary day in the cold rocky shallows of Donner Lake in California It is the dry smell of a late summer day at the hot train station in Havre Montana Each a unique serendipitous memory, each a thread One of many woven to be clutched in the hands of Lachesis Measured and imbued by a fate An unintended interesting life.
Poetry from Chimezie Ihekuna
Merry Christmas (ii) It’s been a long time coming! A once-in-a-year event nearing I’ve been getting ready for yuletide Taking every circumstance in great stride It’s about me making plans for the following year Working hard so that New Year’s Resolution won’t be at the rear I have to live with the moment as I press on Positioning me in the light of thorough reflection is the impression It’s about savoring the festive period Caring about my neighbors is the watch word I have to celebrate with people en masse To wish them a fruitful Merry Christmas!
Short story from Fernando Sorrentino
Unjustified Fears
by Fernando Sorrentino
(Spanish title: Temores injustificados)
Translated
by Naomi Lindstrom
I’m not very sociable, and often I forget about my friends. After letting two years go by, on one of those January days in1979 — they’re so hot — I went to visit a friend who suffers from somewhat unjustified fears. His name doesn’t matter; let’s call him — just call him — Enrique Viani.
On a certain Saturday in March, 1977, his life changedcourse.
It seems that, while in the living room of his house, near thedoor to the balcony, Enrique Viani saw, suddenly, an “enormous” — according to him — spider on his right shoe. No soonerhad he had the thought this was the biggest spider he’d seen inhis life, when, suddenly leaving its place on his shoe, the animalslipped up his pants leg between the leg and the pants.
Enrique Viani was — he said — “petrified.” Nothing so disagreeable had ever happened to him. At that instant he recalled two principles he had read somewhere or other, which were: 1) that, without exception, all spiders, even the smallest ones, carry poison, and can inject it; and, 2) that spiders only sting when they feel attacked or disturbed. It was plain to see, that huge spider must surely have plenty of poison in it, the fullstrength toxic type. So, Enrique Viani thought the most sensible thing to do was hold stock still, since at the least move of his, the insect would inject him with a definitive dose of deadly poison.
So he kept rigid for five or six hours, with the reasonable hope that the spider would eventually leave the spot it had taken up on his right tibia; clearly, it couldn’t stay too long in a place where it couldn’t find any food.
As he came up with this optimistic prediction, he felt that, in deed, the visitor was starting to move. It was such a bulky, heavy spider that Enrique Viani could feel — and count — the footfalls of the eight feet — hairy and slightly sticky — across the goose flesh of his leg. But, unfortunately, the guest was not leaving; instead, it nested, with its warm and throbbing cephalothorax and abdomen, in the hollow we all have behind our knees.
•••
Up to here we have the first — and, of course, fundamental — part of this story. After that there came some not very significant variations: the basic fact was that Enrique Viani, afraid of getting stung, insisted on keeping stone still as long as need be, despite his wife and two daughters’ pleas for him to abandon the plan. And so, they came to a stalemate where no progress was possible.
Then Graciela — the wife — did me the honor of calling me in to see if I could resolve the problem. This happened around two in the afternoon: I was a bit annoyed to have to give up my one siesta of the week and I silently cursed out people who can’t manage their own affairs. Once over at Enrique Viani’s house, I found a pathetic scene: he stood immobile, though not in too stiff a pose, rather like parade rest; Graciela and the girls were crying.
I managed to keep myself calm and tried to calm the three women as well. Then I told Enrique Viani that if he agreed to my plan, I could make quick work of the invading spider. Opening his mouth just the least bit, so as not to send the slightest quiver through his leg muscle, Enrique Viani wondered:
“What plan?”
I explained. I’d take a razor blade and make a vertical slit downwards in his pants leg till I came to the spider, without even touching it. Once this was done, it would be easy for me to hit it with a rolled‑up newspaper, knock it to the floor and then kill it or catch it.
“No, no,” muttered Enrique Viani, desperate, but trying to restrain himself. “The pants leg will move and the spider will sting me. No, no, that’s a terrible idea.”
Stubborn people drive me up the wall. Without boasting, I can say my plan was perfect, and here this wretch who’d made me miss my siesta just up and rejects it, for no serious reason and, to top it off, he’s snotty about it.
“Then I don’t know what on earth we’ll do,” said Graciela. “And just tonight we have Patricia’s fifteenth birthday party …”
“Congratulations,” I said, and kissed the birthday girl.
“. . and we can’t let the guests see Enrique standing there like a statue.”
“Besides, what will Alejandro say.”
“Who’s Alejandro?”
“My boyfriend,” Patricia, predictably, answered.
“I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Claudia, the little sister. “We can call Don Nicola and…”
I want it clear that I wasn’t exactly wild about Claudia’s plan and had nothing to do with its being adopted. In fact, I was dead set against it. But everyone else was heartily in favor of it and Enrique Viani was more enthusiastic than anyone.
So Don Nicola showed up and right away, being a man of action and not words, he set to work. Quickly he mixed mortar and, brick by brick, built up around Enrique Viani a tall, thin cylinder. The tight fit of his living quarters, far from being a drawback, allowed Enrique Viani to sleep standing up with no fear of falling and losing his upright position. Then Don Nicola carefully plastered over the construction, applied a base and painted it moss green to blend in with the carpeting and chairs.
Still, Graciela — dissatisfied with the general effect of this mini obelisk in the living room — tried putting a vase of flowers on top of it and then an ornamental lamp. Undecided, she said:
“This mess will have to do for now. Monday I’ll buy something decent‑looking.”
To keep Enrique Viani from getting too lonely, I thought of staying on for Patricia’s party, but the thought of facing the music our young people are so fond of terrified me. Anyway, Don Nicola had taken care to make a little rectangular window in front of Enrique Viani’s eyes, so he could keep entertained watching certain irregularities in the wall paint. So, seeing everything was normal, I said goodbye to the Vianis and Don Nicola and went back home.
•••
In Buenos Aires back in those years we were all overwhelmed with duties and obligations: the truth is I almost forgot all about Enrique Viani. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I managed to get free for a moment and went to call on him.
I found he was still living in his little obelisk, only now a splendid blue‑flowering creeper had twined its runners and leaves all around it. I pulled a bit to one side some of the luxuriant greenery and through the little window I managed to spot a face so pale it was nearly transparent. Guessing the question I was about to ask, Graciela told me that, through a kind of wise adaptation to the new circumstances, nature had exempted Enrique Viani from all physical necessities.
I didn’t want to leave without making one last plea for sanity. I asked Enrique Viani to be reasonable; after twenty‑three months of being walled up, this spider of ours was surely dead, so, then, we could tear down Don Nicola’s handiwork and ….
Enrique Viani had lost the power of speech or at any rate his voice could no longer be heard; he just said no desperately with his eyes.
Tired and, maybe, a bit sad, I left.
In general, I don’t think about Enrique Viani. But lately, I recalled his situation two or three times, and I flared up with rebellion: ah, if those unjustified fears didn’t have such a hold, you’d see how I’d grab a pickaxe and knock down that ridiculous structure of Don Nicola’s; you’d see how, facing facts that spoke louder than words, Enrique Viani would end up agreeing his fears were groundless.
But, after these flareups, respect for my fellow‑man wins out, and I realize I have no right to butt into other people’s lives and deprive Enrique Viani of an advantage he so treasures.
Poetry from Natasha Leung
Versions of Heat with the drip of wax down a scar on my hand to replicate a lost spark i wonder at a candle unaware of an ending of burning out an only tasting metal i wonder at a candle when will it be spring again? summer may be long and dreary warmth that suffocates a breath of air but not the burn of when your skin has tanned too much and pinches a fiery red that shouldn’t be possible without wind until too much blows it out blows out the red of leaves the gold (of winning, of shining, and of burning) into brown metal can taste different no matter what but the color will always be dark opposite of burning