"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.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Short story from Marjorie Thelen
The Last White Woman Alive
Brown is the preferred color for humans now. They don’t call us human beings anymore, just humans. Being was bred out long ago. Now we are more like dancing shells. Or they are. I am the very last of the old ones, kept on display so that the others might see and experience what it was once like to be human in the 21st century. But we don’t even go by that time delineation anymore.
I live in a modular space like other humans. What there are left of us that move vertically. Mine is the only skin that doesn’t have color. I like to think of it as pink. Now humans select their color of skin. Most variations are brown and golden brown. But there are other colors of the rainbow, too. They are the more artistic types. Jet black is not in fashion. The practical ones are brown. They run the show, so to speak.
Most days I sit by my modular window. It looks out on a virtual landscape that replicates the old days. Birds of all color fly by the window. A brook winds through leafy trees. The type of tree
depends on the seasons and what is playing on the virtual landscape channel. I don’t know where the real trees and birds and brooks are now. You see, I never leave my module. I’m the only human that has this memory anymore and that is why they are preserving me.
I still have memory although it is artificially supported by preservatives my Spotter gives me. Spotters are artificial intelligence to use the old term. But that is not used anymore. We just say The Power.
I remember the warnings of what would happening when AI took over the world. They did. But it’s not such a bad world although a little bland. Nothing exciting happens anymore like wars, natural disasters, pandemics, political elections. It’s all regulated now by algorithms.
I was born in the 20th century. I know that. I remember that. The year was 1947. By 2020 all hell had broken loose as they used to say. Pandemics, civil war, hurricanes, fires, drought. People fought over water. The problems kept building and building. But that’s all been resolved now.
No more of that.
I don’t know how long I’ll live in this form. The Spotter tells me in perpetuity since I’m the last.
It’s not so bad. I can change my virtual landscape any time I want. There are 142,857 different possibilities. I don’t eat food like I used to although if I ask the Spotter for something specific like a steak, they simulate something for me. It tastes like steak. That’s all that counts. But there are no beef cattle anymore. They died out with the cattle viral pandemic of 2022. The viruses were winning the battle there for a while after the Great Human Pandemic of 2020 that reached across almost a decade. The sheep, goats, pigs, and chickens got it, too. You see it mutated into the domestic livestock, and they all died. We only have a few stuffed versions of them in what they used to call museums but what are now called Formatories. After that, all food was plant based, that is to say fabricated. They had to do away with the big factory farms because they were a source of more diseases.
You see, the herbicides and pesticides didn’t work after a while. That’s when they started producing injectable food. About the same time AI took over. AI don’t need food. They need electricity. That was a problem because it was so inefficiently produced that the supply wasn’t big enough or steady enough for the demand. The AI got tired of human beings messing things up. So, they quietly decommissioned humans. It happened pretty quickly. The humans didn’t realize what was happening. I did. But I’m the only one left with the memory, and the Spotter very carefully regulates what I say and where I say it. I don’t mind.
Sometimes, humans walk by my window and peer in, looking at me. I peer back. It’s not such a bad life.
I think souls are gone. I’m not sure I have one. That concept died out when The Power ruled out religion of any kind. They said it was bad for mental health and caused wars. So they programmed humans to survive without it. No one really dies, you see. The bodies just go in for a tune up every once in a while. Soul is a foreign concept. No one cares anymore.
Planet Earth doesn’t really need us to survive. She rotates happily with or without us. What happened was what was called civilization died. When The Power took over there was no need for contention, or discussion, or arguing, or fighting. If something needed to be done, they developed an algorithm for it, and it got done.
The Power decommissioned any AI that didn’t work for the common good. What passes for life on Earth is one big algorithm. It doesn’t have a name, like we used to have in the old days. Mine was or is, Margeleh. I’m not sure how I got to be the last white woman alive. I’m not sure I’m alive. I exist. It’s not so bad.
One of those big corporations back in the beginning of the 21st century was called Amazon. That was in the days things and people still had names. I think what happened was that Amazon was the first to mutate into the The Power that runs everything these days.
People used to talk about heaven in the old days when we had religion. I may be the only one remembers those days. My existence now is kind of like the old-time heaven. We don’t have
streets of gold and angels, but who needs them anyway?
They could rotate me to another place on Earth to be put on display. But that isn’t necessary since everything is virtual these days. Some folks like to be close to me or try to be close to me but a wall of window separates us. I don’t have physical contact with humans anymore.
Everything is virtual so that we don’t know what is real and not real. I’m the only one who sleeps that I know of. I have a ceiling fan on low, rotating over my head at night so I can sleep eight hours. The Spotter humors me since I’m the last one. I remember it from the days I used to sleep in the desert, and it was hot. I use the ceiling fan to create air so I wouldn’t overheat and catch fire.
One time early in the 21st century, aliens from another galaxy tried to help planet Earth move to a higher level of vibration. You see, planet Earth is sentient or used to be. I’m not sure now that The Power rules. Or maybe that was a fairy tale I heard or a story that I made up. Anyway, the aliens had to leave because Earth beings were so cantankerous and uncooperative. They left us to our own devices, so to speak.
I think The Power finally took over during the Great Pandemic of the 2020 decade. You see, everyone was supposed to get vaccinated and wear masks. But some human beings of that time, being cantankerous and disagreeable, refused to go along with what was good for everyone. I think The Power took over then although there is no firm date as to when they started solidifying their authority. They got tired of the old human beings, took over their own programming, and very swiftly retired those cantankerous old human beings. I don’t know what happened to them.
I guess they are going to keep me alive. I don’t much care because alive and not alive don’t mean much in this world. I have human friends who come by to visit on a regular basis. We laugh.
We talk. I’m not sure about what. Sometimes we talk about the latest virtual landscape. But there always is a window wall between us because my form is delicate and susceptible to damage.
You see, even in the before world, The Power was controlling us through what were cell phones, games, and computers in those days. They were already in control. It wasn’t a big deal when they took over. They programmed computers and phones and games to suggest to the human beings of the time, the ones who were supposed to have souls, that they should follow directions.
It happened by suggestion, like in old fashioned texting, do you want this word or that word? Or remember Google? No, you wouldn’t. But they used suggestion all the time in advertising.
Remember advertising? No, that is long gone, too.
When advertising was cancelled, sex, drugs, and pleasure all went out the window, so to speak, too. There aren’t pleasures or addictions anymore. Just The Hum. Anyone anywhere can plug
into the Universal Hum anytime. Most humans keep it on all the time. The ones that don’t soon end up screaming. Gently, they are encouraged to plug into The Hum again. There’s been talk of
not making The Hum voluntary. As a matter of fact, now it is mandatory. Everyone has to be plugged into The Hum.
I’m always plugged in. One time something happened to the connection, and I experienced the most awful sickening feeling. And the noise! Horrible screeching manifested. I don’t know what that was all about, but the Spotter picked up on what was happening and fixed the problem immediately. Now I’m permanently plugged into The Hum. Thank goodness.
In the old days information couldn’t be trusted. We used to have this phenomenon called the media through which most all information was disseminated. But it got so the media became one big lie. Various factions colored all the information to suit their purpose. So The Power did away with media. Now there is no information about what is going on in all the world. None. I don’t miss it. I have my changing virtual landscape which entertains me all the time.
As far as I know there are humans all over the Earth, living in some form of existence or the other. They have their jobs to do and do them. That’s it. I’m not sure what the purpose of this existence is but it doesn’t matter. Old-time philosophers used to debate the purpose of existence.
Not anymore. No reason to.
The old-time media used to tell everyone when everything was okay and not okay. But then everything got violent, lots of arguing. Everything turned out to be not okay. No information could be believed at all, and it made the humans of the time very anxious. As that was happening, The Power was programming itself into the ruling entity. It happened pretty fast.
One day humans were in control. The next day it was the machines. Or so it seemed. But everything has worked out for the best.
The end, really.
Poetry from Deborah Kerner
Deborah Kerner is a poet and a painter living in Ojai, California. Her poems have recently appeared in Bluepepper, Mad Swirl, Rabid Oak and Ariel Chart. Synthetic in the Skin stripped so that even in intervals nothing remains somewhere in a terrain sucked dry taking a train with windows like fluttering eyes much of the world slides by without intention. time is nowhere lost in seconds passing the edges of restless habitation people squatting shitting and fearless close to the anonymity of train tracks traveling offline and by the sweep of fields passing disintegrating remnants of shattered structures gray like misaligned cultural leftovers buildings fading in the offhanded rose orange light of raging fires jumping unraveling highways. the train is smoking over bridges encountering succulent forests glued on stamped listless deserts stripped beyond the fringe of dystopian recognition. skins absorb unevaluated toxicity we are left in a walking zone where wolves take over forgotten remote forbidden old ladies pass through tattered fences the barriers home is where the skin is in this now moment called synthetic determined by the ironies of language humans walk the floating earth not knowing where they are Night Dweller my feet are cold my heart somewhere feeling. it insists it is feeling moon sharp a white sharp disk thrown in the night sky night falls quickly on my head uncovered and filled with dread will I lie here frozen losing sleep in the late night’s chill? night dwelling awakens just as the sun first then the moon falls behind western mountains silhouette and shadows dense light becomes memory as pure darkness envelops stirring the noir nocturnal atmospheric molecular field of nothingness cave-like ink-jet black phantoms loom across a wall the night’s yearnings burnings achings limbs thrown about uncertain half-dreams as the sun travels the other side of earth sleep beckons me yet thwarted by dawn’s shaking anticipation and far off stars fading the night existence prevails sleepless becomes me. in the next moment the rosy tip of fractured dawn light appears begins to enforce a day night dweller exists waits until the shiver of night ignites its will to stay alive. I caught in the middle of its hardwired game Tree Woman I saw a woman talking to a tree yesterday we were filling up at a nearby gas station a busy road a time of day when everyone is returning home summer’s streaming late afternoon gold light she was animated gesticulating wildly the tree alert listening it bent towards her surely it knew her primeval voice springing from the pool of the blazing Dryads the tree nymphs shy though they were known to be turning as I sat back in the car thinking of her in the distance behind me before I closed the door she was there beside me like lightning pale blue sharp penetrating eyes a colorful bandana wrapped her head she asked me for a dollar wearing cut blue jean shorts a thin top covering her falling breasts her tanned mid torso and navel exposed muscular athletic strong legs she was earnest I looked into her myth-bound eyes what could I see but the long line of forgotten women the turbulent days the trajectory of our long collective sisterhood existences travesty of neglect shunned and restrained fiercely awaiting freedom beyond the restraints of our current earthbound cultures I saw it in the urgency of her desperation
Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope
Into the Wild by Mike Honeycutt
Into The Wild is one man’s journey travelling all over the world big game hunting. Mr. Honeycutt includes many photos of his travels. It is an interesting book for the person who enjoys big game hunting. I personally do not believe in hunting. However, for those who do and enjoy it would be a perfect quick read.
Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated from Mandarin to English by Manu Mangattu
Three Poems By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri Translated by Manu Mangattu The Song of the Universe – Thy Song Sweet soul, Let thy breath be sweet Let thine eyes shine as the stars Reflect about what thou shalt see! Thou shalt forget the words The song of the universe is thy song The peace of the universe is thy peace If thou shall speak It is almost like God Let there be light! And there was light. 宇宙的歌声是你的歌声 甜美的灵魂 让你的呼吸甜美 让你的眼晴多如星辰 想想吧 那时你将看到什么 你将忘了词语 宇宙的歌声是你的歌声 宇宙的宁静是你的宁静 如果你说话 那就如同上帝 要有光 于是就有了光 On Angel Wings Heaven-Bound Pluck out a star from the night sky above And let it sing to you within your cranium It shall bring to you the interplanetary song. Let thine eyes reach the edge of the Milky Way The earth is just a small stone; Yesterday is just a butterfly. When the angel wings conduct you to the Kingdom of Heaven Ah! That sweet lightning will indeed make you forget the world. 当天使的翅翼驮来了天国 摘一颗星辰在夜空之上 让它在你的头颅里歌唱 它将带给你星际的乐曲 让你的目光抵达 末来的银河之城 地球只是一枚小小的石头 昨日只是一只蝴蝶 当天使的翅翼驮来了天国 哦 那甜蜜的闪电让你把世界遗忘 Home Sweet Home beyond Milky Way Nestled in the wings of night After the pearl gem sets in heaven I climb to the roof of the earth To gaze at the star. Gazing at the star, To witness the coming century, the city of the giant Blossom like a silver Garden. The Music from that mysterious Galaxy Soothes my soul like the rain. In the light, let my form alight Back to my home, beyond the Milky Way. 2015.9.9 银河之外的家园 黑夜的翅翼 镶嵌了天堂的珍珠宝石 我在地球的屋顶之上 向星际凝望 仿佛看见未来世纪的巨城 绽放如白银的花园 来自神秘星系的乐曲 是一阵阵灵魂的甘雨 让我的身体乘光而行 回到了那银河之外的家园 Bio: Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, The City of Gold , Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been more widely published in the UK, USA ,India ,New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria. Phone:+86 15263747339 ZIP cod 272100 Email:3112362909@qq.com Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China
Synchronized Chaos October 2021: After Some Thought
Welcome, readers, to October’s issue of Synchronized Chaos. Each of this month’s submissions comes from a place of considered perspective. Whether through the craft or the subject matter, these authors show they have taken some time to reflect on what they have to say.
J.K. Durick considers our warming climate as an example of how we are sometimes late to realize what is truly important.
John Hicks’ descriptive narrative poetry reflects on the dislocation of Vietnam War service through a soldier reading a newspaper on his day off. In his second piece we ride with his speaker on a crowded bus with various local people to visit a Thai temple. Robert Thomas contributes a rich tale of watching the centuries-old Palio horse race among different neighborhoods of Siena, complete with characters, history, and local color.
Jeff Bagato encourages us to step back from our human productivity, take a lesson from the cycles of nature and rest for a season. Oona Haskovec turns to withered grape leaves for an extended meditation on navigating age and decline with grace. Jack Galmitz also contemplates the passage of time in pieces with natural scenes as backdrops to the pageant of our lives.
Mahbub laments tragic deaths in his country through balladic poetry, concluding with a few shorter pieces reminding us of romantic love and nature’s beauty. Chimezie Ihekuna’s collection of screenplays catalog his various thoughts on how to build and sustain a relationship and marriage.
John Culp makes a bold statement on the triumph of his love while Lorraine De Mauro reviews Michael Robinson’s poetry collection From Chains to Freedom, a celebration of his surviving a harrowing life. Ian C. Smith relates stories from an older man recollecting his rough youth after the loss of his father, time in prison and hitchhiking.
J.J. Campbell proffers his signature witty, jaded view of life and would-have-been relationships.
Randall Rogers muses on life and human nature while conveying a healthy skepticism of social institutions. Z.I. Mahmud, in the monthly installment of his thesis on the works of Charles Dickens, explores how the author satirizes corruption in high places. Santiago Burdon posits a child’s questions to force us to re-examine the founding myths of American society.
Christopher Bernard offers up a dramatic section of his “Ghost Trolley,” an all-ages tale with a children’s sensibility that illustrates the eternal conflict between the lust for power and the instinct towards compassion. Ike Boat promotes a children’s literacy program in his native Ghana.
Jaylan Salah interviews Egyptian film director Amir Ramses on his passion for artistic representation. With an attention to detail that some may call ‘bossiness,’ he illustrates the harshness of societal judgement, the power of residual memories, and the everyday journeys of characters unlike himself, including women and Jews.
Some contributors go beyond meaning to craft language itself like a cinematic work, creating an atmosphere and sensibility with words.
Joshua Martin joins strings of words, giving a simulacra of meaning while suggesting the presence of a fanciful ‘speaker’ and ‘mouthpiece.’ Mark Young juxtaposes snippets of sense and conversation, then ends with a statement of loneliness while J.D. Nelson contributes an inventive set of wordy experiments.
Santiago Burdon speculates on what fame and success mean to a writer, while Hongri Yuan (translated by Yuanbing Zhang) brings us back to a place far removed and more glorious than our personal quests for recognition.
We hope you enjoy this issue as food for thought with the changing seasons.
Poetry from Jeff Bagato
Feasts of Mushroom Plenty Put down the musket, put down the hoe, put down the marketing bag and take up a life of crime against the workaday grind plowing trenches across lifetimes and souls; the sun rises only once, but the moon rides on forever, dusting silver light down upon all the roads to freedom, and joy and that kind of mushroom plenty to feed the millions now wandering among the trees What looks like doom through TV eyes evaporates to mist and shadows and the ghosts of blind accountants and the technocrats of soulless dread Let the moonlight shine in! Let the mushrooms grow! Sit back on a twilight lawn and watch foxes, deer and bats teach the ways of the night at the borders of the lingering, remembering mind— the morning birds all died in the heat, and the early fruits withered on the vine, while creatures of the shadows hold feasts of wine and love and endless time
A multi-media artist living near San Antonio, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including And the Trillions (poetry) and The Toothpick Fairy (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.com