The Loan By Steven Hill It comes back to me in pieces, in reflective bites over breakfast cereal— the smile of moonlit miles, walks under freckles of stars two bodies, folded in a hammock, childish words for you, carved in a tree so close, the summer grass as we crawled. And we rubbed, I and thou, cheek to cheek, hair to hair, cheek hairs brushed by dew, drizzle like feather clouds like memories of my baby blanket, star-crossed patterns peering at each other through our windows— what marvelous shelters, you and I, what a lighthouse, what a beacon glowed within you and beamed out at me through your windows. And then—suddenly—it was all gone. Poof! This life is on loan, it turns out. What we thought was ours belongs somewhere else, drifted back home leaving a pile of bones and scattered remains, ashes, chalky petroglyphs shards of pottery and a long trail of relations like ribbons to carry on with what they too have borrowed. Dandelion’s time had come to leave upon the wind, not returning when spring pushed up through the soil again. We thought we would all live on the same block forever, a shady cul-de-sac with a box elder swaying over the creek, the water feigning timelessness, tree rings to infinity. But a storm got the elder, the years dried the creek, your kiss became a memory our conversation a hushed prayer, the doctor’s words a trace whispering through the moonlit lace, the last light I saw reflected in your graying eyes showed the telephone disconnected, the boisterous neighborhood grown silent bat and ball, lifeless in the on-deck a field no longer sown, the grandfather clock chiming over a hearth gone cold. Everything in its own way announces the final curtain, we trowel a foundation, mark ourselves with a lifetime of endeavor and then we are called to relinquish the monument; no, it relinquishes us Dull chatter in the background, announcing itself at the door, with a rap and a rude harrumph, waistcoat fastidious on the coach driver, ah yes, the coach awaits, the door creaks open, passage for one. It’s a marathon and then nothing, silhouette instead of stone, the universal groan, pace yourself, passage for one, you won’t be takin’ it with you, this life is on loan.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from John Culp
Consciousness is Self Evident.
To Ask for Proof grants the Disproof
by the Axiom of Requiring it.
It's a journey that every Question
Aborts the Answer
so a walk home resumes.
The industry, The Art
is how to define Boundaries
to hold Pleasure as
an enduring form.
So If You Like it,
the process can come
from non-form
through form
to non-form
Or mid-stand
where comfort
holds the sensitivity
to ongoing Beauty.
Vibrant Joy Sure by feeling
upon natural ongrowing
Boundaries that fall to
unrestrained pleasure.
Set Heart's desires
as bounding focus
drawn a party to
Gifts rising upon the moment,
Evidently.
Poetry from Sunday T. Saheed
Mimesis upon a saint’s grave lies a litany of prayer dissolving into a pound of soil. what scrapes from a faithful pilgrim with white bird in his chest & white beards on his jaws than juicy flesh, to show him dead? i’ve walked into dreams to understand what desertion means: perhaps, is it the frozen lake a wild hog melts into like a piece of his culture he carries on his nose? who says we don’t admire God, we do? Or perhaps, we admire the flower that breathes behind His throne, too. you see? Even the angels have a garden of light they pluck breath from, like snowballs, as snow men. what silences a graveyard isn’t the presence of dead bodies but the absence of humans’ scent. i wonder if tearing a spiderweb means ruining his home and casting its bangles out into the cold, like a refugee, like how my mother sheds off the skin of her local color & nail a husk that reeks of modernism on her ears. do these children know that local drums have the voices they weave into our ears? & do re mi aren’t just notes but a series of hushed voices waiting to be touched by hands cold and frozen interpretation. i don’t remember if my lineage pane- gyrics starts with my father’s name or his father’s, or his father’s father yet i do know, this language is nested into the water that drizzles beneath my legs. iyawo n lota (the bridesmaid is grinding pepper) ileke n saso (the beads on her waist her grumbling) ileke ma saso mo (beads, grumble no more) je ki iyawo lota (let the bride grind pepper.) i wonder if this song ever fall from mother’s tongue like mockingbirds fall into the palm of their deaths.
Sunday T. Saheed, the author of Rewrite the Stars, is a 17-year-old Nigerian writer, and a Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation member. He was the 1st runner-up for the Nigerian Prize for Teen Authors, 2021. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Rough Cut Press, Brittle Paper, The Comstock Review, Salamander Ink, Aster Lit, The Lumiere Review, Poemify, Afrocritik, My Woven Poetry, Arts Lounge, SprinNG, Rigorous mag, Kissing Dynamite, Beatnik Cowboy, Trouvaille Review, Augment Review, Spirited Muse Press, Gyroscope, Giallo Lit, Open Skies Quarterly, Kalahari, Cajun Mutt, Open Leaf Press Review, Re Side, de Curated and others. He is also an asst. editor for The Nigeria Review (TNR). He was shortlisted for the Wole Soyinka International Cultural Exchange, 2018, The New Man Gospel Poetry Contest and BKPW Poetry Contest, 2022. He can be read on linkfly.to/sundaysaheed or reached on Instagram @poetsundaysaheed
Poetry from Mark Young
Some geographies: Batangas Only an exceptional lawyer, with a strong resemblance to motor Jacksonian epilepsy & a somewhat heavier bass- line trailing behind them, can perform a confident victory lap without slamming the putter back into the bag & stewing on their flight back from Manila. Gabès Candy may be hard to find in the fast- food franchises built by the former colonial government in the airport terminal, but, thanks to the U.S. military intelligence supplying them in an electronic format, pretzels are plentiful. Palembang Scotch whisky — or was it Irish? Or both? — is said to be enhanced by distilling it over burning peat. Here peatland fire is given as a reason why not to visit the city. Not always so. Yijing, a 7th- century Chinese monk, came back from a six month stay excited by the plethora of electronic billboards, & how they scraped the sky. Little heard from him after that. Rumor has it the Dutch East India Company obtained his silence by promising him the royalties from any future use of that sky-scraping word along with a speaking part in the upcoming Blade Runner movie. Balikpapan There was a pig tied up in a corner. A toddler was tied up on several pieces of board in a state of lying. How dare they say there was no evidence of white supremacy? My brain keeps running a marathon. The frontal lobes eventually get overloaded. We can't easily make these problems go away. Instead of dinner with a big group we have Zoom & cookies. It is so tiring. Jezqazǵan A quick snack is all the guide- books say you can find here. They suggest you go some- where else, to a nearby city perhaps, if you're looking for memorable moments. Maybe that's why the Soyuz rocket of expedition 49 landed near- by, to relax "in a remote region in Kazakhstan" after the hustle & bustle of space. It was my 75th birthday. If I'd known they were going to be around, I would have invited them along. Cork Only infections acquired after surgery can dominate the men's 400m hurdles & remove all un- necessary programs in the expansive & expanding field of Irish studies. Bayanbulag It may be tucked away in a dark graffiti-covered alley but you can often find out what yurts are currently on the market or what the relationship is between nutritional status & motor development by following the many conversations on religion & culture that occur in the manicured gardens of the Divine Word University.
Poetry from Patricia Doyne
JURISPRUDENCE: COLLATERAL DAMAGE A well-regulated militia… The goal is clear: no standing army here in this new country. None. If there is need, just fill the ranks with farmers, merchants, men bringing their own muskets. Then, disband when battle’s won. At least, that was the plan. Today’s lawmakers make no laws to hold back trigger-fingers itching to be free. A teen in Texas purchases two rifles, semi-automatics, rounds of ammo. No questions asked. Just “happy 18th birthday!” So kid shoots grandma in the face, then speeds to school, kills 19 trapped 4th Graders and two teachers. Stops only when he’s shot. Now come the questions; now, when it’s too late. Just six months into 2022, why 27 school shootings? Why? Why should gunmen terrorize our lives? Shootings in grocery stores, shootings in bars, shootings in cinemas, shootings at spas, shootings in synagogues, churches and mosques… Freeway shootings, subway shootings, shootings on the street. A grudge. A gun. A ton of searing grief. From politicians, waffling words and shrugs. “What can you do?” blindfolded leaders bleat. “Some people are just bad. Unhinged. Insane. They’re broken. Laws can’t fix them. Yes, it’s sad.” Does Congress realize that almost half the guns on earth are here, within our borders? A well-regulated militia… The wording is a clue. Suggests a choice. Regulations. Rules devised to curb the leading cause of death for children: guns. 1. Today we have an army. We don’t need recruits bringing a blunderbuss to boot camp, or citizens stockpiling snipers’ rifles. If our domain becomes well-regulated, what works for other countries might work here. Fewer shattered families. Less grief-without-end. A small price to pay for fewer small coffins, fewer urns of ashes kept like shrines. Copyright 5/2022 Patricia Doyne
UVALDE: THE LUCKY ONES Shots explode from somewhere. Is this real? Teacher hustles kids inside. Locks the classroom door. Lights off. Kids have practiced lockdown. But this is not a drill. Hit the floor. Get under a desk, if you can. Shh! No shoving, no poking, no whispering. Hold still. Keep quiet. Pretend this is an empty classroom The shooter breaks glass. Sprays bullets through the window. Teacher is hit in the leg. Makes no sound. Kids see her bleed. Freeze, too scared to whimper. A child also bleeds, grazed by a bullet. Clenches her teeth. The shooter hears no response. Moves on. Time stretches. Every minute is endless. Darkness fills with breathing. Keep quiet. Hope he won’t come back. Hope to get out of here alive. Hope friends are okay. Can’t text—can’t risk a light. Hope. Close by, sudden gunfire. Shouts. Screams. More shots. What is going on? Who got shot? A brother? A sister? A friend? In the dark, someone begins sobbing. But no one moves. He’s out there somewhere. He might come back. Time drags on. Why doesn’t someone do something? Call the cops? Get that bad guy? Let us out of here? More shots. When will this end? Why is he shooting at us? Can’t someone help us? Anyone? Anyone at all?
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
a little jack daniels with the coffee tracing the outline of a tattoo on soft black skin with your tongue a snowy morning in the middle of somewhere a little jack daniels with the coffee the love of your life sleeping in just her panties in your centuries old bed you can't help but feel this was never supposed to be for someone like you the infinite joy to have defeated time there is no substitute for it --------------------------------------------------------------------- let the fun begin the joy of a dirty mind is absolutely anything could be a reminder or the spark for the imagination to rev the engines and let the fun begin a rainy day a car dealership bathroom a certain way the floor sounds with the right shoes an echo from across the street the subtle way the chap stick tastes a certain song on the radio absolutely anything and i won't be able to walk for a few minutes ---------------------------------------------------------------------- too fast for me i'm at the age now that life either moves too fast for me or too fucking slow finding the right groove is not possible anymore for me maybe i'm the cranky old man or just another child that has grown old not that it matters we are born to die few get to experience something other than that or so i have been told -------------------------------------------------------------- a few moments to forever i have never learned how to cope with good news happiness is some rare thought that i haven't embraced in years and here comes a lost soul that wants me to give myself to her for any amount of time a few moments to forever my soul is old enough now to stop fighting this silly notion that i'm strong enough to go it alone i am broken enough though that i still have doubts that anyone truly wants to devote the time to fixing me the way it needs to be done -------------------------------------------------------------------- something is always in the way and you want to love her but neither of you can find the fucking time and the days become years and eventually something is always in the way before you know it what could have been is all that is left a fleeting moment of sweet kisses and enough desire to keep you warm on a winter's night
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, wondering where the lonely housewives are hiding. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine, Terror House Magazine and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from Ann Pineles
Quick Write 5/24/22 Sitting at their desks, in the quiet before the storm, They listened to their teachers. They looked back on a lessening pandemic year, With parents and grandparents and friends finally within touch. They sat at their desks in a classroom. The last day of school They looked forward to summer to freedom to playing and to time with friends In a lessening pandemic year. They felt safe. Children. Someone’s child. Someone’s sister. Someone’s brother Someone’s best friend. Someone’s everything. Someone knew these children from birth And held them and kissed them and snuggled them and treasured them. Maybe they were lucky at home and had meals everyday And had parents who knew where they were all the time And had friends who cared if they talked to them and played with them and ate with them. Maybe they were less lucky and had one parent or one person who looked after them. Maybe they were happy to be in school because the other place they could be was not as good. But they were all together in the classroom. All together at the same time. And then they weren’t. They were not spared. They were suddenly not safe. They were suddenly not children. First they were, then they weren’t. And someone might not have been a mother any more. Or a father. Can we be parents if we don’t have children? And then it was over.