Redirect to Self To Sleep, Perchance to Dream I come home in Eucharist Body slanted in brown-and-broad-faced praise The simple shape of this Gemini Made for Taurus (I’m born again Among stars) The fabrics that strecheth and bindeth me are no more, Cast away, deemed false Deemed sacrilege Deemed too cool I’ve always wanted to call myself a r3b3l I’VE GOT NO CAUSE TO PROVE IT (apologies for the outburst) This is my temple, my history. This is my sacred Hell This is my poisoned Heaven I ask you to come and worship Hand in hand with me And live neither dead nor awake But dreaming all the same Dreaming till dreaming becomes too much to bear and the urge to lead some great parley with the sandman bears strange fruit Skin bagged like dying men Flesh downy like sheets I ask myself: Why do we (always) Worship what we can never obtain? The static of the commercial world wedges a sea of product placement into my endorphin-dependent sludge I used to call you brain But you have since become (insert Egyptian word for brain) So that a witty comparison centered around the ancient belief that The brain’s only purpose was to hold apart the ears and the heart Did all the real thinking I suppose they were mostly right ‘Cept I don’t think that makes me any smarter considering my track record I still pray to altars of IKEA wood and Amoeba plastic I still try to use hooks to remove the wart I call reason I would lay with Morpheus happily (speaking as a straight man) If it meant the sleep was dreamless And deep And the clock stayed silent For as long as I am waking There is nothing left to do But if I dream Then there is the lover-shaped void that I tried so hard to fill with broken people Never bothering (until now) To see if I fit myself --
Category Archives: CHAOS
Story from David Sapp (one of three)
Taxi at the Peace Bridge
After a four-hour layover in the Buffalo bus terminal, after crossing the Peace Bridge in the middle of the night and disembarking again, an honest and earnest young man, I naively informed the customs officer I would be “earning my keep” in Canada. Big mistake. No one told me what to say. I was pulled aside, ordered to go here and sit there, and watched through the windows as the other more fortunate and savvy passengers climbed aboard the Greyhound and pulled away, privileged to be trekking into the dark expanse of Ontario.
It was during the Reagan administration. I was escaping trickle-down economics by heading toward Kingston, at the eastern end of Lake Ontario, to a little run-down farmhouse and a few out buildings, a place called “Dandelion.” It was a modest commune in the middle of nowhere, at the end of telephone and electric poles. About ten Canadian and American twenty-something men and women lived and worked together there weaving hammocks, tending an impressive garden, smoking a little pot now and then, and generally attempting to live a simple, peaceful, egalitarian life according to the utopia in B. F. Skinner’s Walden II. This, I thought, was my moment, and this might be the place where I might find an authentic sense of self – to pursue my ideals. And just maybe find love. When waiting with my dad for the bus north, the zipper on my bag split open. Dad took off his belt and cinched the whole thing closed. What was I doing? We both choked up, and my feet were heavy on the bus steps. My ideals faltered, but I found a seat.
Turned away at the border, I was dazed, lost, my future uncertain – with no idea what to do next. A taxi must have been called. The cabbie led me to the car, picked up my bag, placed it in the trunk, opened the door and motioned me into the front seat. On the way back to the U.S., he quietly provided me with instructions for another attempt at the border. He seemed to recite these directions from experience: walk nine blocks back to the Buffalo station, find the number 10 city bus to drop me near the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls. Ask the bus driver. He’ll know. Try again. Lie. Keep it simple. Years later, on a nostalgic visit to Dandelion with my wife, we drove over the Peace Bridge corridor in daylight. It was all concrete and asphalt punctuated by orange construction barrels and lines of big rigs. The few grim buildings were blockish and dull, the water flat and gray. This was exactly what I felt and imagined when I travelled this way that night.
After dropping me on the U.S. side, as I watched him pull away, I realized that the soft-spoken cabbie didn’t mention the fare. Still reeling and as that was the first time I rode in a taxi and was unfamiliar with the protocol, it did not occur to me to dig out some cash. He gave me great advice and didn’t charge for the ride. What a good human being, such a contrast to the cold demeanor and the crisp, impeccable uniforms of the customs officers. The U.S. officials asked for identification and questioned my citizenship. I stated too sarcastically that I was just turned away in Canada. Where else would I go? Dawn was breaking as I quickened my step through the Buffalo neighborhoods. I wondered, what if it was raining? According to the cabbie’s prescription, I found my way to the Rainbow Bridge and though I was anxious about where to go next if I wasn’t turned away again, I paused and took in the horseshoe falls halfway across, beneath the American and Canadian flags flapping side-by-side. The vast immensity, the roar of the falls, and the swirling mist were breathtaking though fleeting. I recalled the painter Frederick Church and his portrayal of the sublime landscape. I considered, momentarily and perversely, how fortunate I was to be in this distressing predicament. At the toll booth I paid ten cents and when the pleasant woman asked about my stay in Canada I declared, “Just visiting friends – a week or two tops.” She smiled, knowingly I thought, and waved me on. Somehow, I found a bus terminal, my ticket was good for the next connection in a weird bit of luck, and I took a seat next to a kindly lady who reminded me of an aunt. We talked of Canada and Ohio on the way to Toronto. She spoke of her grandchildren. I wistfully described my grandparents’ farm in the rolling green hills of Knox County. She needed a little reassurance that I was not a runaway teenager. The passengers on this leg of the journey were a stark contrast to the rough, sullen crowd between Cleveland and Buffalo.
At the Toronto layover I browsed through the World’s Largest Bookstore and picked up a corned beef on rye at a very loud, bustling, and confusing delicatessen – my first deli experience. I was ordered by the patron to go here and stand there. From there I made it, thankfully and uneventfully, to Kingston and Dandelion. But I didn’t find love. It was all worthwhile I suppose; however, after four months of hammock weaving, jerry-rigged construction projects, wincing at residents’ attempts at self-taught guitar, and listening to pointless petty squabbles between couples, I determined that people were about the same everywhere and that my ideals could be actualized most anywhere – even Ohio. I discovered that authenticity prevailed more in the kindness and generosity of that Buffalo cabbie than in the subsequent months playing the enlightened hippie.
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
Poetry from John Edward Culp
+ I drive my piercing Blade Beneath the rocky soils of a Blessed Sky driven by winds. And Fear itself Scatters the Rocks to leave the Silt, For Rains will draw a carried path to fruition. A Tall Shield differentiates Love's lights to mend Our Hearts with Grace ♡ ............ Composition May 21, 2024 on a Tuesday Morning by John Edward Culp
Poetry from Jesse Emmanuella
Each bridge he links To the end of each valley Is the sweet fruits of his tree of life Each sweet fruit he tastes Gives him the bitter part of life
Poetry from Gabriel Flores Benard
Tinted Mirrors Imagine a room brightly lit with autumn aura of dried yellow and sweet potato. No doors, no windows except to the soul. Mirrors line the walls in fractures and rainbows, simplistic to extravagant eyes of separate shades peering into yours. Oh, the ideas, memories, reflections bleeding out, pouring back into your essence. I envy your shards of opportunity. Now, imagine the page in front of you, notebook sheltered in hand. The light is no longer warm; dark blue whispers emanate through the room. Pen ink lingers on the page, colors, letters, remnants of sensory sorcery. The tinted reflector has a color of your own: blood, tears, touch, eyes lining fractions of your story A new beholder shall soon perceive this work of art.
Poetry from Jonathan Butcher
The Sea This bay adorned with seaweed covered rocks, the slight foam that we avoided, due to its displacement among what beauty we could drain from this impeccable dullness. The sand now scattered with half filled bottles, the remnants of a planned weekend piss-up gone horribly wrong, due to a lack of hindsight on just how deplorable this destination is, despite our longing for nostalgia. The crack of gulls upon polystyrene clog up the salt air inhaled, leaving white dunes in our lungs, absorbed through arteries, and bled out across a beach now devoid of promised pleasure. The cliffs now split silently in two, alcoves that barely accommodate our disappointment and slowly close in around us, as we gradually arise once more and begin to repair what is left of our dignity. The Last Days The owner of this trough has simply past caring, likewise it occupants, who feed on its contents; their sunken principles stoop to a new low, like a torn kite through a vortex, never quite hitting the ground. Their breath held tight, any forward vision now blind with pride, corpulent with the grains they have sowed with minimal toil, and distributed only amongst themselves. The tower they deemed could never be toppled now corrodes brick by brick, untruth by untruth, and slowly falls into this breeze as toxic dust, which luckily we finally have the chance to purify. Perfect Practice Chattered words in private, those footsteps practiced in circles that never decrease, time I considered wrapped and protected in this refuge which offers no respite, like a barb-wire bird's nest, cradling nothing but discomfort. And when the hour strikes, those shredded nerves now engulf each limb and muscle, a sense of vertigo as that time approaches, teeth grating against pavement curbs, the end result is no protection for a broken throat; the rehearsal always ends up the finished product. Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press.
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin

Being Alone Very often I forget the consciousness of death Although my hands are stuck to the soil of the grave Every human being wears clothes Addition and subtraction of demand A staircase extending from zero to infinity The galloping horses run into the unknown The distance radius increases from person to person People bury dead people and want to escape from death The time map stops with hands raised Deeds walk along the path of the past A dark wind rising from the hole of the grave Hiding the footsteps of dead people The fragrance of roses, the color of marigolds become like a stranger. White chrysanthemum wrapped in a shroud Perception on the leaf is irrelevant Running from death to survive Quick exit from the cemetery Where one day we must come for eternity. Then being alone.