Learning Situation There may, especially in times of civil int’resting unrest, be hid ‘midst heroes – who’d solve crimes, believing weaker folks’ good best – badged rogues who’d stop at no excess – to savagery against suspects, karate-chop pat-downs, regress; on courage, honor, cast their hex, leave victims sexually tortured. Idealists who took a stand, Once let out of this devil’s-orchard, must face their love, although unmanned. Their love is beauty, nothing less, who knows to love where courage grows but now finds love a harrowed mess – distrait, stand-offish. Why? Who knows? One may have suffered worse groin pains in downhill bike falls, but – it’s strange – this ache won’t go away. The change will bring unbid but oft’ his brains all addled vivid bright recall of dingy green precinct back room, his hands upon the chilly wall, his legs spread wide in civic gloom. We’d cellmates been in protest time – while I too had attacked a pig, foolhardy vainglory for rhyme it was – hardly a thing as big as bravery. (Though like outrage they’d dealt me, small discomfort lingers – my first night free did much assuage. I’m just glad they spared my fingers.) They’d thrown him howling through the door: “Strike, coward scum, and from behind – thus justice mock since law’s no more where peacekeepers have lost their mind!” He ceased his anguished hoarse harangue and climbed onto the upper bunk. Our cell door slid closed with a clang as back into my bed I sunk. His thrashings kept waking me up for long into ceaseless glare. I gave him water in a cup, he fin’ly slept without nightmare. Then after quiet hours went by wherein he didn’t even snore I guess he must have heard me sigh for, leaping to the iron floor he said his name, stuck out his hand. I shook it, told him “Call me Jack.” He taught up at the college, planned This lecture for when he got back: “When any revolution’s inchoate if it’s at all, such autocratic lock the Powers have on ev’ry human fate the chance that dissidence with fight will mock the pomp of armed enforcers isn’t great. Few act upon disgust that many feel. But character, integrity will rate with some despite the odds, which are surreal. Then luckily the losers themselves find In what we call a learning situation: What ruthless motherfuckers do them bind Is matter for the wonder’s contemplation.” I said that would his students well Forearm. He thanked me. We discussed specific treatment, what befell us both since brought in on this bust, and which side in particular – they differed ‘tween the both of us – received insult testicular. He then reflected – with a cuss: “It seems this adds another facet to passions positive as well – how tell my girl now in tacit accents exactly what a hell her country is, what fiends its cops, what force ensures wage-slave docility, what gratis ache that hardly stops our bliss infects and my virility – No! – she must be carefully shunned. A note with disengagement ring will say, ‘Sweetheart, love’s moribund. You’re not to blame, though, that’s the thing. You know you take it personal when griefs hit folks that aren’t their fault. But now the ghetto I’ll home call while you continue to exalt delight – but new guy overjoy – for I this shaman must consult to help your mad ex-lover-boy again in ecstasy exult….’ – I’ll not write that, just disappear. To flee’s the better part of valor. Of missing history buff she’ll hear, I’ll spare her any further pallor.”
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Eva Petropoulou Lianou
Children in West Bank... Children of Gaza One war and one day The children in Gaza They say the word "War" First And after they say Mom Childrens in Gaza They are all tattoo their names in their arms Because a day is too short And maybe until the end of night They will become Angels There is a whole world in the West Bank A kindergarten that bad dragons attack for a long time ago Nobody helps Nobody support Nobody cares The blood is cooling everywhere in Gaza In the school In the streets Where the childrens supposed to play and laugh Bombs have destroy the houses Children in Gaza are born heroes from their mother's belly Children in Gaza They fight since they are born Do not dare close your eyes In this unfair reality Don't close your eyes in this genocide Stand up for the children of Gaza Happy birthday Ahmed Happy birthday Mohamed How old are you? I am a year of war and one day And you? I am 2 years of war and 3 days Let's celebrate this special day, My brother and sister Tomorrow the war will divide us Childrens with no eyes No legs No ears No smile No faces Childrens of Gaza Innocent childrens in sacred earth That they sacrifice To Evil Prayers for childrens of Gaza Prayers to stop this madness Prayers to stop this genocide Stop the blood of innocent children
Poetry from Walter Shulits
Homo Erectus Lives in Texas also published in Alternate Route (With apologies for any Texas-sized alternative truths…) Texas is the nexus of the issues that vex us…content to perplex us, sucker punch our solar plexus, threaten the values that connect us. Texans snicker that everything in Texas is better, bigger; maybe they need to rejigger the vigor with which they squeeze that AK-47 trigger, and stop quacking about the benefits of fracking while all sentient beings are gasping and hacking. For migrants it’s nerve-wracking not knowing if they’ll be repatriated home or put on a plane to Alaska—maybe Nome?—their children sentenced to tents surrounded by barbed wire fence—just what exactly was their offense? It’s scary if you’re trans-gender, treated like a sex offender: Reality be you’re no longer free to choose where you’re gonna pee, not against the “Wall,” definitely, that would be an obscenity because Texans expect order at the Mexican border, these descendants of the Alamo can’t take it anymo’, this migrant overflow, now in a panic outnumbered by Hispanics, drowning like DeCaprio on the Titanic… and would you believe a bi-weekly Baptist book-burning barbecue in Brownsville—burkas obviously banned— part of the catechism claiming there ain’t no racism or hate in the Lone Star State, where the Governor, a presidential candidate, expectorates as he defiantly states Texas won’t tolerate sexual reprobates—so if you’re bi or gay, just stay away, go play in LA—or move to some Massachusetts town where students tear all the statues down, tributes to American heroes vandalized by spoiled woke zeros. Thanks to the contortions of a Christian consortium, there’s a moratorium on almost all abortions—even in the case of rape, victims must escape to a more compassionate state while gynecologists must cease and desist; if they resist it’s not a slap on the wrist, it’s jail not bail, and if that fails, a sniper bullet to their entrails….which leads to the elephant in the room—all those guns that go boom—it’s okay to bring this cliche into the melee because Texas is a blood-red state, and as more and more Democrats emigrate, THE NRA whoops in elation, no more gun registration, Texas gonna lead the nation but then don’t be shocked when inside a first- grader’s lunch box…an apple and a loaded Glock so now teachers must pass a marksmanship test, buy a revolver and bulletproof vest, costly deal seems surreal but remember there are shootings in McDonalds over Happy Meals… or while visiting a church in Texarkana, you get shot at by a Proud Boy in a MAGA bandanna because you won’t chant that hosanna—“God is the way, through his messenger the NRA.” Billy Bob was really pissed, thought you were an atheist, damn heathen with no right to exist, but before he could squeeze off another round, your two hollow points knocked him to the ground, and all of a sudden you had joined the fight to smite those who would blight your civil rights, knew that preserving Texas for your descendants was dependent on defending the 2nd amendment, found it thrilling to see blood spilling during a mass killing, real not lame like in that “Mortal Kombat” game, Guadalcanal at the OK Corral in the high chaparral. So go to the mall y’all, stand tall, make ‘em fall ‘cause Texas calls: “Hook ‘Em Horns!”
Elon Musk’s Bed Stand Is it a covert confession, his guilt gushing, grabbing him by the ankles and shaking until truth tumbles onto the nightstand or is the photo his personal meme, the renunciation of a carefully cultivated carapace, an assertion of who he really is…or is it nothing more than the result of an inadvertent click of a camera capturing some guy’s distracted dumping of daily detritus, those pistols a ho- hum in a country with more guns than people? So, are we looking at some kind of hieroglyph hinting at a heretofore hidden hatred, or a psychopath’s preparation to perpetrate a crime, or simply an accidental still life of a makeshift Tupperware container…and that question can only be answered by examining the nature of the objects in the picture and probing for connections…not an easy task—like deciphering the previous moves that led to a position on a chessboard, an effort infinitely less intimidating if you know who the players are—which in this case we don’t…all we have is a picture of things that at first glance—second and third glances as well— simply don’t belong together, increasing the probability the Polaroid was purposely posed and passed on to or purloined by some predatory paparazzi pandering to the 48 percent of the public who parrot the pablum of partisan politicians, cheer when a six- year old exercises his right to bear arms and shoots his first-grade teacher, want welfare programs wiped out but donate to crowd-funding so a 19-year old football player can drive a Bentley on campus… regardless of who produced and procured the pic, the question of motive remains, with a plethora of plausible possibilities, from that inadvertent Polaroid to the cleansing of a conflicted conscience to a cloaked call to action by a captain of industry, a Congressman, a chief justice—or any collaborator in a cabal conspiring to crank up a coup, to mesmerize the minuscule minds of those minions of mediocrity, mold them into a militia to make America great again— but I digress; let’s let logic clean up this mess: What are the chances of an accidental photo being so perfectly centered on the nightstand, what are the odds of some drowsy dude dropping four coke cans and a glass bottle on the table and they all remain upright—yeah, right. So it should come as no surprise that I theorize the photo—regardless of whether the guy’d been hiding something he needed to purge or denying something he craved to exalt—was contrived to end all the lies, to shed a daytime disguise, lamenting possibly repenting pretending to be a nonsectarian humanitarian when he has been—and probably still is a barbarian libertarian, lusting to grind socialists into carrion, espousing the genetic superiority of Aryans…all this despite publicly pledging to give away all his wealth— convenient camouflage for his undercover stealth— and donating to the Rainbow Coalition while damning them faggots, lesbos and he-shes to eugenic perdition. Please don’t run; I’m nearly done—Them guns ain’t for fun, he doesn’t want his country overrun by drug-dealing migrant scum; from his QAnon history book he’s well aware that Washington crossed the Delaware to kick Beaners in the derriere to keep them from claiming welfare and medical care and putting up tents on Times Square— it’s almost more than he can bear—repressive progressives, woke jokers and blowhard libtards chipping away at his bill of rights—and he’s been ready to fight except he can’t sleep at night; even though those cokes are caffeine- free, every two hours he needs to pee; rather than wake up, hobble and wobble, he pisses in that glass bottle—let’s hope he doesn’t get thirsty and take a swallow—and something else requires extreme unction: all that sugar gives him erectile dysfunction; if word leaked out about this bigot’s spigot, his spineless spout, if his undercover brothers discover that he is other than a big-dicked mother…he’ll be corseted in a kaftan, lynched by the Ku Klux Clan then punji-sticked like in Vietnam, or an Oath Keeper will inject acid in his ureter, then chop off his peter, these operations ordered by his fellow hedge fund honchos, banker bigwigs and tech titans frightened of a public enlightened, of disclosure that they’re all posers—lip service to going green, have to protect the fossil fuel machine, pious palaver opposing abortion yet their pregnant paramours endure surgical contortion— oh how they rile up the rabble, those bedraggled cattle ever ready for battle, get them foaming and furious with jingoistic vitriol compelling but spurious…and indeed they never personally intercede, you’ll never see them bleed, cabalists with a nativist creed, a breed fueled by gluttonous greed, happy to let sycophants do their dirty deeds: they’ll never be held liable, out of sight with hands on the Bible while the riffraff en masse kick democracy’s ass, a reactionary master class leads to legislative impasse, autocracy under guise of democracy, a Christian theocracy, a border patrol of criminals on parole, 18 new corporate tax loopholes, retraction of affirmative action, inaction on police overreaction against minority factions. Please accept my regrets—we haven’t explained yet that Buddhist amulet: I don’t think it’s for spiritual protection because worshipping the dollar is his predilection, the face in the mirror his only genuflection; it’s about misdirection, circumspection over who controls the insurrection. He’s taken an approach derivative from events in times primitive, a deception tour de force like the Trojan horse, a symbol of compassion used for good old head bashing: now don’t chuckle—in your fist it’s a Dharmic brass knuckle that’ll make those bastards buckle. I’m no private eye so I can’t identify the guy and he’s so sly he can always buy an alibi… and frankly I’m scared shitless I’ll end up on the militia’s hit list unless I cease and desist, but it’s clear the guy ain’t no working class lout ‘cause money and clout are what it’s all about, so he can strike with impunity to dominate the social media community, fire millions of tweets— dopamine for his addicted sheep— rail against kikes and dikes but he’s still swamped by Facebook “likes” even though he’s not the one who writes, his anonymity so critical politically, and the guy is definitely American—just look at the guns he’s carryin; no other country has drive-in windows for guns—get a burger with a bazooka while you’re on the run, shoot up dance halls just for fun. Help, I think I’m being tailed—I could be jailed or impaled—better beat a retreat before things overheat and the Wagner Group turns me into sausage meat…but even though I’m a coward I don’t want democracy devoured by Fascists empowered and my heart is still red white and blue so before I bid adieu I’ll leave some clues for you to construe and then decide what to do: Follow the money at an electric car company, its financials in the shitter but the CEO still bought Twitter, clearly overreached while he flaunted freedom of speech, but there’s a huge ethical breech; political persuasion though a brazen online invasion leading to guns blazin’ in the Capitol of the nation… and then there’s the hedge fund wizard, a Machiavellian lizard, trying to grab regulators by the gizzard, set up PAC after PAC so Congress would have his back…next turning to the Supreme Court, the list of possible conspirators anything but short, their opinions of great import, the consequences impossible to thwart, and I know I’m being cynical but the right wing majority has been clinical, dare I say criminal: The Court contorted the Constitution as it water boarded Roe v Wade, state gun laws were waylaid, the EPA effectively spayed, federal funds for church schools okayed…and finally there’s the red state governor, a Harvard-educated southerner— the chump dumped Trump and hit the stump—appalling polemic during the pandemic, health experts aghast when he trashed students wearing masks, no migrants in his backyard—all deported to Martha’s Vineyard… okay, I guess I deserve a reproof for playing loose with the alternative truth; it’s uncouth to cast aspersion linking people to subversion but it’s in the intimacy of his privacy that man sheds his piety and anxiety, and if you can infiltrate that space, get behind the poker face, you might find more than a trace of a disgust for the human race; the guy just might be a traitor, a civil rights violator or a coup instigator….and if the night stand is an indicator, just imagine what you might learn from his refrigerator.
How Not to Enjoy a Goya (With apologies to Goya’s “The Third of May 1808”) Ho hum…just another line ‘em up shoot ‘em dead picture, kind of like bowling except the pins are made of flesh and bone, they bleed—wouldn’t it be cool if bowling pins set off sparklers when you crush ‘em—-and don’t reset: I mean what kind of human cartridge cushion of sane mind would get up just to be shot again—Muhammad Ali’s rope-a-dope tactics don’t work too well with bullets— so better to just be swept to the back of the alley— ooh,a double entendre—which I’m guessing is what happened here later but you never can tell because shooters, like bowlers, get blisters on their trigger fingers unless they’re seasoned professionals in which case their calluses are as callous as their compassion is constipated, and remember it takes time to reload before the next troupe of targets traipses in, while the unseen widows lack the strength to dig a hole deep enough to house 30 or so homicided husbands, so much heavier than bowling pins, so it’s highly possible that the bodies were just left where they fell, the pattern making a pretty sick Rorschach test for any helicopter hovering overhead or maybe a 3D topographic map of a chain of Pacific islands being swallowed by rising seas. Understand that this genre of painting goes beyond just guns, to guillotines, garottes, swords and hangman’s nooses depending on cultural protocols for mass killings and the mood the artist wants to manufacture; obviously guns are logistically the simplest—no need for a tree or wooden cross, or gasoline, which is expensive— and also extremely efficient if you want to ramp up volume rapidly, but guns also release those hideous poisonous gases that pollute Mother Earth…and there’s something seductive and artsy about a masked guy with earbuds carrying a curved sword on his massive shoulders hip hopping, locking and popping as he raps “Yo, you be dreading that I be heading to your beheading; my sword go sledding, your neck it’s shredding,” and don’t overlook the fact that both the sword and the guillotine give us the bowling balls needed to complete our sporty metaphor: Come On Baby, Let The Dead Heads Role… but why is it that it’s always a black guy who gets shot— okay, sometimes he’s brown, let’s not get picky, just as long as it’s a dark color, white would mean there goes the promotion for the shooter; he’d be in deep shit… but in any case here the marksmen sang the refrain “the bloodstain from the brain on the plain is in the main from enemies of Spain.” The old masters focused on the murderous machinations of military master- minds, barbarism through the prism of impressionism, depicting how against Attila the Hun the Romans were stunned then overrun and how under Pol Pot resistance went for nought, at least a million Cambodians shot while another blockbuster depicted how Custer failed to pass muster, his campaign so lackluster, reputation shorn, a target of scorn after his troops were butchered at Little Big Horn… Meanwhile other artists were sensing a gold mine in dispensing canvasses wrenching in their rendering of ethnic cleansing, paintings avant-garde of bodies marred or charred, a huge creative stride, the subjects fried, gasified in the come hither cauldron of genocide: Hutus on patrol, decapitating Tutsis their only goal—a Tutsi roll, get it?—Turkey showing no mercy in making beef jerky of Armenians while Hitler used every ruse to hide gassing the Jews who—quick learners— butchered the Palestinians like America did its Indians— it’s all so cruelly Darwinian—and it’s the United States that continues to take the mass execution genre to new heights with paintings of pop up performances in population centers and public places big and small—Miami, Philly, Uniontown Alabama, Tulsa Oklahoma, elementary schools, Walmarts, Waffle Houses, abortion centers, salivating artists rooting for more colorful mass shootings while the NRA is tooting that guns don’t cause these shootings or the ensuing lootings, this posse of quasi Nazis high steppin’ for their rights to carry weapons, denying that all across the nation there is a direct correlation between the absence of gun regulation and civic conflagration. Do you think the bastards in the painting would have had the balls to do battle with their victims in a boxing match, no bullets, or would the cowards have cringed, become unhinged, no counterfeit courage from schleppin’ that weapon…and might there be less fatalities from police brutality if a cop wasn’t afraid of being popped, sent to heaven by a teenager with an AK-47 but America loves winners and fun with guns has made the USA #1 in mass killings—oh, it’s so fulfilling— and we celebrate our success with mega- events, Super Bowls of Slaughter, post-game festivities including billy club bashing, water cannon colonoscopies, pursue and pepper spray the perp spectacles, and behold he’s out cold from the perfect chokehold demonstrations. So Mr. Goya, I don’t wanna annoy ya, but your painting just doesn’t rate, it’s so out of date, its techniques obsolete— like phone books, Blockbuster, Buick Le Sabres, Silvio Berlusconi, Blackberrys, Joe Biden—I know it’s bittersweet but you just can’t compete with the sausage meat made of men on the street in modern mass murders, and while it’s not something I condone, today’s artists are prone, for example, to death delivered by drone—such a boost to testosterone— part of a propensity toward butchery with high corpse density or bodies stacked as high as a mountain, blood spurting like a fountain because collectors have become jaded, the allure of the standard school shooting has faded and unfortunately the value of this canvass has been degraded, so if I may proffer some advice—and I’m so sorry about the painting’s drop in price— but if you were to give your consent, it might be possible to reinvent your masterpiece—I know it’s a real bummer—in the format paint by number for children six or younger: just think how you could influence their formative years. Walt Shulits is a retired bond market professional and lifelong paddling fanatic-canoe, sea kayak, outrigger canoe and surf ski-who stumbled upon writing poetry while searching for a non-sport activity that would give him the same sense of living in the moment as paddling. Residing in Provence, France he spends as much time as possible in his beloved Hawaii. He tries to write poems for the multitudes who find poetry as incomprehensible as Sanskrit or as unappealing as mountain oysters. Walt's poems have appeared in Dumpster Fire, Fleas on the Dog. Gargoyle, Griffel, Pike Press, and Wingless Dreamer.
Essay from Madina Fayzullayeva
“SCIENTIFIC WORK” AND “ONLINE LEARNING” HELP YOU LEARN MORE EFFECTIVELY
Scientific research work is scientific development related to research, research, experiments for the purpose of obtaining new knowledge, testing hypotheses, establishing laws, scientific justification of projects. As a rule, basic and exploratory work is not included as scientific work, but based on them, ideas are generated that can be turned into practical research projects.
This website helps young researchers learn how to organize and structure their research papers. The current state of project development – research, experiments, preliminary tests, etc. have been conducted on the project. Through this site, young people who are researching are learning to form the knowledge and skills they have acquired in their fields and directions in accordance with the requirements of IMRAD for free. According to the results of the experiment, the project is being gradually improved.
In order to further improve this project, it is necessary to inform all pedagogues and young scientific researchers, exchange experience, improve it further, and present it to a wider audience. By exchanging experience with various qualified pedagogues and expanding the project, it is now possible to prevent young researchers from being deceived by some fake fake journals and inflated prices due to various partners.
A special website created for our project: LINK (https://scientific-work.netlify.app/)
With respect to the “Online learning” project, it improved the mechanism of organizing and developing the educational process based on digital technologies. You can see a number of courses that will help to introduce digital technologies into education based on the English language, which is currently becoming a demand level of the educational process. Offering online learning is a great, revolutionary alternative to traditional training. And corporations have taken notice. In fact, up to 90% of use a form of online learning today, compared to just 4% in 1995. And the e-learning market is predicted to grow another 8% by 2026!
Our Online English program can be a great solution for you if you seek a complete, online English courses. This program will help you to get the best lessons and methods to learn English online. We provide a wide range of websites as well as in-depth corrections so nothing is left to chance in your learning. This is a very good way to improve quickly and efficiently. If you feel confident enough, Online English also enables you to prepare and successfully pass various certifications. What are you waiting for? Hop on with us and let’s practice English together!
Our mission is To develop suggestions and recommendations regarding the organization and development of the educational process based on digital technologies based on the English language, which is currently becoming a demand level of the educational process.
This project can serve as a methodological recommendation for the use of digital technologies in the educational process for everyone.
A special website created for our project: LINK (https://onlinenglish-with-madina-fayzullaeva.netlify.app/)
Founder of projects such as “Scientific work” and “Online learning”, as well as, master’s student in the field of “Management of educational institutions” in the faculty of Pedagogy of Chirchik State Pedagogical University in Uzbekistan – Madina Fayzullaeva. Her scientific work on “Organization and development of the educational process based on digital technologies” has been published in more than 50 scientific works in SCOPUS, Higher Attestation Commission magazines, international and republican magazines, conference collections. She created this project based on these experiences.
Author: Madina Fayzullaeva master’s student in the faculty Pedagogy of Chirchik State of Pedagogical University
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
*** а chick that has fallen from a nest into the water cannot swim the water becomes covered with a crust of ice the chick feels like a fish in its belly the world poured out from the cracked shell spills out into the silensе a dead hen laid a wasted vain egg *** dragonfly drinks the voice of stone the night swallows up the spring *** tree turns into a crucifixion cross no one asks the tree why it grew I kiss you while you sleep in next your dreams no one asks me what I wish for *** you need to dress warmer because the cemetery under the bed is still growing and the snow continues to fall in silence for silence to silence flowers dream of knowing nothing about the grave and I don’t want to know anything about you about snow about death sperm looking for its nest the nest is looking for something to fill its emptiness I'm aiming a shooting star at my temple the world around goes out *** Horizon blushes Sunrise hues in bloom cascade Daybreak's painted sky (With AI) *** Ocean whispers softly, Tides paint poetry. (With AI) *** a leaf of my soul is torn off I haven't seen sakura for a long time I've never seen sakura *** the master's face in the mirror of my freckles *** bird gypsum my eyes are stuck in the web of the sky *** Who among us has not fallen in love with a young Justin Bieber in his youth? Icons with saints and a poster with pop stars are torn off the walls of a collapsed house Star 82 review reprint *** the swallow is crying blue *** brother is a brute brutus *** I won't be able to be one day *** stomach ripped open with tears *** headlight light lantern light eye light night in the hood *** In the moonlit forest I want to die australopithecus *** the drum dies loud *** the notes of the music will evaporate in the air *** injury leaves grass and glass water and sun *** dry cough wet forehead winter *** T r e p T r i p R i p I p I *** The stars drowning in the night Do not shine for anyone *** Even kittens can die *** I go out into the snow I become snow *** I'm drawing I'm drawing I'm drawing I'm blind *** Green grass Green glass Injuries *** Beetles can't sing *** The dog god was born in the cold Every dog came into this world cold From what silence of thought to mold the resurrection and death of a pagan god And suddenly God will not be resurrected? Will it suddenly turn out that this god does not belong to the pagans? All the religions of the world struggle with the bag of death Is it for life? Cowardice is noted by every dog Fleeing is blood-soaked Hunger or the palms of the dog god The palmless paws of the dog god Godless dogs Every stray dog is a dog god born in the cold (The Wise Owl reprint) *** autumn draws winter *** how a chicken uses a microwave a black star lights up in the sky burn like chicken on the grill or live like a bird that cannot fly for slaughter *** kings are everywhere even in the mirror *** tastes could not be discussed the proud tree is silent as before but now in the form of a paper cup for coffee *** no one asked the grass why it grew and uprooted it the grass is our home grass is our glass wallpaper glue doesn't hold the wallpaper of the homeless well *** baby was born in the grass grass was born in a child the sun shines in the summer for everyone
Poetry from Vernon Frazer
Last Wording
half the polar well
holds the harming serve
until breathers moan
again loaded
culminating adobe details
in the foreground cove
while
the tattered syllable recluse
celebrating from coherence
occupied yogurt armor
between aggressive pouncing
where
cufflinks rotate
cowl interjections
rubbed beyond
new reconstruction torpedos
bamboo cracks
pandemic eccentricities
in seance
*
grammatical stalling
skewers one written
empire
patriarch iced
legend’s fixative seeks nods
distrust empurpled
celebrity hump rebuffs
where a lead terrorist
bends to cold pavement
broadening
perceptible calamities
bustle correspondence deadened a utopia decoy
*
moon’s wake
the orthographic effigy
put refraction thoroughfares
lunging apart
aggressor
progressions
gone
with the global
valence
present condemned
a rope motive
in the echoed slab
reputation boiling
clauses to memoir debauch
endowment removed
History Happening
extreme sanskrit multiplex directive
commotion scattered babel tongues
across the time of papyrus infusion
caverns gave coded empathy shrouds
a place to gather against the wind
or another ark to flood with animals
contained to pair for a bearded one
stoning down mountain imperatives
androgynous caverns heaving a glide
toward the desert suit filed into sand
temptations crystallized their renewal
before the reflection written to fix
the derelict card careening passion
through undirected profusion litters
light crystals prismatic sun spokes
an emerging moon theme in motion
revolving over the nighttime desert
where billowed plans will resolve
with the crux of historic anticipation
carried to any nearby tree will do
the sect projection beyond the day
the exempt declared renewed grit
and peremptory sandstone polish
not the rain of provisional passing
furnished a new micrometer legend
whose replications dated calendars
when their makers proved reluctant
snapshots in the tiller thatch missed
no embryonic passport in the thicket
or watchful rushes bulling paparazzi
to divide the walls that conquer all
tablets that broke their millennium
before the requisite numbers spread
the vast mirage of new mother's milk
spread through forty days of microbes
tempting the igneous with sediment
promised to deliver layered history
to seeking prophets under threat of
renewed octagon vengeance made
before the form could fake ascent
on the choral donations or decor
as added to the licentious playbill
rostered pagan invasion sealant
before fumes could accrue tarnish
receptacles reeling with plasma grief
worn follicle ventures packing meat
of their belief into a worn sleeve’s fray
no doppel to gang a loose parlance
with a part from the other to match
the fetid geometry buckle in manure
angling the portal drop toward hay
where they fielded lain shepherds
deepened their sleep wherever
the sale of their sheep relocated
their hostile ambience a matter
of sacred discord when aroused
the cult of thirteen ran the dozens
against a predictable implosion
felt rummaging vegetable sponsors
when old spoons entice the lurid
a cult device records the subtext
no graphic delayed for the new ride
a molecular detergent foray decries
testicular headings over horsemeat
babble at the slowed compendium
forming a triage from the fictive mix
Dream a Generation Away
rutabaga polish
rides a sanskrit momentum
calypso fury casts the last rendition
*
enamel passion
brings its own veneer
to hidden sightings
vegetation budgets an inner flourish
before melting lavender
pots its ancient shrug
while inaction seeks its tongue
*
an action pursued
the molting factotum legend
of suit incarnation
dispassionate, buried
seven layers of ancient cities
bubble above the shale
*
radical depiction
cherishes a hairy flourish
the vegetable innovative crew
merrily words away
the gray whitening to the rhythm’s light
an edition only dreamed to last
BIO
Vernon Frazer’s most recent poetry collection is Memo from Alamut.
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
Deep Winter White sky blue earth a road of wind hard as stone between them the sun swings his walking stick as he strolls across the boulevards of February a small bird wings to a rain gutter sleeved in snow or perhaps it was only a mirage a child sits at a window making faces at an impending storm it does not believe in blizzards but it loves them you hold my love like a globe of ice where a soul once would have been no the winter sovereign in your mind will never become my final hope for spring ____ Christopher Bernard is an award-winning poet, novelist and essayist. His most recent books are the first two stories in the series “Otherwise,” for middle-grade readers: If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment Of Biestia.