A Summer Memory Trees in bloom, reckoning the sky towards a cloudless night. Sultry summer rain hisses on the sidewalk— bloom of Jacaranda purple against a slate grey sky. Wine of holidaymakers sound of laughter navel orange splash cooling upwind of (rain) Long pull of books and films drag towards the night of oppressive heat and (rain) Here is the season of purple blooming around us wrapped like a garland wreath; lively dances performed for the summer dead Tuft of Light lizard beaked sits riotous in motion; silver shredded ribbons; blood and dead leaves; (breathing in the stink) calm cup of tea dissolve atmosphere of hate words; nastiness; just blood and dead leaves; (open to the sewer) skin smooth over porous shale; seawater laps the deck of the ship urine soaked and alabaster; (soap bubbles over shale) bring order, bring results into present time; blood in the pissoir; ice; smoke; just blood and dead leaves Sound of Laughter Sound of laughter children playing I haven’t the time to stop and look I'm losing the thread of innocence You see, I was unnatural and my time was fleeting along with the ermines Sound of laughter cold light of fish the pool of algae ran rivers of blood I was Unnatural, it was the time I was to lose fleeting moments of moonlight took their anger out on a lonely boy Sound of laughter one wet rock A flock of seagulls to shit upon it Sound of laughter delicate bones set in the ear they break at a moment’s notice Sound of laughter it’s all I can do to stay in touch with children playing I haven’t the time to stop and look Dreaming All was gone through layers of night As I wandered through my sleep, All was gone through rays of light I wandered here as though I might Wander knowing that children weep All was gone through layers of night Bludgeoned, I held my form aright Through holds of sleep’s yellow keep All was gone through rays of light Obscenity, profanity held to height Wafting bleats of nettled sheep All was gone through layers of night The pornographic lust grew bright: A penny, a dollar, sir, just for a peep All was gone through rays of light Awake I felt the dirt and blight Lost in the theme of dream’s full sweep All was gone through layers of night All was gone through rays of light. The Balance I have hurt my hand. I do not know when, or where Or how, But I suppose it must Have been in the delicate Balance between sanity And the dark place we fear To go. It is not useless. Just a slight twinge When I perform a task, Simple things Like arranging my affairs Or the flowers Of state. It is not altogether Unpleasant, Although it does pain me And I do not know How it happened Or whether There is a purpose To this injury That plays on my conscience. I would ask you, But I know That you are not there, Not altogether Useless Just a slight twinge When performing a task. I have invented a person To talk to And hold, I do not know When or where Or why But perhaps in the balance Between sanity And affairs of the state. Miles Davis He was cool when people was still playing hot! Be-bop that horn zoot rollo Like a golden tide river stretched out for miles Pulling me by the ears Old Devil Moon just be-bop-a-lu Wail that siren like for fires Hep cats playing Hot! Cool! Anything you want! Lid those eyes over Bitches Brew You toot hoot full zoot get a snoot Full of the hippest Jazz fever bopped along funk rollo
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Damon Hubbs
Not Another Holiday Poem grandmother’s annual holiday poem was nothing like The New Yorker’s annual holiday poem the top bard of Walton, NY poet laureate of St. John Street wouldn’t think of starting a poem with “Greetings, Friends!” she was more Miss Havisham than Grandma Moses in those later years when the wraparound porch on her black & white Victorian collapsed like a poorly measured fruit cake and the delivery man who dropped off groceries & cases of Genny every Friday would find her on the old wooden swing kicking out over the abyss noting the times & the season hark, with each pump of her schoolyard legs. Suburb such a fuss was raised last night by the chickens in the neighbor’s coop you would have thought kids were staging boxing matches in the foreclosure on the corner or Mr. Connolly was finally putting the misery out of his sour puss wife or a delivery man who knows that evil works against us on a daily basis was fighting the high-casualty event of middle class life by arranging a tufted boudoir chaise in a perfect pelt of moonlight. Mount Vision it’s a small town nothing to do but fantasize so when news cropped that the radio tower on Mount Vision had picked spectral music out of the sky the disappointment was as sharp as finding a plastic toy saucer at the bottom of a technicolor cereal box the rise and fall of the west ‘You’ve gotta’ be fucking kidding me,’ I say, half under my breath ‘are you sure that’s right?’ The woman behind the cash register is wearing pink earmuffs. It’s December but there isn’t a bite to the air or as much as a flake on the ground. The pink earmuffs are her way of saying ‘sorry, fucker I can’t hear you bitch about the cost of potatoes because my ears are huddled in pink earmuffs.’ I’m so pissed about the cost of potatoes I wanna’ tell the woman that her pink earmuffs make her look like she feeds on the homeless. But she won’t hear me anyway, so what’s the point. Then, in a mock hospitable voice she adds, ‘sir, potatoes fueled the rise of the West.’ The last item scans, chirps. ‘Paper or plastic?’ ‘Plastic,’ I say doing my part to hasten the fall. the last roundhouse on dead end street south of the rib, in the flatlands dram shops & the roundhouse, upstate’s industrial colosseum the Canadian Pacific razed it in 93’ but demolition began earlier 36 of 52 brick stalls scattered like a game of pick-up amongst the ruins & rotting Pullman mail cars a woman with a dismembered goat hoof between her legs says to an ex-con: tastes are becoming hard to satisfy.
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
. . . urger (b) roadside peaches bro + ken androids spock’s legendary green ape far-flung the sound of the tree machine box momentary ember one sparrow barthroom tart frog famished rose hat head santa fe nm 2 eyes made co rn co b p i p e ------------- bio/graf J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
Poetry from Alan Catlin
673- Sontag reviving Godot in Sarajevo. An act of faith. Hope. Or madness. Durrenmatt. Remember Durrenmatt. No. The Visit. “Better to watch than think about later.” Applies to Beckett too. The Physicists. Endgame. Life in a trash can. A domestic arrangement. Waiting for the man to come. For. The. Nuclear winter. 674- Writing in semi-trance. Like Yeats. Like his wife, Georgie. Who cheated at Ouija board. And what about James Merrill’s paramour. Was he a cheat at Windhover. At Sandover. Seemed awfully convenient. Having that gift. Not a Nabokov. This is. A Gift “An oak is a tree. A rose is a flower. A deer is an animal. A sparrow is a bird. Russia is our fatherland. Death is inevitable.” 679- A History of Present Illness The Doctor Is Sick. Dr. No. Fleming or Everett. Both. Illness as Metaphor. Cancer. Ward. Medicine for Melancholy. (Again) Homesickness. Stories. Subterranean Homesick Blues. Songs. Blue Bayou (Again and again). Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Lain. Giving up the Ghost. Writer. 680- Operation Delirium. Wars without Killings. Clouds of physicochemical(s) instead. Like the movie. The Fog. Shadow and Fog. Like a frat party. Seduction involving roofies. Interrogation involving LSD. Defenestration follies. Flexible flying. Like a Leonard Michaels story. Wear your Air Jordans and soar. Your Keds treads. Hard landings happen. Go ask Francesca. Woodman. 682- Sex in outer space. The concept. The practice. No shortage of male volunteers. Not a Playboy presentation. Not NASA sanctioned either. Yet. Raunch-O-Rama. Presents. Trailers and features. A sub-rosa media giant in their chosen field. A real growth industry. To pun or not pun that is the question. In the morning. In the evening. Ain’t, we got fun. Tits on the Moon. The poetry collection. 683- Meme wars. Like chemically induced paranoid thinking. Mass delusions. Better than brainwashing. Social media. Consciousness raising or consciousness debilitating. Tactically induced seizures. Dizziness. Fear. Operation Delirium in action. Twitter. Panic. Hysteria. Hallucinations. Migraines. Suicidal ideation. Like planking. Only fatal. Virgin Suicides. What a waste. C.I.A. Fucking C.I A. Living in the USA. 685- Imagine a cocktail party of 1957 army officers. And their respectives. And an LSD punch. Not a moment in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Book or movie. In real life. Just to see what would happen. Imagine the whole base’s water supply laced. Superiors “were pissed” when they found out about the punch. It sounded like a good idea in theory. At the lecture. In the position paper. After the euphoria came Severe depression. Anxiety. Abject fear(s). “I feel like I’m fixin’ to die.” With Country Joe. Take a trip with Peter Fonda. Hare brained scientific experiment Or good clean fun. None of this is made up.
Synchronized Chaos December 2022: The Thin Veneer Over Wildness
Welcome to December’s first issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine!
First of all, we encourage you to come on out to Metamorphosis, our New Year’s Eve gathering and benefit show for the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan and Sacramento’s Take Back the Night. This will take place in downtown Davis, CA, at 2pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church (all are welcome, we’re simply using their room as a community space). 4pm Pacific time is midnight Greenwich Mean Time so we can count down to midnight. Please sign up here to attend.
The theme “Metamorphosis” refers to having people there from different generations to speak and read and learn from each other, challenging us to honor the wisdom of our parents and ancestors while incorporating the best of the world’s new ideas in a thoughtful “metamorphosis.” We’ve got comedian Nicole Eichenberg, musicians Avery Burke and Joseph Menke, and others on board as well as speakers from different generations.
Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.
This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!
This month, our issue explores the often quite thin veneer between ourselves and the world’s wildness.
J.K. Durick’s work looks into time, memory, and the fears humans and animals bring into the most mundane encounters. Daniel DeCulla, in a more humorous vein, writes of people who embrace dog poop as part of our world.
Nathan Whiting’s concrete poetry reflects layered physical sensations of nature: intimacy, hibernation, and composting fruit. J.D. Nelson points out a few of the hidden natural encounters people may miss in a suburban neighborhood. Christopher Bernard illustrates a mysterious character who forms a deep bond with the ocean.
Rose Knapp’s pieces reference theology and cultural history along with the natural world. And Thomas Reisner’s artwork reminds us that the natural world can be one very wild place indeed.
Jim Meirose highlights the “wildness” of the general public by illustrating one type of distinctive character clerks encounter while working at a store. Jaylan Salah analyzes the film Emily the Criminal and suggests that the main character is perhaps more of a regular person facing the gritty reality of life rather than a villain. As in Meirose’s shoe store, the workplace can be as harsh and uncivilized as any natural landscape.
Lisa Reynolds suggests that there can be more drama than meets the eye within a simple family scrapbook.
Emdadul Hoque Mamun contributes a sensual ode to the beauty of raucous Parisian nightlife.
Our problems, the unpredictability of our lives, are another aspect of “wildness.” Alison Owings describes a gathering of Native American people for dinner and a drum circle in a piece that touches on their everyday struggles and society’s inequities.
Jalaal Raji references Greek mythology in his piece on the possible instability of romantic love. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam’s collaborative haikus capture moments of connection and loneliness.
J.J. Campbell describes the ferociousness of our modern highways, along with glimpses of bravado and defiant cheer in the face of illness.
Our own minds can be as untamed as any wild place, and several contributors’ work represent that reality or efforts to manage it.
Fernando Sorrentino posits a seemingly ludicrous situation, a man repeatedly hitting the narrator with an umbrella, which becomes a meditation on how we can get used to just about anything and then become anxious about any change, even a return to normalcy.
Ivars Balkits evokes how our minds wander while watching blue screens on old television sets or staring out the window. Debarati Sen probes the restless and absorbing nature of memory.
Aisha MLabo writes of the hidden passion burning within her creative mind. Z.I. Mahmud analyzes various narrative techniques behind the structures of internationally recognized literary works.
Poet Shine Ballard arranges words on a page, then trims them down to fit certain poetic structures. Mark Young crafts experiments with language that approach an internal logic.
Channie Greenberg exhibits a diverse collection of photographs unified by the color beige.
Some writers explore how and where we can experience the world’s wildness, or assert and defend our place within it.
Sayani Mukherjee suggests that tattoos on adults are a natural part of the process of claiming one’s physical body and identity that begins in childhood.
Clyde Borg stares intently into a painting, imagining and interacting beyond the flat canvas with the living woman who served as its model.
Gaurav Ojha points out how we can claim mental and psychological freedom from the world’s pressures. Gerard Sarnat points out the give-and-take needed for a marriage to stand the test of time, along with the many “subtle absurdities” of aging and educational pursuits.
Christina Chin and Matthew Defibaugh collaborate on haikus of autumnal scenes, reminding those in the Northern hemisphere that most of December is still fall. Meanwhile, Chimezie Ihekuna continues his Christmas countdown.
Finally, Mesfakus Salahin offers up a gentle blessing for those who live within the many layers of our world.
Poetry from Sayani Mukherjee
Tattooed By Sayani Mukherjee Uniquely designed for mainstream A six figured tattooed butterfly On my back A pat at my shoulder A beam at my poem Tree house and childplay things My proof of itsy bitsy rock scissors stone A friendship bracelets with red ribbon White washed marooned island Over my chest It stays when I form a circle of mates- Three Pentagons diaphragmatic Radio shows on for Friday nights Modernist nonsense and my Zabberwocky tricks I form my bracelets with my Tattooed fingertips. My jinx my pixie dust my childlike wonder A little sparkle did no wonder Red bracelets white washed marooned island I hum at my lost poem A sudden Omition at the back A little pinch of dusty drives Underneath a new edge control Completing of a poem for the Medal gold I hope my pixie dust will do Good for nothing For this electric haze on my tattooed butterfly soul.
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Find yourself in your view Everyday you will be new Roads become soft and enjoyable Passer by will be available. Tie the time to the top of the finger Nature will be singer Birds will sing the song of heart Flowers will bloom in the desert. Embrace happy memories in solitude Ice of pain will salute your attitude Frustration will never touch future You will be above mental torture. Remove the rivers of sufferings and sorrow The sun will be your tomorrow The dry river will get fountain of the moon God will fulfill your prayer very soon.