From a difficult time, strong people come out.

Strong people create a good time and from a good time, fools come out.

Visions Fill the Eyes of a Defeated Basketball in a Show Room: A symphonic tone poem in three 

Part disharmony revisited

1-Visions fill the eyes

So close to the desired end, earthly paradise is summarily

replaced by fevered heat dreams that rise from super-highways

borne on gasoline vapor locks instead of air, assuming 

a nebulous form that coalesces Into something like a white 

stretch limo parked in outside the showing room, outside an arena, 

the pictured windows smeared with oil rich smoke and volcanic dust, 

acid rains etch furrows in like burst veins on a hot, slick surface, 

leaving behind moist dots of clotted rain that simmer and boil 

on the superheated surface causing eruptions, explosions destroying

the tiny worlds contained therein, alien civilizations formerly entombed 

by glass, released now, expanding into lost galaxies of where all

the hidden stars reside, marbleized and frozen in sidereal motion.

2- Of a defeated basketball team

Denied the basket and the ball, wordlessly they congregate at center court, 

hours after the outcome, the arena emptied, shut in, lights blackened, 

each man mimes his movements in the game they are forced to play, 

scattered across the hardwood, twelve separate paths to the goal silently 

blocked in total darkness as they describe perfect arcs to the hoop, 

no longer one on one, they are blank, mirthless shadows within shadows, 

silhouettes cut from darkness, pasted on a field of black, rising to the occasion, 

spurred on by the wordless cheers of the dissipated crowd, a white noise 

that rises and clings to the unseen rafters overhead like smoke, a second skin 

or is it a flock of black birds descending in tight circles, drawn downward by

 a primal need for revenge?

3- In the show room

Or in the junkyard of Petaluma or wherever the detritus of civilization collects, 

wherever the dead, exploded television sets collect, their screens empty, 

glass fissured and scorched by internal combustion parts, components in ruin, 

disconnected wireless radio messages contained no longer residing inside 

cracked stereophonic speakers, finally released like the hotwired audio machines 

welded to the generator that exploded expelling Compact Discs, VCR tapes 

and cassettes, dad’s, vinyl records that melted like blackened eyes over 

the metal husks of rusted, ruined cars, on the tanks of discarded toilets, 

in which all the filthy rain that falls, collects, spreading tiny rainbows of oil 

and gasoline on the porcelain skies, while rain drops fill to different levels. 

A trained ear can make out the separate discordant notes each drop makes, 

together, collectively, these notes become a kind of symphony.

Athanasius Kircher Seated on a Crocodile Composing

His Encyclopedic Works

Kircher, the man, is a  living specimen in 

a divine cabinet of curiosities. Runic scripts 

evolve from his fingertips, his quilled pens; 

all the mysteries of ancient tongues are 

supposed to be revealed with.

This man, part-magus, part-monk, writes on,

his creations legion: solar clocks

from magic seeds; rune stones and

monkey dust curatives and salves for

all that ails,  inventions and novelties

such as vomiting statues and pianoforte-like

instruments using living cats to produce 

torturous sounds supposed to be like music, 

like spy portals in revolving carved heads, 

sound amplifiers in other busts, altered to

allow listeners to overhear conversations

in remote locations; owner of Egyptian relics 

actually, made in Rome, misdated by 

a millennium ; practical theories of convection

formulated by firsthand viewing volcanoes 

from within, a research only a holy fool

could survive, whole volumes of inscribed

work, catalogues of presumed fact, completely

borrowed, wholesale copied from other scholar’s 

work, most, if not all of his own, disproved even

as he wrote on.  This man in his element,

endless amazed as he was amazing, surrounded

by angels, sun gods and goddesses, half-dragons

and half-snakes, a man so self-possessed

only death could save him from himself.

A Night of Serious Drinking as “Vertigo”

after reading Quan Barry 

All the imbibers, the refugees are emancipated from

The Complete Works of Vincent van Gogh:

The Absinthe drinkers, potato eaters, self-portraits

with and without ears,

All the close, musty rooms without adequate heat,

poorly drawn fires, smoke filtering from long,

clay pipes, loosely rolled tobacco and the tightly packed,

Exhaustion apparent in all the worn faces, the downtrodden

and the bedeviled, the unforgiving and the damned

pounding down their

Libation of choice on a night of serious drinking: the green

fairy, essence of wormwood, conveyances of

deep dreaming while awake, mortal stasis while

breathing, metempsychosis in a bell shaped glass;

Once paralysis is made liquid, bodily functions require

a superhuman exercise of the will simply to consider

locomotion;

Standing upright becomes the purest form of vertigo there is.

The Ceremony

Everyone is applauding long before

anyone has seen the bride or the groom

as if directed by the archdeacon

of antiquities, crew chief of the burnishers

of pews, rows, and rows of them so bright 

and slick, they repel the occasional rain 

that falls through the place where a steeple

would have been before the church was converted

by Navaho warriors to a hogan to let the Great

Spirit in, to allow the smoke of healing fires

Escape. Here on the edge of the Southwestern

Desert, as arid as Martian wastelands, interplanetary

penance portals, lost seekers are referred to after all

the earthbound sanctuaries, sainted places, have

been exhausted, all the sacred temples, burial

mounds, caves of redemption, warehouses for icons

played out by the faithful, standing in ragged lines

to touch the worn wooden effigy of Our Savior

of the Souls, Our Lady of Pent-up Frustrations, 

Our Burial Mound of Reclining Statuary, Our

Souvenir Stand of Holiest Waters, confections 

blessed by on-premises priests, blood from 

the stigmata of virginal suicides, made in China

facsimile glow-in-the-dark missions, Christmas

tree ornaments, the wounding lance of the unhealing

seekers after holy grails on display, not available

for any price yet, not even what was yielded from

the passing of the offertory trays, bequests left

by patrons of the sacred arts, tax exempt foundations

exploring the possibilities of unified field theories

involving Native American Folklore and Medieval

Christian Idol Worship, they who clear the center

aisles for easy passage from one state of being to

the next, they who scatter dried herbs and scented

liquids, part aphrodisiac, part aromatic, part soporific,

specifically made for vision inducing hallucinogens 

so that when the high priest looks up to view the anointed, 

it is unclear exactly what he sees, what he should say, 

how the ceremony should proceed and when it does, 

what it means.

The Killing Fields as Robert Towne’s Screenplay for “Chinatown”

after reading Quan Barry’s Incontrovertibles

Seven million skulls planted on the sloping streets in

soft earth beneath cobblestone streets.

The skulls that sprout are fashioned into masks for

street mimes, performance artists, trick or

treating kids.

Each time a siren is heard, a new round of killings is

being announced.

Hovering overhead, chopper blades localize the places where

blood has been shed and broadcasts it to networks,

police headquarters, the general’s palace.

The mastermind behind the most heinous of the ritual killings

sends disciples made totally suggestible by infusions

of drugs, sexual addiction and hypnotic commands,

to continue the killing

Blood of the victims is used to write DEATH TO PIGS 

on walls, or to leave tell-tale prints to warn those

who follow the killers here, that the Future will be

determined by a new kind of Primal Law: Kill or Be 

Killed, Eat or Be Eaten.

Stated fears of race wars, and political persecution, are just a

rationalization, an excuse to insure that the killing will

go on.

Witnessing the senseless murdering reveals that, Death is a release,

that what may be done to the next generation, the unprotected

by arms and man, will be much worse that what has been

done to the dead ones, and you will be powerless to prevent it.

There is no overthrowing the strongman, only Death will survive.

“It’s Chinatown, Jake.”

It’s the Killing Fields.

The Assassination of John F. Kennedy as the Marathon Run Up

Mt. Olympus

after reading Quan Barry and  J.G. Ballard

We’ve seen the pictures hundreds of times by now whether

we cared to see them or not:

The originals of the motorcade  in black and white followed 

by the bizarre shooting Live of presumptive assassin,

Lee Harvey Oswald.

The unforgettable processional afterwards: the cortege, the banging

of the drum slowly, John John’s loyal salute.

And in color: The Zapruder tapes slowed down frame by frame,

on that warm, clear November Dallas day: Jack’s bare

head, Jackie’s hat, Governor Connelly and his wife

waving to the crowd, Jack’s head exploding, blooming 

like some time-lapsed flower bursting open, smoke rising

on the grassy knoll…

And we are running; smoke rises like fog on Olympus wreathing the hidden peak and all that might dwell there.

26.2 miles of running steadily uphill over brutal, rocky terrain

in summer’s dreadful heart stopping heat, the goal less

and less realistic, less visible with each step upward,

steps that bring you higher but no closer to the gods.

The Impact of Social Media on the Lives of Young People

    Nowadays, not only young people but almost everyone has become attached to social media. Many people even think that it is difficult to imagine life without social networks. Of course, modern life requires the use of the internet and social media. However, it is important to be careful when using them and to be able to distinguish useful information from unnecessary information. In particular, people should be able to analyze various unverified or fake news.Social media also has many advantages. For example, we can find almost any information we are looking for on the internet. It is also possible to keep up with daily news and follow events happening in different countries. In addition, there are many useful videos and lessons on social media for learning languages. Therefore, many young people have the opportunity to learn new knowledge and skills independently. However, the negative aspects of social media are also very serious. For instance, watching various short videos such as “shorts” can narrow people’s thinking ability, weaken speech fluency, cause them to waste time, reduce sleeping time, and even lead to memory decline. Moreover, the family environment may also be affected: instead of spending time with their families, many young people spend their time on social media. As a result, they may become unaware of feelings such as respect for parents and the importance of spending time together and having conversations with family members.

It is true that phones and the platforms or programs on them are created by humans and designed to function in a certain way. However, nowadays it seems that phones are controlling people. This is because many people easily become dependent on them. There are many young people who spend five to six hours or even more on their phones every day, wasting their time without any meaningful purpose. However, this does not mean that everyone is like that. There are also many young people who use social media properly and meaningfully. They have dreams and goals for their future and work hard to achieve them. Instead of wasting time, they use platforms such as Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok in a productive way and organize their daily activities according to a schedule to continue their studies. In my opinion, young people who spend their days on social media in a useless way have become detached from reality and dependent on their virtual lives. Time passes very quickly, and I believe that wasting it inefficiently is wrong. In addition, such people may cast a shadow or darkness over their own bright and promising future.

Bekturdiyeva Nargizabonu was born on December 7, 2007, in Khiva city of Khorezm region. She won first place at the regional stage and participated in the national Olympiad. In 2025, she graduated from school with a gold medal.

Currently, she is a first-year student in the Geography program at Urgench State University. She has three journalistic articles and is the holder of a DGU certificate.

Her articles have been published in the famous “Synchronized Chaos” journal in the USA and in the “Ijodkorlar” journal in Uzbekistan, and she has also participated in an anthology. She is also a member of the Argentine international organization “Juntos por las Letras.”

Upbeat

☆☆☆

Living at the edge, 

a hope that lingers with faith 

The time is yet knock in, 

and the sailor at this end keeps on sailing.

The destination has been declared. 

Awakened and aware, silence speaks its glory. 

The sleep is sound today. 

Dreams peek from the sleeves of slumber. 

A smile floats at the edges of the river. 

That had been a testament of winter. 

Spring knocked long before the fall, 

and the luminosity keeps sailing, on and on.

Breathe 

Breathe

U are having 1 second to see your whole life before you die..Choose… 

Re born in another reality

Ι do not belong…

All your life they teach how u must do, think, act, love, live, smile

All the years of education they teach how u must be present, dress, talk, feel…

All the time at your job they teach u how u behave, how u must seat, react, claim, interfere, communicate…

All that faces they teach me..make me feel that i do not belong

I do not belong in half truth

I do not belong in that small garden

I do not belong in the words that was never said

I do not belong in small boxes that keep the smile of the morning

I do not belong in shouting and bullying of the love, I never get

I do not belong in the uncertain possibilities

But i do belong in myself

And in the possibility of climbing a big mountain

Maybe never go to the top

But I do belong in my dreams.. 

Wishes

It shall be a festive day

When the Dawn shall come

There shall be Sun and Joy.

There shall also be a fair.

In the porch there shall be red roses.

Basil and myrrh trees.

All of them so dear.

For us

Life will start…..

Before you existed

You were a thought in my soul

Before you speak 

I understand your words

For years

Loneliness was my companion 

See the stars

Make wishes

Hoping 

Before i met you 

I knew your perfume

Before you speak 

I understand your soul

See the birds

Make wishes

Pray

Before you imagine 

I draw a circle

I see you in and me

Protected 

Blessed 

Before you kiss me

I feel your lips

Your body 

A fireball 

Burning me

Slowly 

Before i leave 

I will never say goodbye

Αbout love

Moon know nothing about love

Man know nothing about the love

The humans love each other as they remember the love they received

Love is energy

Love is free and everywhere

Sun know nothing about love

As exist

Sun keeps shine

Give light and brightness

Humans know nothing about love

Love is not selfish

Love is not take or give

Love is a small gesture

little thinks as a sparrow came to the backyard

Love is few

Love can be big moments

Humans cannot understand love

Nobody can understand the cry of a newborn baby

Love we learn by giving away

By respect the man

Cherish the woman

Worship God

Love we cannot see

Or touch

Love is in ever little piece in earth

Listen your heart

Love as your heart beat

With harmony

With truth

Love is freedom. 

Stranger myself

Today I stared at my emotionless reflection for a long time 

I stared but couldn’t find my old self

Even my eyes have changed

Maybe my bold words that came trembling

A smile is spreading on my face

The jokes too, maybe that cheerful joy 

But deep down in my heart, there is a constant pain

Where are these traces I have left

Sometimes I miss my old self 

My spotless, shining eyes

Even though the years have not changed

Today I didn’t even recognize my face

As if I had abandoned the whole world

Today I am in an incomprehensible state

Turning my face away from everyone

For my loved ones, I am a stranger

Even though the years have changed, these years 

The hands that were placed on my shoulders and rubbed

But my heart remains on those paths 

On the nights when my tears flowed.

If my loved ones come looking for me

I am in that year when I was alone

Tell them this is what I said

I am on the same path you left behind

La bandiera della pace

ci sono nomi che hanno peso e 

sostanza diversi dal loro significato.

la terra è un’eco che si sgretola sotto i piedi,

la bandiera della pace 

è una statua di piombo,

la sollevi con fili d’acciaio, non sventola, 

non ha terreno in cui crescere, 

ma non smette di volare.

…….

The Flag of Peace

There are names that have weight and

substance different from their meaning.

The earth is an echo that crumbles underfoot,

the flag of peace

is a leaden statue,

you lift it with steel wires, it doesn’t flutter,

it has no soil to grow in,

but it doesn’t stop flying.

Imma Schiena – RT

Italy