ODE TO MULES, CATBIRDS, INSECTS, AND GOD
  
  
 Interspecies friendships?
  
 They’re great, aren’t they?
  
 A bonding of pure affection
 sometimes unequaled in human civilization.
  
 A mule wearing a snorkel and goggles enters
 the high school convocation flopping rubber 
 flippers against the smooth terracotta tiles.
  
 You gotta love that!
  
 [Yeah]
  
                           *……*
  
 A catbird screeched high above a tulip poplar
 near the local middle school earlier today,  
 then warbled hieroglyphs before entering 
 our forsythia hedge and vaporizing  
 inside its prickly branches.
  
                     *……*……*
  
 I wonder if we pay enough attention to insects?
 We mostly complain about them, but they’re 
 preoccupied day in day out with whatever’s 
 required to evolve their DNA.
  
 Sounds a lot like us, eh?
  
 And what about lusty zebra mosquitos
 who just want to our be blood brothers?
  
 We shouldn’t overlook such things.
  
                    ◄   ◄…..►   ►
  
 What’s the last thing that goes
 through an existentialist’s mind

 when he smacks the windshield 
 at 90 miles an hour?
  
 That’s right, God.
  
  
  
  
  
  
   

 

 THE NIGHT JOE WATSON & I DOUBLE-
 DATED TWO BEAUTIES FROM THE 
 THRIFTWAY SUPERMARKET
  
  
 I told Joe, pick whomever, but I prefer 
 the Italian in a canary one-piece 
 with poppy white collar.
  
 So, he picked Meg.
  
 I liked Meg.
  
 I liked Meg a lot with her tamarind
 arms, bronze legs, & eyelashes like 
 dragonflies haunting my dreams, 
 but, alas, I was mesmerized 
 by the Italian Aphrodite broiled
 to perfection in a canary one-piece 
 with poppy white collar. 
  
 So, off the four of us cruised, two
 of us ending up below the spidery
 legs of the Lake Worth pier.
  
 That night kisses like wild bruises 
 migrated from lips to necks 
 to shoulders in the casual blink 
 of a full moon’s penumbra 
 tattooing hair, flesh, 
 monkey blood, & bones. 
  
 I told Joe, pick whomever, but I prefer 
 the Italian in a canary one-piece 
 with poppy white collar.
  
  
  
  

Alan Britt has been nominated for the 2021 International Janus Pannonius Prize awarded by the Hungarian Centre of PEN International for excellence in poetry from any part of the world. Previous nominated recipients include Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Charles Bernstein and Yves Bonnefoy. Alan was interviewed at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem. He has published 20 books of poetry and served as Art Agent for Andy Warhol Superstar, the late great Ultra Violet, while often reading poetry at her Chelsea, New York studio. A graduate of the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University he currently teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.

Discussion of the success behind the authenticity of the novel

“Perseverance for knowledge and passion for dreams” engender the issues explored in David Copperfield to be interweaved in Great Expectations. Fact and fancy, reality and imagination or private and public encapsulating life sketches of memoirs: memorial, monument or testimony chronicles a spiritual autobiography. The world of the biographer’s existence has been socially, morally and imaginatively much more complex, compromising and more essentially ambiguous than one David inhabits as interpreted in the parenthetical thesis of Anna Foley foreshadowed within bibliography.        

 Enslavement by a heartless society, destructions of war, mass genocide and totalitarianism engrosses modern critics such as Chesterton’s shrewd criticism apprising and appreciating Dickensian character Tobb as the vitality of real humanity or humility, those who have nothing but life. Furthermore, George Orwell, the satirist of political and moral allegorical fable quintessentially denotes in his essay on Dickens always, “respond emotionally to the idea of human brotherhood.” 

Differentiating Advantages and Disadvantages of Reading The Autobiographical Narrative Fiction Great Expectations

Psychoanalysis Freudian theories and gender studies by modern critics today, question the integrity of memorable characters, boisterous humours, intrigued plot twists, precipitous cliffhangers or suspenseful ending and universal themes. Bread and butter (graveyard scene) were connoting alleged erection employed by Pip to hide and cover adolescence. Victorian ideals abhorred and despised the tendency of incestuous relationships, masturbation, lascivious or carnal desires, adultery and so on. Magwitch and Herbert’s guidance or guardianship excessive handling of Pip is a striking matter of moral degradation in modern criticism by shrewdest psychoanalysts or gender studies theorists.      

 Mr. Pumblechook appearance of that of a Sheriff and the reticent patronage of Compeyson disdains readers or critics detesting demonic characteristics in Mr. Pumblechook’s personae. Another striking fact in debate is the emotional setting of prison infirmary. Incidentally, Pip reconciles in salvaged spirit to acquire redemption for the penitent sins encountered after demonizing feelings about Magwitch. Withdrawal of snobbery from the redemptive minds of Estella and Pip ending doesn’t disseminate justification in absurd ending despite smugness shattered by the discovery of great expectations. 

Further drawbacks of the novel discusses the issues of being the idealized gentleman in the ironical witty commentaries of Dickens to satirize being gentleman to table manners, style of dressing, body language, speech, wealthy fortunes and so forth. Interestingly, the irony here talks of Victorian tradition of mass graveyard shameful, embarrassing, defame or guilty conscience because bereavement of working class or middle class bourgeois should be preserved in sepulchers and epitaphic tombstones inscripted. Farm labourers, coal miners or domestic servants weren’t exempted from the case study. Socio economically youngsters were passionate about being marines or veterans and clergymen whilst the legacy was endowed to the elders. Daughters inherit dowries or petty estate unless the male relations remain obscure. Dickens employed the character of Drummle from Somerset as neither aristocrat nor Shropshire gentry which provokes the issue of class distinction and classification of a gentleman. Romantic delusions implored Pip to board the accommodation Boars Hotel with the illusion that Miss Havisham [fairy godmother]’s Estella, the ward would be his fiancée.              

 “Poisonous” and “pernicious”, “infamous” and “shameful” the novelist epitaphic phrases paraphrase poor living conditions in prison. “From head to foot there was convict in the very grain of the man” demarcate English, French or Convicts curtailed from European civilization  “a savage air that no dress could tame.”  In reality Dickens shrewd criticism allegorizes the Victorian prison reformation. Gospel of improvement or progress brightening or heightening metropolis with passing of traits in the transformed sub urban hypnotizes colonial enterprise. Dickens forgets to narrate the vanishing or exclusion of Abel Magwitch symbolizing injustice. These extremism of characters resonate unrealism oscillating in the novel. In the novel, Estella, the heroine marries the doctor from Shropshire after Drummle’s death. Pip understands that she has developed maturity through suffering –irony of resolutions. Superficiality of the gentleman sways away as soon as the hero, Pip’s inferences and conscience awaken. What really matters in life is being honest, true, loyal and kind. Great Expectations is nothing but a work of genius by modern critics. It is also very widely read by ordinary people except those who dislike fiction. Dickensian vocabulary, complex and lengthy sentences and verbal irony are obstacles in interpreting modern Dickens.       

When snarling, Orlick, the tangible flesh and blood presence denounces Pip as “young wolf” and remonstrates Mrs. Joes, “You’re a foul shrew, Mother Gargery”. Dickens contrasted this to the boarding school educated counterfeit money con artist bcause he could copy handwritings that appeared behind the scenes- elusive and shadowy. Compeyson blights the lives of Miss Havisham, her ambiguous half weak brother and of Magwitch on the one hand. And on the other, the deal of treachery trial’s betrayal stimulated white terror vengeance of the open book of crime and punishment-the symbolic of ripest exploitation. Magwitch “marries” Molly “over the broomstick” unlike his counterparts Orlick and Compeyson [Compeyson breaks Miss Havisham’s heart]. Why brevity and humour? The barbarity of the justice system sentences mass and Dickens mocks the judge’s verdict in ordering a special censure for Magwitch. [“My Lord I have received my sentence of death from the Almighty, but I bow to yours”]

Orlick’s indulgence of vengeance after being dismissed from the forge and Miss Havisham’s caretaking, tempted him as Compeyson’s dupe luring Pip into lime-kiln [*lime kiln- kiln or furnace of reducing limestone shells to lime through burning or incineration]. Orlick was sentenced to imprisonment in the final part of the novel through a commit of blundered heist: the robbery of Mr. Pumblechook-the ostentatious caricature. Dickens’ laughter and humour reflection in Pip’s  appraisal that the villainy of Orlick showed atonement is subtly the question of moral integrity. [Pip acknowledged Orlicks’ temperate behavior of stuffing the nose of Mr. Pumblechook with flower annals]. However, critics like Andrew Moore, disparaged shrewd glimpses of analogous to a loose ending of the plot.

John Thomas Allen is 38, loves stained glass, and loves imagery for imagery's sake.  He also enjoys giving single dollar bills to crack addicts at real carnivals, igniting charity balls for people who don't work, and entertaining strange strangers online. He admires the work of Peter O Leary, Bernadatte Meyer, and Mina Loy.


The Carnival Tarot

I was there the night the carnival tarot began
  In a glass mosque of magic satin 
flooded with fireflies 
     winding the meditation boxes 
   to a focus levels flooded without grounding 
        To a focus level split in the screaming   
        sonar whistles 
     dew drops of dim deja vu, 
         beads bodiless with worlds shed aflame
           echoes of billiard halls in their boozy spider glass 
           echoes of hobo clown gangs split in galleys  
               of long handed shadow  
           echoes of orchestrated lightning in black boxes 
           echoes of paint chips patterned after a decayed 
                  glass marquee in downtown LA
              The third eye all smoke  
                and thus frying the Om…
   now with the dowsing snakes hushed buzz. 
     The fleecing syncopation of All In All   
                            All At Once
    Before falling they’d seen ameythistine temples,
               rising tide of movie monsters eloped
                   from the moving pictures 
                   in the singular monstrosity of self possession
         gravity’s cells swallowing each free breath of even
                                 air.
      In the EVP library’s soundscape, the voices freed
      the dead’s sound bytes inside holofoil crypts.
       The pale swan arms, bonding afterlives, braille echoes on the No. 5
      pencil 
      She sang the Hours with carnie ministers, crowned ghosts.
        The icons were flooded out with sound mirrors the body 
                                        of a saw
      Refracting icons in the library’s reading room 
         Howling and nude in caged specters of lightning, 
               eyes smoked like a blue owl
                     a  dribbling decoy of light.

The elevated language in Sanjeev Sethi’s poetry collections Bleb and Hesitancies draws readers in, encouraging multiple readings of each short piece. Although the collections consist of small vignettes without a true narrative thread, some characters take shape: the speaker’s tiny grandchildren and aging parents.

Many pieces explore memory and internal thought processes: In “Palmer,” the speaker reflects on solitude: “The aftermath/is soaked in sapience./ Richness of receptacle/
endows the individuation/of insights.”

Others comment on the writing process and on words and imagination. In “Cry for Clemency” Sethi compares writing to raising children. “Poems are like progeny, after parturition they are nursed and nurtured until they fasten their futurity.”

While some would consider this metaphor unusual for a male writer, Sethi’s sensibility is delicate, full of grace for the human condition. He shows this sensitivity by including people of all ages and genders, including the elderly, as poetic subjects and describing them with dignity.

The slow pace of both collections encourages us to ‘hesitate,’ to step back and think, to develop and honor our interior lives. Sethi uses the word ‘hesitancies’ directly in a few pieces, many of which concern physical and emotional intimacy that deepens as people take the time to let relationships unfold.

Bleb and Hesitancies call to readers with a quiet insistence, pulling us in to matters of the heart and mind with the voice of a wise friend.

Sanjeev Sethi’s collections can be ordered here and here.

 
 
 
 Story Title: Cheers To Forever
 Written By : Dennis Mann
  
  
 It's precisely those nights when you feel the beginning of a new life when your heart beats at an uncontrollable speed, when you never get tired of flashing your perfect white set of teeth to the random guest that attends your wedding solemnization.
  
 She descended the stairways as a sea of eyes stared at her, but her focus was only on the man whom she would be spending the rest of her life with. Her champagne sleeveless gown caressed the floors as she made her way down like a slow train that never wanted to reach its destination.
  
 Her man in a blue-black Tux was radiating sparkles of shimmering light under the magnificent chandelier. The point came when they had contact, and it seemed the two would never want to separate for a minute: their hands bound by love. They walked closely while smiling guests all dressed fashionably in white for the Night Party.
  
 Just six hours ago, the couple said a big yes to each other and wore a wedding band to signify their long-lasting bond. The newlywed husband couldn't stop smiling as he danced with his wife.
  
 "Kobie, I love you," Adelaide uttered, her eyes in deepest sincerity and her voice in complete innocence.
  
 "You are my royal lady, and I love you so much, dear," Kobie said as he revealed a gap-toothed smile.
  
 The happy guest rushed on the circular dance floor and moved their waist to the live band by Kwabena Kwabena, 'Royal lady.'
  
 Adelaide dropped the hands of the man she loves and joined Kwabena Kwabena closely. Kwabena Kwabena seized the opportunity to be an excellent performer as he played the trumpets to only one valid guest—the bride.
  
 But clearly, someone wasn't happy that everyone was in a merry mood. "Ermm, thank you, thank you." Funny Face said. "The night is very young, and there is still plenty of time to dance." He coughed in a joking way. "This is a fantabulous wedding of my main man, Kobie. Ekom adi y3 a kye."
  
 Everybody laughed.
  
 "Kobie has been a friend in those times I thought I had no friend. You know people believe since you are a celebrity, you have lots of friends and have no problems. They lie. They lie baad!"
  
 The guest laughed again.
  
 "Kobie has been there for me countless times. I can't start counting. I love you, bro." Funny Face turned back and gazed at Kobie. "This is no gay love."
  
 The men in the crowd roared from behind.
  
 "I love you with the love of a mother. Your new wife shall bring you peace-"
  
 The crowd cheered, Amen.
  
 "—And beautiful children."
  
 "Amen," chorused the guest.
  
 Adelaide, seated close to her husband, gazed at him for a second, and they both got close like a magnet drawing them together, and they kissed.
  
 Funny Face managed the party very well. He cracked everyone up. Kobie was glad to have listened to his wife to make Funny Face the master of the ceremony.
  
 A burgundy Range Rover Evoque parked outside at the entrance of Villagio Heights. Smokes exhumed from the double steel exhaust pipes. The giant oaken doors opened, and Kobie stepped out with his wife in both arms, wrapped like a child as he descended. He dropped her carefully and opened the car door, and helped her into the car.
  
 Kobie turned back and waived the increasing number of guests at the entrance. Kobie kicked start the accelerator, and the sports car hummed slowly away with a 'Just Married' tag at the number plate. The growing guest waved at them as they faded in the pitch dark night.
  
 The newlywed couple drove on the H1N1 road leading to the Tema motorway.
  
 "Honey, do you think we should go to Holy Trinity Spa tonight? Considering the journey, let's sleep tonight and start our honeymoon tomorrow?"
  
 "No, dear, I want us to get there tonight so we can rest and begin a wonderful life ahead of us from tomorrow."
  
 "Okay. Anything you say, dear. I know your eyes are lazy in the evening; that's why I'm saying that."
  
 "You have nothing to worry about, dear. We shall be fine."
  
 Soon, not long, as they just passed the motorway roundabout, a long truck skidded terribly and crashed the sports car. The car was crushed instantly to a corner. Kobie and Adelaide lay unconscious with blood spilling from their head.
  
 It was not clear if they survived.
  
  
  
 Dennis Mann - Author
 
 Email: authordennismann@gmail.com
 
 Instagram:
 https://www.instagram.com/persiux5
 
 Facebook :
 facebook.com/authordennismann
 
 Call/WhatsApp:
 +233247654113
  
 
  
 
 Wide Reading Among Kids (WRAK) is a children's literacy program in Ghana. We encourage readers to support this program. More information on WRAK here. 

 Wide Reading Among Kids 
 
 Instagram: @widereadingamongkids
 
 Facebook:   www.facebook.com/widereadingamongkids
 
 Email: widereadingamongkids@gmail.com
 
 Call/WhatsApp: +233247654113
 
 Website: widereadingamongkids.org

  
   

KATHMANDU

Gaurav Ojha (Kathmandu, Nepal) 

Kathmandu, your moral saint has learned the art of starving 

He takes on impulses of greed with hunger 

However, merchants of medicines are selling

Sickness into health 

Kathmandu, socialism is your delusion, self-interest is reality

Still, a house within your circumference signifies we have made it

Kathmandu, you have no mystics 

Too literal, nothing left of magical or mythical

Your history has crumbled with quakes

Kathmandu, where is your destiny?

New York, Beijing, New Delhi or Sydney

Kathmandu, you resemble your roads

Potholes, cracks and patched-up works

Just as street children smell weird stuff from the plastic bags

For all the puffing that goes

Living in Kathmandu is like dust in and smoke out 

Kathmandu, city of contrarians

Communists are the best practitioners of crony capitalism

Your thinkers think with what has already been thought out

Kathmandu, knows how to get fooled by clowns 

Discussions never end here

No actions, only possibilities, idealisms and imaginations

In Kathmandu, all of us have same old stories  

We have all been deceived  

Kathmandu, knows how to tame the tiger

Turn revolutionaries into rascals

You can shift destiny of tattered slippers into golden shoes 

 But you have trampled many dreams

 Your shadows are taller than your street light

Kathmandu, why does this generation want to leave you?  

You have been compared with all other cities 

Your clock is out of joint

And, the pendulum swings in extremes

Still dragged in the battle of history

You have remained as old liquor in new bottle

Kathmandu, waiting for something new

To copy, duplicate, remix and echo

Kathmandu, you are too fast to embrace fads and fantasies

Too slow to let go of what used to be

Kathmandu your face is restless and confused

In-between everything else, identity crisis

Without living philosophy of its own

"Anti" Chris Butler is an illiterate poet howling from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. His 11th book of poems, "DOOMER", has been published and released by Ethel. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal.

Why Do the Bees Dream?  
  
Why do the bees dream,  
and not only sleep alone  
when the late day chills   
their exoskeletal shell?  
  
Why do the bees dream  
with restless legs   
pollinating colonies   
where their nesters are   
cradled in hexagonal combs,  
formed into homes    
of regurgitated honey?   
   
Why do the bees dream  
when their royalty   
is an engorged queen,   
conquering the flower   
with armies forced    
to feed the budding   
baby bee population?  
  
Why do the bees dream  
of low flying drones   
snorting pheromones,   
as their radar to drop   
a stinger cruise missile   
onto the nose of an   
incoming brown bear?  
  
Why do the bees dream  
when they’re smoked into   
peaceful unconsciousness  
like poppy Buddhists?  
  
  
Iceberg  
  
The rabbit, ensnared on a frozen artic block,  
set adrift to the blue skies and azure seas,  
begins burrowing a hole, incredulous in its   
desperate search for the safety of   
a warm, underground home, slowly   
slipping further down into the indigo deep,   
until breaking through into the endless   
dark abyss, silencing its death rattle   
by drowning.   
  
  
The Way Back Home  
  
The way back home  
isn’t on a cold road  
still shining with yesterday’s rain,  
when you’ve nowhere to go,  
alone,   
watching the tinted break lights  
cover you in a crimson costume,  
passing by your shivering thumb,  
for a hitchhike  
that will never come.  
  
My childhood bat cave basement  
was just a half finished rec room,   
with all the walls stripped nude   
of posters with bunnies in bikinis,  
all toys donated to salivating armies   
of dumpster divers’ deep sea expeditions.  
  
But within an hour of   
saying and waving goodbye,  
to leave my very first fortress   
with castle walls and moats  
for dirty pothole roads.     
  
The only way back home,  
into a warm bed with   
fabric softened clean sheets  
smelling of lavender detergent,  
awakened by that distant taste   
from the kitchen of flavors   
that momma used to make,  
  
was to walk into that road  
so the next driving passerby  
would hit and run. 
 
 
When insomnia has taken complete control of your restless legs and racing thoughts… 
 
you know it’s far too late 
when after constant commercials 
for bootleg erectile dysfunction pills 
and cures for balding heads, 
all of which feature the incentives of 
female models frolicking on sandy beaches, 
and you reach the end of the broadcasting day, 
watching a 4th of July fireworks spectacular 
in tandem with the national anthem.  
 

 
Trigger 
 
From today moving forward, 
Webster’s Dictionary,  
the grammar police  
and the unfree speech Nazis 
will begin deleting  
words from the dictionary, 
instead of adding new 
mouth sounds from  
the new Old English, 
 
in order to prevent 
our peers’ pressure 
from pulling 
my fingering 
of the world’s 
trigger.