GAZPACHO POLICE Not only do we have the DC jail which is the DC gulag, but now we have Nancy Pelosi's gazpacho police spying on members of Congress, spying on the legislative work that we do, and spying on American citizens. – Marjorie Taylor Greene, 2/9/2022 Police are key ingredients in this puree. Like red, ripe tomatoes, they blend in, indistinct. Add cucumbers, red onions, green peppers, cumin, garlic: flavor enforcers. Quality-control squads. But recipes do not send scofflaws to jail. Juries are made up of citizens doing their duty. Maybe average citizens are the bread-base, a mix of day old and fresh, adding texture, thickening the broth, infusing a medley of ethnic spices. The angry lady rages about spies: police that spy on lawmakers. She decries Pelosi’s private army-- simmering, on call, ready to chill and serve: gazpacho police. How does a Congresswoman recruit an army? Wouldn’t the CIA notice? And why spy on legislators? Isn’t the Congressional Record public? Are Congressmen really sneaking around doing sneaky things until busted by gazpacho police? Perhaps someone is adding water instead of olive oil? Skimping on oregano? Nipping at the red wine vinegar? If you don’t have the right blend of tomato, veggies, bread, and spice-- informed citizens as well as the gullible, public servants vs. self-servers-- then all the mincing and mixing yields only a hiccup of gourmet broth. So, what’s the point? Why whip up a goulash of grievances? Gripers dine on a diet of dudgeon: outrage at the DC “gulag,” outrage at alleged spies, outrage at the scapegoat party leader. One righteous finger-pointer reads a speech on the floor of Congress claiming gazpacho police run rampant in the Capitol. She pushes big-time bad-guy buttons: Soviet prison camps and Nazi Secret Police-- though the Nazi zinger sinks in its own sauce, thickening as it chills… Somewhere in this name-calling soup, there lurks a rotten tomato. Copyright 2/2020 Patricia Doyne
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Mahbub
The Yellow Bed In this world of hymn I had been so many times in the past But not like that I have got my sense today so colorful and new Just entering into the bed of the yellow flowers I was taken aback at the buzzing so loud As it calls, spreads around the bed like the slogan of the young Halting a moment I tried to understand What is that? Is it here or from other side I would like to pay heed to for some more time O my surprise! Almost on every flower the bees are circling and buzzing Rising up and low busy in sucking honey and hissing Like the lover maddened in love with the beloved Never before I heard this bewitchment, such a commotion of love Forgetting all other sites the wings on the air How swarming the bees on the soft yellow flowers in the winter sunlight! Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 26/12//2020 Memory The ship has just left the harbor The mountain is taking a large shape from one corner to other The round circle slowly turns into the U-shape before the eyes Advancing beat by beat The mountain appears to be smaller in size The ship runs some more - far from away It glows only the green and gradually it entered into the world of water What a wonder sight turnng into insight! As like as my mother goes away before my eyes What it left behind? More powerful than it appeared to be. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 26/12//2020 The Eternal Soul Soul never dies though day by day body collapses Soul is a cognition taking rest in a certain place after death Body slips away to the grave but soul flies higher A long sleep that sweet dreams may enlighten the eyes I believe death is not a journey to darkness It can't breach the relation that we have had in between us A journey to the eternity and light everyone is bound to taste Our love, responsibility, sympathy, care, duty to God move the soul to laugher and peace The soul that comes out from the sleeping peace of heaven on the doom's day The soul that regenerates the young deathless charming body In the endless peace of heaven the soul must rejoice then with bright face We are all on that ongoing process to enter into that eternal world. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 27/12//2020 An Outlook We Promised To make my mind calm and cheery I sometimes go out in touch of nature in soft wind or in the stormy rainy weather Nature teaches us how to flow, how to live well breathing fresh air We can have different taste and flavor in the moonlit night Or at the sunny moments of the day when we sit under the shade of the banyan tree The sky is always open at day and night We face the challenges of how to live and strife The misty winter morning, the silent long and large headed mountains, The crashing waves, the sunset at the evening, the sunrise in the morning, The soft blowing wind, the flying wings of the birds, the roaring and preying in the forest Even the dead leaf falling from the tree get mixed with the soil Sing the song of immortality fulfilling the demand we promised. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 28/12//2020 The Little Bright Flowers The little bright flowers kindle my heart As like as your soft voice glints my face Into the flowers I can fully see your love-laden flashy smile The butterfly flying around reminds me Your blissful note of expressions The sight of the flowers moving and straining I can live and die; a source of delight It's like the stars twinkling at night Like the moon eliminating sadness I look over this fascination again and again And make out the brilliance of love in between the flowers and you, my beloved. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 29-12-2020
Poetry from Jake Sheff
The Krampuslauf in Leavenworth
“As for man, he must be fully investigated and tested, for reason makes him capable of a high degree of dissimulation.” – Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation
The Wenatchee River runs through town
Like a writer of no mean ability. “What news
From Seattle,” I ask the streets. The men
In heavy makeup guarantee the total recall
Every day demands. Pickles are hidden
In the trees and memory’s kitchen midden.
Snowflakes fill the air with pixels. As winds
Full of empty feelings blow down Front Street,
The fire-breathing scent of roasted chestnuts
Guarantees a fait accompli of unsavory gluttony.
“Almost none are good, but most aren’t very
Bad,” I hear a woman sampling cheeses say
While people-watching. Some nutcrackers look
So lifelike… “It’s nice work if you can get it,”
Comes from the direction of the Clydesdale’s
Manure bag. Airing its dirty laundry in the winds
Of change, autumn’s end sounds like an American
Spouting anti-American sentiments to an ear
Warmed by one too many glasses of mulled
Wine. Dying without scars can hardly be called
A death, because what preceded it can hardly be
Called a life; so I don’t feel at all bad when I
Trip on the pure natural harmonic series of
The alphorns. Character is conduct, conduct
Character; the reindeers’ antlers belabor
This point when I visit their farm to feed them
What hatched out of raindrops. Eagles overhead
View what is platted more as a lipogram than
An amabilis insania. Quarrel makes a quarry
For the meanest men; and inquiry, real inquiry,
Can never dine with them: tonight, I’ll make
Lasagna in my AirBnB’s vintage oven. Morning’s
Red hoof will hit many a wet roof tomorrow.
Picking Freedom’s Lock by the Nestucca River
“Light is the pleasantest and most gladdening of things; it has become the symbol of all that is good and salutary.” Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation
There’s no ennui inside the gates
Of dreaming. Brindled voices from
Ball Bearing Hill anticipate
A ligature of light. My fate
Will always and forever love
Its special knowledge, like a man
(Religious beast). And goodness can
Forever justify its darkness.
This river’s coastal cutthroat trout
Say Haven’t I been good to you?
By swimming in deucedly full moons.
Uncommon as a plant with true –
Dare I say – grace, this river’s Abra-
Cadabra mimics the ocean’s Abra
La boca when my heart’s abrasive
And I’m drinking Prosecco and gin.
My lingam and catholicon,
I ask the oak tree, “Why MALToma?
What’s the true meaning of Multnomah?”
Multnomah County? I don’t think
About it, is her answer. Best
A stain sustained by growing stranger
Be left on something worn by hangers
Most of the time; like history’s dress,
The patron saint of windsocks wrecked
My outfit. Walgreens, in a fine-
Tuned universe, is not too far.
In day’s redshift, I’m circumspect.
[With eyelids and breathing growing
Heavier by the minute, beauty
Presents a truth he cannot grasp
To quiet his unworthy wasp.
Le temps découvre la vérité;
His wrath tells him, Don’t blink, or else!]
St. Johns Bridge Gives Portland Leave to Think Itself a Moon Flower
“With us everyone’s character is uniformly the same, because they are forced…nothing is heard but the voice of fear, which has only one language, instead of nature, which expresses itself so diversely and appears in so many different forms.” Montesquieu, Persian Letters: L. 63
Cathedral Park: they call you a monstrosity,
But what cares you for praise? It’s illusory;
A noctilucent Extra! Extra!
Selling like hot cakes: your Gothic knowledge.
You excommunicated the miracle
Of steel-suspension fortitude. Mockery
Can trick itself when skate parks crumble…
Northernmost bridge: Is your silence profound?
(The public’s screaming god is anxiety,
But answer there was none.) In a memory,
Akeldama and earthshine tremble,
Knowing a crumpled up map is human.
To justice-loving creatures, reality
Refurbished would be nicer than kayakers
With IPAs, than histologic
Methods for ballsier trips to Linnton.
The International Oregon Air Show
It’s perfect for a lady on
The go: this sleepy runway
We set up something shady on
To watch as shades of progress
Pour a lemon shandy
For the sun. “Hegira now!”
The Mustang’s cry for egress
Cries that light’s too slow.
A sportful poem, not now extant,
A day in ’44 is
Re-enacted. Doggies pant,
As dogfights can’t fill August
Skies with February’s
Chill. The Flying Fortress bangs
A cloud to sling the ugliest
Rock in David’s sling.
My friend: “That job is Stephen King’s”;
A Dornier spins through wisdom’s
Jury. Rome, its seven kings,
Would king this Black-eyed Susan
For old times’ sake, as chasms
Above absorb each ace of spades.
Let’s drink away a season
Too drunk to play the odds!
The stereo speakers’ Off we go
Into the wild blue yonder
Shakes my Acura. The glow
Of accuracy – Moby
Dick to me – is tinder
In the Raptor’s wake. Its roars –
No surrogates for Maybe –
Are Maybe’s gate to stars.
A noodle in transparent sauce
Is less nude than what’s rolling
Above the mackerels’ maker’s moss.
Blessed are the peacemakers…
McMinnville hears what’s falling
To escape the memory-hole:
The Luftwaffe’s ghostly ichor
Ignites a ghost too pale.
Across the street, this plane or that
Has made the Spruce Goose jealous.
The kids with ear protection chat
With sugared ears like Dumbo’s.
Like ultramundane pulleys
Or Peter Pan and Wendy’s flight,
These frightened, shaking brambles
Don’t shake for King Canute!
With crates of traces, a wind comes
Into the viewing area.
The trees disguise ammonium’s
True distance. Ammo’s pep talk,
Its musical scoria…
¡Vaya con Dios! Thunderbirds
Will even get what sleepwalks
To get even with yards.
Diptych: After John Milton
I Caduti
Hence childish hopes and dreams,
…You devils that love to oversimplify
And flatter every eye
…That can’t see through you, go where self-esteem’s
A peak to dwell on; ski
…The myriad slopes that from a single spot
Descend through apricot-
…And hubris-scented air. The wise attack
Where the fools bivouac
…By steering clear of inner travesty.
That chain of being, being a chain
We call great, shackles the pain
Born in the madly swirling mist
Of each man’s heart. The naturalist
In me prefers to see what lives
Beyond my world; the poet gives
A view. When time began, both prose
And poetry were one. But clothes –
Some empty clothes – broke them apart.
Now the world is dressed in art,
And art is duty bound to bind
Them back together in the mind
Of man, or else it fails. The cup
Of Ganymede is too high up
For me to drink, and I’m not rare
Enough in the right ways to bear
It. What’s the right amount of things
Immeasurable? My inkling clings
To wisdom for the answer, not
Itself. You’ll cauterize what’s caught
By caution? I’ll keep earth between
Two vaster planes. Though too unseen
For some, their border ruffians
With ease deflect our master plans
Before they do us harm. We fell,
Hephaestus-like, but with the whole
Wide world our Lemnos. Moral fractals,
Men behave like pterodactyls
Most of the time. I’ve seen the orf
Virus infect what Nephilim dwarf
On earth. The truth is, paintings muzzle
My inner voices, singers puzzle
Me, swapping strangers’ inner eyes
With mine; I only recognize
What’s true with art. The artist in
The man is proof that with a hin
Of the divine we’re mixed! Each trope
Can be a tightrope and to cope,
Both things can be true. Men make
Allowances for the poor snake
To live in Ireland again:
This man could wash the rainbow’s sin
Away; that man has ass’s ears,
But for myself, the ass’s fears
I fear the most. So very Jan
Van Eyck, the hopeful light I shine
In daydreams under a Tupelo
Fails at twenty-two below;
The temperature at which passions freeze
Is measured, not by man’s degrees,
But rather, distance under God
And His decrees. My lightning rod
Is evidence: we’re less sileni
Than constant moral miscellany,
So flourishing is within reach.
There are no windswept fads, but speech
Is something else. A bagatelle
Can tell me all I need as well
As any bloody chronicles
Or timeless annals. Nothing fills
My day with angels…Promised calm
Has never been the sacred balm
It claims to be. Where metal meets
The wood, I’ve seen the saddest feats
Of sacrifice; a casualty
In fields where they’re too casually
Consumed. Too bright, too brief; our joys
Can seem, when Jesse’s seventh boy’s
The king of Yggdrasil, mere toys
To some. When dignity annoys
You, dawn-ful crimes and dusk-less days
Are coming. (Then mock-noon betrays
True midnight.) See: Aldebaran shares
An eye with me. Its freedom wears
Some falling snow, and wishes freedom
From itself. (It’s to flee Rhadam-
Anthus, I guess.) There is a snow line
Where goodness and love in a slow line
Move about as well. Some clothe
What mental storage units loathe:
“The girl I give all my best kisses,
She always chooses Spanish cheeses,”
Is my best effort; pretty bad.
But I’m no poet, and I’m glad
To know it! My Andersonville
Prison is next to my free will,
Where some corrupt officials, ill
With pride, demolished wisdom’s hill
For to build foolish houses. Girls
(“Daughters of dagger-damage”), pearls
And other influential lights:
Would that I could not see those heights
Where powerfully value is flowing,
Where strongly value flows for knowing.
A fount of idiocy, I’d ask –
‘Who killed perfection?’ – in a mask,
Alcibiades-like, and lisp
So I’m not hated to a crisp.
The clouds have anasarca; spring
Will come again. She’ll always bring
Reminders Notus blows away.
In Buchenwald, our memories say,
‘This isn’t us, and that’s not us.’
To know itself, forgiveness prays
For help. There’s sulfur in that gulf
Between each self and what its Delph-
Ic dreams portend. I mow the lawn
To force equality. To yawn
At beauty’s spontaneity:
It would make the meanest and greenest tree
Plaintive; be the most painless death.
There’s knowledge in the eyes of Seth
That vice won’t let me see. That apple
Eris threw in me; I’ll grapple
With myself until I die.
Sallow was this morning’s eye…
There’s no one free; this semi-scourge
Lives in every demiurge,
And can’t be killed. Don’t look to fate;
None mitigate time’s magistrate.
There’s sucrose in the rose’s red
That I won’t hear until I’m dead.
The Garden of the Hesperides
Appreciates disparities
In peacetime and when bullets fly.
No one here but God knows why.
One small ‘shall’ is no big deal
To some. But when a flaming wheel
Goes by, you’ll seek the special spear
Of Finn MacCool, in case you hear
The goblin singing, “Let me Blow
You (Mostly Peaceful) Kisses.” Go,
Go visit history’s lair, then quarrel
With your friend self-crowned in laurel.
The guillotine’s favorite color mirrors
The shape of deadly nightshade’s ears.
(That’s fire’s word for man.) A king
Getting chased by the rifles of spring
Discovers karma likes a geyser:
Mary’s there; see how dawn eyes her.
Bitter is the dark and deep
The individual’s right to sleep
In labor’s peace and quiet won.
To lasso the abyss, my gun
Looks forward to snow, and with good cheer!
The day and I, in Joseph’s gear,
Stay out of trouble telling jokes
To men who know how laughter yokes
Forgiveness, so they never laugh,
Unless my act is wisdom’s gaffe.
(The fool has got the best shot at
Perfection; what is most shot at
By man.) When tempted not to own
Mistakes, quoth goodness, “Get you gone!”
When nachas leaves its seven gates
Wide open, goodness radiates.
With flaming laws, genetic fire,
Some believe what they desire
To be true too readily;
Fanatic genealogy
Won’t admit it’s wrong. We live,
Therefore we sin, and must forgive
The marriage – poetry and prose’s –
For ending. Nothing decomposes
More than hate. Capital Hill
Will try to match that healthy hell
In Menlo Park, and light a match
For gradual eurekas to catch.
In Handel’s Water Music, said
Promoters claim they’ll raise the dead.
Destiny’s resin, in its prime,
Drips from time, rabbinical time.
Stubborn ingratitude befalls
The holy wounded when God calls.
The lord is one, and He’s most high:
I live this truth; for it I’d die.
L’Utopico
Hence inborn sinful stain,
…You clear and present flaw that mars each goal
And ought to be in jail,
…Go dwell on Mars; by eminent domain
You’ll grab that planet way
…Before you wrench my target from my aim.
You’ll dye your counterclaim
…With colors none can see, but I’m no fool;
I’ll steel the golden rule
…So none can break it after yesterday.
I have no limits! Now I’m free
As God! No incivility
Within, no chains without. This ale
Brims with more knowledge than does Yale.
And yet my cup half-empty stays
Full of injustice, a disgrace
In paradise, whose capital
Perfects what every dream makes whole.
Let’s go there, where love’s artisans
Draw pictures nature’s partisans
Eat up. Let’s go and meet their queen;
I hear her: clean calls unto clean.
She’ll laugh at hell and worldly things;
Be kind to all; abolish kings.
Though some may see the blackest boot
Paint their whole kingdom black as soot
Before they go, what’s fair is fair:
The queen just cares too hard to care
About some pesky incidents.
It’s heavy with experiments;
Her purse, which from the commonwealth
Will unlearn greed. (If greed learns stealth,
She’ll crush it, loving-husband-like.)
She’ll teach each spike how not to spike.
She’ll find that by reversing dawn,
The sky’s Raynaud’s phenomenon
Gives her a wound to heal. She’ll ban
The consequence of a great tan.
And she’ll adopt the child of Mount
Cyllene. The country will lose count
Of all the stars up in Heaven’s lake:
We’ll shake them until they’re half-awake;
Stone, seaside ideas and wood
Encased in silver, gold and good
Misfortune. (That last part is key
To art, but not reality!)
She’ll banish any person “blessed” –
Too sober or too neatly dressed –
Like all true art. She’ll never deal
With any child of Semele
Directly. She’ll claim Tony Hawk’s
A beast on wheels; electroshock’s
Her mode of moving. Acting young –
Reading Ayn Rand and Carl Jung
Will be examples – she’ll make fate
Less glamorous; a fourth estate
Third-party-like in every way.
Mister Non-entity today
Will be tomorrow’s Captain Kidd.
We’ll do what Epimetheus did –
Just the good stuff! A Cambrian
Explosion only queens can plan
Will happen; the majority
Will will it! History’s prophecy
Will vindicate itself and clone
The savior (a complete unknown);
Time’s gal pals will fulfill it! Snugly
In my heart, I’ll bind each ugly
Feeling, so none are ever felt.
Smelters will teach us how to smelt
Society for gold. A pure
And vegetarian allure
Will satisfy mysterious needs.
My nose will find whatever bleeds
For reasons I don’t like, to save
It from an audio-tactile grave.
My chatelaine’s electric eyes
Will never burn out or despise
My happy love’s dictates. Her limb-
Dissolving rays will dissolve time
Eventually. She’ll never be
Sad-mouthed, tough-nosed, rough-eared; you’ll see!
Disasters will fill no more books.
The royal science’s “Gadzooks”
Will lift what’s too terrestrial.
What’s not too intellectual
Will be arriving on three mules.
They’ll plan to break the molecules
In our electric vows: half-men,
Who’ll make the greatest simpleton
The son of Leopold Mozart by
Comparison. She’ll pornify
The drabbest jobs. The queen will dress
My darg in drag, make time confess
To work schmerk in a body bag.
Declaring war on every plague,
She’ll never lose a man, a dime,
Or single battle. Pantomime
Supreme, we’ll kill it. Loneliness
Will only walk in twos and threes.
She’ll bury every blunderbuss
In a mass grave. Oblivious
To dumb implausibility,
The past should pawn its chessboard; he-
Said-she-said only happens there.
“You’ll legislate beyond repair,”
They’d plead. As if our guide is hate,
Or fear. I won’t see them create
Creators like our queen! She’ll sink
Her teeth into groupthink and drink
Its energetic death. “Reform
What you cannot possess”: that warm
And happy phrase knows vanity
Peaks at the height of sanity.
Our glories will be pristine seas
And hearts; the teal and the tall trees
Will be the most pure they’ve ever been.
“A hygge with Hygeia then?”
You joke, but that’s not too far off,
My friend. It’s gone on long enough!
These fields let flowers bully flowers;
These clocks let days oppress the hours.
I still feel hunger’s scaphoid pain;
I still see poverty, its rain
Deferred. I can’t sing Don’t Debunk
My Kisses without getting drunk
On jealousy first. Sir Jealousy, meet
Madam Not-yours. On beauty’s feet,
No more glass slippers; the truth, gloved:
Be loving, lover; you are loved:
The lies we tell, half-jocular,
That slowly slice my jugular.
Some question me, I answer with
This comeback: Knowledge is a myth.
In Delos, Leto’s children will be
Delos’s property. Astilbe
Will grow for everyone. We’ll read
The poetry that can’t succeed
Without great readers, and preserve it.
We’ll argue, ‘This and that deserve it,’
Only for the right reasons! Grass
Will ink our desolation’s mass…
It loves a paradox: our god;
Imagination’s kind of odd!
I’ll leave my natural load behind,
Forgetting vice with all my mind.
(How could we be knee-deep in wrong
And neck-deep in a happy song
At one and the same time? Man was;
Some ran here like a sailor does.)
My dreams will be predictable
As life; my judgment, perfect still.
And here’s the queen: I needn’t kneel;
She knows exactly how I feel.
“My scientists cry Gaia weeps,
Beseechingly, and doomsday creeps
Closer. Tomorrow’s preachy mood
Will not allow the lassitude
Which has corrupted duty’s soul
In all who came before us. You’ll
Be so content with brotherhood,
Commandments will seem simply rude
If not the majority’s command
Or written in each voter’s hand
On something more alive than stone.”
She loves tomorrow, that I’ll own;
She loves it more than earth and sky,
So for this queen, I’ll gladly die.
Poetry from Nathan Anderson
Transit
hollow beacon fly on the wall
juxtaposition (calling)
belting// one // two
belting// one // two
a brick as good
as any other... [flower in the river is as bent as
the metal is bent]
belting//
one
// belting// one // two
two
Soloist
gravity...
a railroad shooting
shooting
shooting
as the flower
condemns
hear the bark
in the only
street
cede the lung to
an open mouth
gone are the days of
lightning powered
stone
desert wandering
oil seclusion
when they arrive they will come
with nothing
what else could they have?
Panoramic Lossless
emitted greeting
[clap clap]
/////shp/////shp////
shpshpshpshspsshpshsphsphsphsph
shpshsphspshssphspshsphsphspshsh
hspshsphspshpshspshpshspshpshsphp
////shp/////shp////////shp
a new number
was invented
invested as a
sugar
skull
death mask
wait until the typing
is
complete
[before]
recitation
visited on
sound
flfkflfkflfklfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkfl
=flfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkf=
+flfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflf+
-flfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflfkflf-
that is as...
Nothing is
trainspotting
skeletal mercury
running through the
ambergris
running running
through the
tunnel mouth
running through the
retrograde
foundation
foundation
a pleasant form of Bodhisattva
Fomentation -nothing-nothing-
flashbang soundscape
fleabag after
manumission
a horse escapes its
union
never the =
only in ghettoised restructuring...
...muscle
...set
...extremity
... ...
ignore all language
Ape Thumb
restful
yes
restful
closing down from shuttle shuttle
to
barely worn
electricity
in
tired
clothes clothes
that you
no
longer
wear
comfortably
a mishearing
shunt! rumble
rumble
[blue take the place of]
========blue===========
======red=============
==========green=========
=========yellow========
oxidising
monolith
give it space!
[to work its]
sounds like a...
[sound take the place of]
========sound=========
=========scream========
========yelp========
======sing=======
Screenplay from Chimezie Ihekuna
Title: Twists of Life
Adapted from a book by Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Screenwriter: Robert Sacchi
Rev Michael Xhosa’s ‘Saved By His Grace’ sermon becomes a It narrates twists in the ordeals of people all around the world. Ranging from personal to professional, educational to business, political to ministerial endeavours, it explores the situations of individuals whose plights fall under them.
Genre: Short
For reviews, production consideration and other publicity, please contact us through the email addresses below:
– rsacchi@rsacchi.20m.com
Synopsis/Details:
Twists of Life is a five-chapter work that portrays “situational twists” – when those who sow good seeds in the world end up reaping a harvest of grief! Reflecting that the world, since its emergence, had had great affinity towards stories, this work includes a matrix of stories that appeal to all peoples of the world because of their specificity. Asians, Americans, Europeans, Africans, the Arabs and so forth have their stories mirrored in the literary work Twists of Life.
Chapter One, “The Graced Fellow,” paints a story of a crime-turned-love situation involving a group of armed bandits known as the Notorious Circle. They operate in Lagos, Abuja and the Port-Harcourt areas of Nigeria. Killing industrialists, merchants, politicians, robbing and raping young women epitomize their activities. From the Republic of South Africa, Morocco, Cameroon, the Central African Republic, Liberia, and Nigeria, and all currently residing in Nigeria, the seven-man gang became a household name through the nineties there. Coming from wealthy backgrounds, except for Bode, who had struggled, they all had their fill of ill-gotten success until the long hands of the law caught up with them. But something happened to Bode…
“The Other Side of Education”, Chapter Two, describes the twists in the fates of Ken and Spencer, educated at Kent High School, London. Ken was known as a “misfortune to mankind.” Spencer had all going his way-intelligence and influence. However, Ken would realize that earning “Fs” in class would not necessarily mean being a failure in life. This would be his motivation throughout his travels till he finally settled in his home, Canterbury, New Zealand, after he made it in the oil industry. Spencer, on the other hand, had a rosy life in England, his home country, until the financial crisis took a toll on him. This situation created a twist – brought Spencer to his back-in-High-School second-fiddle feelings toward “nobody” Ken after many years, but then another development comes up.
“The Woman In Politics,” Chapter Three, depicts the political tussle between Rodriguez and Gloria of the Peoples’ Party and Empowerment Party, respectively. Through politically motivated manoeuvres at the expense of her rival Rodriguez, who was winning the popular vote, Gloria became the first-elected female president of Brazil. The plot turned in favour of Gloria when she was quoted as saying: “…A man has his will but a woman will always have her way…But fate turned towards Rodriguez again soon, in Lisbon, Portugal and Madrid.
Chapter Four, “The Evil Genius,” narrates a story of how Park Sung, a Korean-America preacher, intended to set a record as the first man to embark on a successful world religious tour. With the P.A.G.A.N movement he set up when he was twenty-one, he had gathered knowledge about trickery and hypnosis and had studied world geography at a certain price…to DEAL with his uncle and master, Jin. For over the next thirty years of his life, he would achieve his agenda until there was a total twist in his blueprinted plan!
Chapter Five, “The Ugly Decision,” tells the story of a man, David. Growing up under the watchful eyes of his parents, Canadian disciplinarians, he promised to live a responsible life. However, as he grew older, he became a shadow of what he promised. Promiscuity took a hold of him. Due to that, David could not settle down in marriage the way his parents had at a young age. In fact, during his teen years, he vowed never to have anything to do with the promiscuous Eunice, but something happened between them years later…
“The Learning Authoress” is the last chapter’s title. It narrates years of rejection by several publishers for Greco-Roman American Alice’s work “The Twists of Life.” As time went on in her search for a publisher, one thing led to another and life brought her into personal contact with Skyline Publishers-the first publisher that rejected her work outright! She became a household name throughout California.
Poetry from John Edward Culp
Mended Healing Sky
Claimed by Fear
Wonder upon the Fallen until
Life drawn in Hearts can find.
Strain is echoes of new Life
already Happens Now creating
for the first time, as
Always Was,
always
the tip of the Dream,
A Rocket whose Flaming tail
is History itself.
Poetry from Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi
SALVATION IN THE EYES OF THE SUN Somewhere, a boy is digging a tomb of memory and ends up having his head hung between this poem. I don't want to start this poem with memories, with lines that bring me more closer to extinction. So when about to sleep, I'll close the windows to not have a taste of the airs that scents more like my brother, still, they sneaked in and romance me with their roughened edges. I dreamt of salvation in the eyes of the sun, the sun came & pour me her rays; they doesn't taste like scented flowers, like vine ripe mangoes. I ran to the moon, the moon placed in my palms, darkened images. I don't know know where else to search for light, I returned to this poem; I saw the dreams of my sister withered in a flower betwixt the lines. I saw with my korokoro eyes the nakedness of her dreams choking my breath. Tell me how more to starts a day than to wake up in the garden of lilies, everything here pop me up to an emissary of tears. I mean to say, here; I am a portrait of a boy hung on the walls of fate
THRENODY To the souls the ground swallowed To the dreams that got ruptured To the faces been robbed of smiles To — afternoons of collapsed skeletons To the moments that ticks in the chest To the days lived in fear— yesterdays of wailings To the fruits that got plucked off unripened To every kin yanked and slewed at Burma To the dirges— The threnodies To the victims of faulty policies— To the Yobe, the Zamfara— where my brothers and sisters await their death. To the everyday mourning news of the television To the widowed, the orphaned To every blood shed— broken promises To the days, where the goats no longer feed on greens To every agony To every pain To every story that falls blood To every dreams shattered I say, let's put our heads and brains together In spite of our homes been war-torned Let's keep our hope alive— fate like a citadel And our bright steps will once again spring love