Summer in the City Dorian talked to me like I was an equal, even though he was an adult in his late 20s and I was a child of 13. Debi, our sister, was closer to Dorian’s age and like a mother to me. Sometimes Dorian did unsafe things or said things an adult wouldn’t say, which made me concerned but not enough to tell our parents, except once when he found a gun and shot it in our room. We used to take long ambling walks with our Doberman late at night in our Queens neighborhood. Across from our house was my cousin’s house. Her parents divorced and she no longer lived there, but I knew the house well. Next door on one side was Adrian, who was from Haiti and whose dad had a yellow taxi in their driveway. On the other side was Anabelle, an only child who was a little odd, maybe because of that. We walked past Jay’s house, a large white brick structure. He was three years older than I and an Orthodox Jew. I liked talking to him, but I hated when Debi said he had a crush on me. “I gave him $5, so you have to marry him!” We passed a small stucco house where another only son lived with his parents. He was Debi’s age, and he killed himself one day. He was a dentist. We turned the corner and passed the Greenbergs’ house, another family from Lebanon who were close to my parents. Their son was bar mitzvahed in the backyard when I was six. We walked on 112th Street, right by a home for foster children. This is where we sometimes encountered a pack of dogs. I was scared for my dog because although he was fierce, he was outnumbered. We went all the way to the high school, with its large dark running track surrounded by a fence. On the way home we passed Barry’s house, the local stoner. His was the most beautiful – red brick with stained glass windows and a purple kitchen. Barry jogged obsessively before jogging was even a thing. Dorian and I talked a lot on these walks, and he called me Arn, even though that wasn’t my name. “Arn, let’s go swimming,” he said one night. He said he knew of a great pool: John Jay Pool on the Upper East Side. We rushed home to pick up our bathing suits, then got into his black Camaro. The windows were open, and the night air was thick with summer as we drove up 68th Drive, passing the Annex, where the local boys played stickball, and then 108th Street and Yellowstone Blvd, until we came to Queens Blvd, which we took to the 59th Street Bridge. Dorian had his left foot resting on the dashboard as we drove, his long brown hair fluttering in the wind and his large nose sitting perfectly on his face as he smiled. “This is going to be so fun,” he shouted above the motor, which rumbled below my feet. Once at the pool, I stared at the tall black gate. It had spokes on the top. I clasped an iron post in each hand and peered into the long still pool. Dorian pressed his Chinese slippers firmly onto the bars and shimmied up like it was nothing. He perched on the top and waited for me to join him. He had so much confidence in my abilities to climb that when he held out his hand to me, I somehow reached him, surprising myself. Once at the top, I put my arms around his neck as he lifted me over the spokes. I took off my Levi’s as Dorian dove in, his body sliding into the pool without a sound, and started his methodical laps. When Dorian swam, It looked like he was part of the water, gliding through, barely breaking the surface or making a ripple. He was muscular and lean, his hair streaming dark in the night. I slipped into the inky pool and floated on my back, my ears submerged, staring at the sky. It felt like I was the only person in the world. Water usually scared me, and the empty pool was eerie, but if I looked towards my brother, I could get my breathing back to normal. The multitude of cars on the FDR Drive below us seemed far away. I’m not sure why I agreed to go wherever Dorian suggested. Maybe I said something like “Are you sure this is a good idea?” or “Are we going to get in trouble?”, but in the end, I always followed him. Almost every outing turned into an adventure. My parents didn’t seem to worry, and anyway, they had lives of their own. They often went out with friends and came home late, assuming I was tucked in bed or with one of my siblings. On the way home in wet jeans, we took a detour to Mamoun’s, on MacDougal Street in the West Village. It was a small, narrow place with dark walls. It had Lebanese takeout food and was open all night. It smelled of mint and cardamom and meat. We got shawarmas, meat shaved off a gyro stand and stuffed into a pita with tahine, lettuce, and liffit. We ate them on a stoop across the street, where we sat bent over and let the tahine drip to the ground between our feet. No matter how many napkins we had, it was never enough. The tea was hot and sweet in Styrofoam cups, just the way we liked it. Sated and tired, we people-watched in silence, blowing on our tea. “All right, Arn, let’s head home,” he said. He drove us back to Queens, the motor’s hum pulling me to close my eyes, my beautiful brother by my side.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- in the winter blues stuck in another waiting room heat raging in the winter blues coat rack full my imagination hoping something young walks in soon i don't think it wants to dream about the wrinkling skin under three layers of clothes fresh out of some vacuum space saving bag although, it certainly has dreamed of worse --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- plenty of happiness honesty hurts laughter doesn't cure shit money can buy you plenty of happiness true love does have a fucking price cheaters always get ahead faster and death is a relief it's up to the user if it is sweet or not ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ i never asked to be born on the cranky days i remind myself i never asked to be born then i'll think of my father and the worms six feet under the ground the anniversary of the day we put that fucker down there is coming up suddenly a smile --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- past any sense of reason there's a darkness deep inside of me that every blue moon or so wants to come out and play stir some shit up push the envelope well past any sense of reason this is where i always tend to hold back the desires and do my best to just play it cool but one of these days they might as well get the riot gear ready madness has no timetable ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- high heels the sound of high heels on tile floors scratches that itch i will always have in the back of my brain of a long-legged queen digging those heels in my chest with a skirt on short enough that i can enjoy the view as i embrace the pain
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Yellow Mama, The Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from Jelvin Gipson
When I must leave you for a little while, Please do not grieve and shed wide tears Hug your sorrow, for I have gone to fetch for you. Live and do all things the same A day will come when you will feed your loneliness with gladness. Remember, before bringing me forth In your arms you taught me to never lose sight even when time seems helpless You guard me jealously like a Guinea fowl that guards her eggs. When hospitals were far, you painfully brought out with gladness A day shall come, When your product will be in demand, When others will look forward to seeing and shake hand with your production You give me a life and a world A day shall come when you will gladly see joy at you feet And by your side, there's nothing we cannot beat Sad are the hearts that love you Silent the tears that fall Living my heart without you is the hardest part of it all It is with heavy heart and tears in my eyes To think of the fact the way I came A day shall come when your hand will reach out in comfort and in cheer And I shall gladly sit by you and hold you near.
Song Lyrics from Chimezie Ihekuna
Song Title: Sands of Time Genre: Reggae Chorus Sands of Time (4ce) Verse 1 As I examined what’s happening around me, I’m left with no choice than to re-evaluate my thinking Oh yea, Oh Yea (4ce) The truth staring angrily at me Staggering situations my eyes can’t bear Excruciations my heart has endured Frustrations becoming a part of me My cold treatments to people around me The failure that I’ve become The losses I’ve encountered My hopes being dashed I began to ask to ask myself: Would you leave those vices in the Sands of Time (4ce) Verse 2 I expressed my dissatisfaction through my reggae music Oh yea, Oh yea (4ce) My left and right side brain made active Feeling no pain but sweet sensation Melodies pure and flowing Sounds of courage being heard Ray of hope arising The healing power manifesting The love that’s assuring The brightness of freedom Peace that’s bounding Make me see the possibility of leaving the positive vibes in the Sands of Time (4ce) Verse 3 The world is witnessing catastrophes Oh yea Oh yea (4ce) People dying Diseases and starvation abounding Rights denied with no justice Truths fast becoming myths The yearning for materialism on the rise Leaders clueless about the future But through my music, Sharing the optimism of hope Illuminating humanity rightly Seeing the right to posterity Are what I will leave in the: Sands of Time (4ce)
Poetry from Michael Lee Johnson
My Life By Michael Lee Johnson My life began with a skeleton with a smile and bubbling eyes in my garden of dandelions. Everything else fell off the edge, a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half. When young, I pressed against my mother’s breast, but youthful memories fell short. I tried at 8 to kiss my father, but he was a welder, fox hunter, coon hunter, and voyeuristic man. My young life was a mixture of black, white, dark dreams, and mellow yellow sun bright hopes. Rewind, sunshine was a stranger in dandelion fields, shadows in my eyes. I grabbed my injured legs leap forward into the future. I’m now a vitamin C boy it keeps me immured from catching colds or Covid-19. Everything now still leaks, in parts, but I press forward.
Jesus and How He Must Have Felt (V3) Staggering out Wee-Willy's dumpy dive bar, droopy eyes, my feelings desensitizing, confusing my avocado fart, at 3:20 a.m., with last night splash on Brut aftershave. Whispering to my outcast self-sounding is more like pending death. My body detaching from myself, numbed by winter's fingers. I creak up these outside stairs to my apartment after an all-night drunk, cheap Tesco's Windsor Castle London Dry Gin—on the rocks. I thought of Jesus how He must have felt during His resurrection dragging His holy body up that endless stairwell spiraling toward heaven.
Most Poems By Michael Lee Johnson Most poems are pounded out in emotional flesh, sometimes physical skin scalped feelings. It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross a Mary kneeling at the bottom not knotted in love but roped, a blade of a bowie knife heavenward. I look for the kicker line the close at the bottom seek a public poetry forum to cheer my aspirations on. I hear those faraway voices carrying my life away- a retreat into insanity.
Poets in the Rain (V4) By Michael Lee Johnson All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off. Crazy, and suicidal, we know who they are: Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas the drunk, Anne Sexton, Teasdale. This group grows a Pinocchio nose. At times I capture you here under control. I want to inspect you. All can be found in faith once now gone in time. With all your concerns, I see your eyes layered in shades of green, confused within you about me. Forgive me; I’m just a touch of wild pepper, dry Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon, and dying selfishly. We don’t know if it is all worth it. I have refined my image, and my taste continues to thrust inside your crevices. Templates of hell break loose thunder, belches, and anomie. Asteroid Ceres looks like you are passing gas, exposes her buttocks, and moves on just like ice on a balmy rock just like yours. I will wait centuries, like critics, to review this fecund body of yours- soiled, then poppies, poetry in the rain.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 272 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for five Pushcart Prize awards and six Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 443 published poems. Michael is the administrator of six Facebook Poetry groups. Member of the Illinois State Poetry Society. Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!
Poetry from Randall Rogers
For Good Health Nothing is more real than music in silence and silence in music fortissimo snuff box blaring Gesundheit!!! Dog your very footsteps wobbly into the future waft like a billowing consciousness small among the groovy solaces of your mind. Tri-annual Sprout Sometimes it’s like those two guys discussing between themselves when it’s just me three gorging on my reflection in the mirror. Half Wit’s Domain Raised (like free range poultry) on a diet of “stupid son of a bitch” and all the fixin’s I never measured a small man in a normal sized body for Japan or Vietnam little big man moniker followed me in fights I’d win lose on purpose pulp danger took me places power dynamics in confined places infighting head butting the groin bashing gouging wise men fear to tread.
Art from Mark Young
