self-portrait in tar


and words aren’t actions,
and prayer is as
meaningless as regret

the temperature is a nervous
stutter between rain and snow

the town is a vast expanse of
empty parking lots, of
grey shot through with crushed
plastic and dead leaves

i have wasted my life

i am afraid of growing old and 
dying in front of my children

i am afraid of
growing old and dying

in the end we are only
something
subtracted from nothing

the drowning years


it’s always the same stupid shit,
always these self-inflicted wounds

his 15 year-old girlfriend pregnant, the
asshole from the barfight in a 
coma and not expected to live but
brenda laughs, says why not

dead-end job at the minimart and her
boyfriend doing six months in county, and he
says his stepfather has a place down
in north carolina

tells her he’s had a crush on her
since middle school, and she
asks if it’s gonna be a boy or a girl

and he says he doesn’t want to know

doesn’t really give a shit
one way or the other,
and she nods

tells him she needs to
leave a note for her sister

needs to feed the dog

small, ordinary acts to help her
feel like she’s
moving into the future


the forest of the profane


early autumn frost in the
shadows of sunlit buildings, all
blue sky and junkie dreams

man walking past you says he’s
got god in his veins

says there are other
versions of hell that have nothing to
do with faith, and his smile
is filled with blood

this town is where i live
but it’s not my home

this idea of judas as scapegoat
needs to be reconsidered

despair is a sickness
not a weapon
but it will always be used by
tyrants to beat you down

will you suffer the first blow or
will you burn down the castle?

will you set the gospel aside
and hear the truth instead?

all choices come to an end when
the dog you fail to praise
decides to take your tongue
                           as his own


skeleton afternoon


this is the man with no eyes who
tells me he pities my blindness

this is the party to celebrate
the death of the deathless kingdom

i fuck his wife in the back seat of
someone else’s car or
he seduces my daughter before
they both disappear

a stalemate

a gun for every starving child
so they can all grow up safe

even here in this cramped and
sullen space between 
disposable gods
we are all someone’s enemy


notes on ideology


good times in the suicide
factory down on your hands and knees

swallow the cock or swallow
the barrel, and
how many choices do you really need?

how many lives are you planning on
screwing up other than your own?

goddamn kids gotta grow up
sooner or later, i guess

can’t be sucking at their
mother’s tit forever

they need to know they’re useless

need to know how much blood is
required to solve each problem, and
maybe you have to smack them around
a little to drive your point home

maybe a house gets burned to the ground,
maybe a car gets stolen or some
fifteen year-old girl from the
trailer park out at the edge of town
gets knocked up, but this shit
happens every day

you fuck or you get fucked

you walk or you crawl

a lifetime of  meaningless rules and
blown chances, and then
you die

and the story ends the
body is found,
but how do we get there?


same goddamn way
every time

14 yr old girl sits on her bed,
curtains pulled,
father’s gun,
instructions on her laptop screen

knowledge is power,
right?

puts the muzzle to her head and
pulls the trigger, and so
turn the music up a
little louder

send flowers

bring shovels

a lot of bodies left to be
buried before this
part of the story ends


halcyon


tired of being so fucking
old, and tired of all
the goddamn years i wasted

tired of being on
the wrong coast

or not being able
to forget your face

of everything i write
sounding
like a suicide note

Bodhisattva Projecting 


                                            
                                             Orgone


=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====


                               

tempest


                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====




the spring has (rung (in the dietary removing (a cause and 
not a grown thing (left-most removing (rightmost rightmost
rightmost (lapping at the silk (an order and order an order (
faster through the thread and colour (reacted in synthetic (
a hammer guide (a metal armament (less speaking and more
spoken (****************(outside in the distance (cold
cold cold (foundational without sighting (the spring on the
tongue (99999999999999999999999999999999999999999
9999999999999999999999999 (alphabetical conniption (
less tragic than the one before (_________________(outside
and out of order (stupefaction to the modal interview (a clap
and the thunder has arrived (god and god and god (0000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
00000000000000 (000000000000000000000000 (00000000
0000000 (except you are the same (a static and a deep hum (
found connection (found extraction (found reduction (growing
growing (growing (growing (sight gone (sight come (asterisks
against the climbing side (northern facing (eastern facing (.....
...................(it's good to be back (modular and entrapment (
floor design (wall hanging (get out of the town (sweet sweet (
tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetttttttttttttttttttttttttt (tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttttttttttttt (ah)))))))))))))))))))))))))
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))  

                                             Orgone


=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====


                               

tempest


                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====
                                                 =====LESS=====



                           
Carry (over_under) Carry


velocity speaking after tone removed and impulsed through the cataleptic normalised without synthetic movements and interrogation as scientific impulse drivers conscript and writhe in torpor now removed and collated into breakage and anticipation cast out and found without the forming and selective tired flashes of liability 


this = skull


magnetic in the skyfall betterment longitudinal as ascetic entertainments re-modify entrapments known to fakir tempestuous and lotus shunting a speed so formal not antiseptic and renowned in thought and name so juxtaposed    




+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++
+++++++++
++++++
++++
++
+





solution breathes itself to life with transcendental 
longing at magnetic height and muscle complexity 
as selfsame as the honorifics embellishing through 
mud brick anti-natal concluding only wake and 
enterprising 

Oratory Illumination (fracture)



illegitimate                        [phone as rung]




promulgated over this                               +
                                                  


                              
                               a shell to crack and take
abandonment so well



[phone ringing]
[phone ringing]
[phone ringing]




this colour comes in articulation writing sound through 
causations known and unknown a crown atop the head 
and breakneck pace



+running+
+running+
+running+




[the bell [phone]] has... 


Oyster as Baptismal



explain
         (explanation)
explain
       (explanation)


+
+
+



vulnerable to this reciting 
notation is the key



vouchsafed as
vouchsafed as




hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm



now the number is...


(,,,,,)

 

Bio: Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of Mexico Honey, The Mountain + The Cave and Deconstruction of a Symptom. His work has appeared in BlazeVox, Otoliths, Selcouth Station and elsewhere. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter @NJApoetry.

Nirvana
 

Gaurav Ojha
  

There is no way out

From the prisonhouse of language

As long as we keep on hanging

To symbols without content imprinted on our neurons

We are the self that exists without reference of its own

Assumption of a thinker hiding behind a thought

A drop of rain separated from a cloud for the ripple on lake

There is no still point that holds things together

We are living a dream with a dream

We have been speaking too much

Let us put aside these tedious monologues

And, listen to the silence of non-human existence 

It takes us beyond the meaning humans have made 

Why remain as a burden to our brains?

Humans exist, therefore the denial of reality

What is it like to live without our stabilizing assumptions?

We have ideas for everything

Our heads have become so weighty

For the respite from this headache

Take a dip into constant toothache of existence

No need for a great renunciation 

Even as we embrace our illusions

We can still become a Buddha on the dental chair 

No need to glue the self together for a social protocol  

Discompose your desires, identifications and memories

As nothingness of being overflows, the self empties 

 

(KATHMANDU, NEPAL)

Welcome, all, to June’s second issue of Synchronized Chaos. This month’s contributors take a step back, contemplating our world and our lives. Many show thought and care, aware of the loss and grief around us, and even the more celebratory or humorous pieces draw upon our fragility for inspiration.

Mark Blickley and Miss Unity’s ekphrastic work shows the vulnerability of a silent performer who must gesticulate for her living.

Multimedia work from Jeff Crouch, Soumailia Zoungrana, and Diana Magallón also involves performance, a dancer giving a very athletic performance in old-time gritty black and white, as if she’s a legend fading with time. Stephen Crowe sketches out a scene at a dying California lake.

John M. Brantingham’s novel excerpt deals with the passage of time. Its main character is an old man facing death, unsure how or when to share that news with his grandson.

Tess Tyler presents a lovely scene of outdoor family life in Northern California that turns into a lament for murdered children, while J.K Durick comments on gun violence and rising gas prices and Lewis LaCook’s surrealist poems probe death, intimacy, and wildfires.

Ahmed Aminu and Yahuza Abdulkadir mourn political corruption, violence, and social injustice, as does Mahbub, in a collection otherwise devoted to time-stopping moments of connection and beauty.

Candace Meredith’s short story brings the poetry of a fairytale to the real-life drama of drug addiction and recovery. Amos Momo Ngunbu’s piece also highlights the social influences we can have on each other, for good or ill.

Chimezie Ihekuna reflects on how social shame inspired him to falsify his report card as a child, and how his deed was discovered. Fatihah Quadri also remembers childhood vignettes entertainment from a friendly neighbor who has since passed.

Benyeakeh Miapeh contributes elegant, figurative verse about grief, while Ayiyi Joel reflects on the touch of a lost love.

Stephen House describes memories of the past and of lost causes. Steve Brisendine’s poems set in America’s heartland explore what we remember, what happened and what didn’t.

Robert Ragan’s piece skirts the fine line between describing the anger stage of grief and the way love can turn to possessiveness and hate.

J.J. Campbell’s poetic speakers are misanthropes on the edge of society who still crave some type of human companionship, although by sexually objectifying women of color.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan also writes poems of middle age, but with heavy helpings of humor tossed in with the laments.

Mehreen Ahmed’s pieces convey sanctity and privacy, while Michael Robinson reflects on the comfort he finds in Christ.

John Culp’s work illuminates the physical sense of elation. Ojo Olumide Emmanuel’s poems can serve as expression of his feelings, but can also seek lives of their own, independent of his will.

This month includes visual art as well: striking photographs of signage from Hannah Greenberg and graffiti-style work from Texas Fontanella.

Thank you for reading June’s issue of Synchronized Chaos.

His Fairytale Wedding 

Rome wasn’t into Shakespeare. He studied English for the sole thrill of contemporary post-modern theory; his forte was apocalyptic endings  and zombie slaying. Post modern theory delved into the whole psyche of the nightmare behind the phantom. He could relate to the whole neglected inner child for a while until he found his true calling; he became an EMT. He saved lives. He breathed life into the defibrillator when a cardiac went into remission; his heart regained a natural rhythm at the tips of his fingers. 

Rome found Julie that way. She was beautiful behind pale features and charcoal dark hair. She penciled her eyes in black and wore a corset. The woman behind the mascara and the exquisite red lips flatlined. He could not feel a pulse. He put the oxygen to her moist lips and shocked her heart. Her mother stood near by… 

“She’s using that stuff again.” She said with a face as morose as a renaissance portrait. 

Julie coughed. Her voice returned to her almost dead ambition: She used crystal meth to get high off toxins. She said she used to get by; to get off other things that were displeasing like abusive fathers and mothers. 

Rome didn’t leave her side in the hospital. He was off the clock and stood by her side; she melted like chocolate to a candle stick when she saw him. Rome was muscular, tan, cut and reminded her of a golden bronze statue. A real Roman God. 

“We almost lost you.” He said aside a mother who cried.

“I’m sorry darling.” Her mother Marietta said, “I’m sorry for all we’ve done to you.”

“She used to hit the pipe.” Julie confided to Rome. 

They left the hospital together holding hands and the horizon was like a pink cloud against a purple sky. Around Julie the earth was incandescent like walking among the clouds. 

He finally told her, “I used heroin.” He was sincere. 

“How did you get off?”

“He found me dead. Like I found you.”

“Who?” 

“My father.” 

Rome was from a dirty and sinister past of users.

“It runs in the family. My uncle was a user.”

They had their entire life in common. 

Beneath the early dawn of a rising sun they walked into another horizon of indigo and fuchsia. 

That was when they were becoming golden like emanating something celestial within the light.  

He said his farewell to her and explained, “if our lives were a fairytale I wouldn’t need to convince you that you needed saving…”

His words became a silence like a truce - she then knew it was her - it was she who needed to save herself. 

All he could do was point the way and she knew; she kissed him and entered the golden gates of recovery where she found herself a therapist and a bit of candy like licorice to take the edge off. 

Together again, they fantasized, consummating in marriage beneath the turquoise sun and rain that fell like lemons.

Sirens

When the branch snaps I feel it in my head
dry an orange gorge up licking air from blue
eyes my feet score sleep tones from bird alarms
the minute earth turns over the rock I’m clinging on

The underside of my day drones green deep in
gnash safe breathing the ties I’m on the wheel
against singing flames crush on black wood
cat on the deck snorts upcoming traffic hills

There’s no thrill to balk at in crumpled-up sun
slices tops of trees of grin juiced by my own blood
for the bugs mist down the middle difference between 
my gut and its cousin full with disappearance on the lawn

Your depth horns reed pages into stitched skin
the branch I’m on means holding it to my bones



A pox

In the pinched morning hours thoughts have teeth
that hound with heat blossoms on his gray skin
swallow the creak of a half-broken fan
turning air over to watch what crawls beneath

He rewinds his gaze to savor his salvation
vacated sky streaked with blue boils over
green that clouds the streams with sharp hair
half scalped and left behind to gum the ignition

He’s not going anywhere, at home with tight sighs
breathing in the memory of cleaner Springs
coiled, turning over, saved for the usual fangs
where he bleeds the lake of everything that dies

There’s a sun rolling over calculated hills
There are blankets to cover up what kills



Your hymnal

On her wedding day a white dress full of ashes
blows down an aisle lined with sawdust pews
The music silences everyone and is itself mute

Empty churches possess a psychology
that only the dead can read
This is one way I won’t exist
This is a picture of me, silent dust

another way to save her
They say when he was young he was so thin
they feared the wind would blow him away

and it did, after they’d rubbed him smooth
Empty hymns press a threnody
into my hands, describing how the water whispers

how the boat mutters as it launches in the dark


The goddess of love

With late Spring in my nose the sun through sawtooth leaves
in a chain linked with birds an ivy steps over my open mouth
hums blunt lust of toads when I brush your nipples with cum
to the pond to silence lillies to leave light stains on the surface
popping errors off on trees with latent rise your warm is skin
to my pit in which chills wound an implied gust of wishes

Witchcraft in my noise the stun you thought on me for loaves
over my open mouth talks to mulch you to cover me in chains
runs front of most blood you draw across my thought to strum
along with broke clouds my moving very fast upon culled dust
loping rubs boots to be a parent to the rocks live on us meal
widens as your wise arms siphon freckled with stuffed eyes

Your rain bows only for the planet turns
intravenous sunshine is a goddess of love

Sex

I’m you