PATTERN 

   The face of the sky has not been revealed today. For some reason, the moon is hiding behind the clouds. When brother Rustamjon was nearing the road, his heart was troubled. When he got up in the morning, his nerves were much calmer, his brain was clear, his mood was high, he left the house wearing the most beautiful dress that suited him. There was no place where he did not go looking for work all day. He didn't even know how long he sat at the roadside station, angry that the day had passed. This has been the case for several days. He is sad as if his grief has overflowed his heart. If this situation continues like this, there is no question that he will become mad. The arrival of the bus made brother Rustamjon a little more alert. He remembered his wife and son who remained at home. He remembered, got up and continued on his way. When he was crossing the main road, he was startled by the loud signal. At the same time, he did not have time to go to the other side of the road...

  Izzat, who has been having fun with his friends all day long from the party, is sitting behind the wheel of a car. He liked the wind blowing through the window. Her plaid shirt was fluttering, and her hair, which was blowing in the wind, matched her face, and seemed to increase her joy by twofold. His eyes are shining with joy.

  He looked at every person, trees and even cars with a smile. He saw the ghost in front of him in the light of the cars and barely had time to press the brakes. Brother Rustamjon was confused with fear. "I'm sorry, brother, I didn't notice with my imagination." Izzat was silent for a while, and seeing the pale faces of his brother Rustamjon, he did not say anything. Fortunately, a human child is not capable of reading what is going on in his mind. At that time, only he and the Creator know how much he is cursing him from the inside. Izzat, who didn't realize what was going on inside, said, "Come on, brother, get in the car." I will take it to your house. "You are not well," he said. They reached Rustamjon brother's house in an instant. Concerned, Izzat repeatedly asked how he was doing. Brother Rustamjon apologized like a guilty person and invited him to his home. But he said that it was late at night and got into his car. At that moment, the gate opened and Rustamjon's wife appeared. He felt strange when he looked in that direction. He even started looking for his key to start his car. But the key was in place. "Yes, did you lose anything?" - asked brother Rustamjon. "Yes, here, here, I found it. We will definitely meet again", they said goodbye. Along the way, Rustamjon's wife did not leave his sight. Because when the woman opened the gate, she was sitting in a wheelchair.

    A few days passed. For some reason, Izzat could not forget brother Rustamjon and his woman sitting in a wheelchair. He left work early today. He took gifts from the store and went to get news from them. He arrived and knocked on the door slowly with a thousand hesitations. When a man's voice was heard from inside saying, "Come in, the door is open," the fog of anxiety dissipated a little. As Izzat entered the gate, he glanced at the yard. Cabbage is saranjan-sarishta. The sweet smell of basil planted in the yard opens the mind. Seeing Rustamjon aka Izzat:
  - Come on, guest, come on. Welcomed Izzat warmly. 

     "I wanted to hear from you today," he said, his face brightening. They hugged like loved ones and went inside.
    -O my brother, you have done very well. I was bored myself. Let's talk for fun?
    -Yes- he said laughing and then became serious; you haven't left my mind from yesterday. You looked a little confused. I did not dare to ask that day.

    - I have been looking for a job for a long time. There is no office I haven't been to, no door I haven't entered, - Rustamjon said, handing a cup of tea to the guest. He sipped the hot tea and felt as if his tiredness and heartache had disappeared. He took a deep breath and hesitated, not knowing where to begin.
- My brother Izzatjon, I am the reason why you are in this situation. Yes, yes, I'm the reason. If I had done the work that day without rushing to my relatives, maybe... Yes, maybe, he wouldn't be in such a situation today...

Every Thursday of the week, my friends and I sit in a cafe. On this day in the morning, I had to arrange the heavy firewood in the oven and burn it evenly. Because I was in a hurry to be with my friends, I got on the horse of anger, saying that I will do more to God tomorrow. It wasn't until I came to the teahouse for an hour that the phone rang. I didn't answer the calls because I was angry. We sat for a long time with Ulfats. Finally, when I picked up the phone, my son said: “Dad, dad, come quickly. We are in the hospital now. My mother was cleaning the oven, and all the wood that she had laid fell on it. My mother is unconscious. He hasn't even opened his eyes yet. Please come soon. I'm scared," he cried.

  Hearing this unpleasant news, I broke out in a cold sweat. When I ran to the hospital, I was overjoyed to see my mother and son sitting in front of the intensive care unit. The doctor said Adolat was seriously injured. After first aid, his condition improved. But they said that his legs might stop working.
   A month later, I brought Adolat home from the hospital. Now I spend a lot of time with him. Such words. Forgetting the habits of my youth, I am like a blind man, there is no difference between tomorrow and night. I'm making a living, even if I'm poor. Even though it was a fixed job, he punched me with determination

After Izzat listened attentively, for some reason, his respect for this person increased in his heart. Glancing, he thought about how to do good. when he heard the story of a young man who had not tasted life's difficulties, his heart felt as if it was cut off with a "crack".
Izzat looked at brother Rustamjon as if to say, "I can go now." When you get to the door:
- What kind of work did you do before? he asked.
- I graduated from architecture and worked in this field.

  Hearing such an answer, he was happy in himself, "Brother, you're leaving. Say we're colleagues. Don't worry. We'll meet tomorrow, God willing." He was always worried that my brother was not there, and Rustamjon's head went up to the sky when he was in awe of his brother.
      After a long time, the relationship between them improved. They became like brothers. With the help of Izzat, Adolat was treated by the best doctors. He started walking like before. Now there is no happier person than Rustamjon brother.

Nazokat Urinboeva was born on July 8, 2001 in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. She graduated with a Silver Medal for Academic Achievement. She has published more than 30 journalistic articles in national newspapers and magazines, more than 15 scientific articles in prestigious journals abroad. She has participated in such creative national and international anthologies as ” My mother tongue is my source of inspiration”, “Followers of Erkin Vahidov”, “Nurafshan inspirations”, “Promising step”, “Uzbek writer’s part II, III “, ” Happy writers”, “The song of Uzbek Homeland”, ” World in Uzbekistan” and ” Namaste India magazine” , “MT Kenya Times” daily a paper.

She became an international brand ambassador of Noel Lorenz House of Fiction. Coordinator the Working Group ” Juntos por las Letras” of Argentine International Writer’s. She is a member of: the Global Friends Club of Georgia;the Indian organization “Namaste India Magazine Art Council”; “World spiritual humanity peace and literary association Bangladesh”; “Poetas Intergalácticos Ecuador”; “Unión Mundial De Poetas Escritores, México y el Mundo”; “SharEvery Global Foundation”, “International Literacy Study Group”.

TEMPORARY 💫

Don't lying to yourself,
Don't blame yourself.
Stay away from greed
Don't go on animosity.
If you see injustice,
Do not silently observe evil.
In this life,
The wealth of the world is temporary.
God says if you try i will give.
If you want more,
Pass this test, god says.
Many people from this test,
Unable to pass, they feel failed.
Out of the world of wealth,
They say if I collect more

It's Four A M.

It's Four a.m.,
and I'm unable
to sleep.

I've been like
this for a few
nights now.

I've got no idea
why.

Last night, I lay
here, for hours
watching the
sun coming through
my curtains becoming
lighter, and lighter.

Instead of becoming
more, and more tired.
I could feel myself
becoming more, and
more awake.

Maybe, this is just
another symptom
of growing old.
I don't know ?

But why can't my
usual sleep patterns
remain ?

God, I really don't
like getting old.

Although, I suppose
that nobody does. 

The Christmas!

The once-in-a-year event
The opportunity to reach out to others in need
The period of typically exchanging gifts
The time for streams of carols and celebration songs
The date where all bunnies, mistletoes, trees and decorations are fully permitted
The occasion where there is sober reflections
The space of exploring sales of goods and services
The point where decisions and actions for the coming New Year are taken
The era where the savior of the world was believed to have been birthed
That’s The Christmas!

The Four Times Bag Willy Went A’slumber on his Feet       (1664 words)


There’s quite a bit more to say regarding Rip Thayer.
The Slow Man, you mean? That Rip Thayer?
Bag Willy started straightening a bit, turning dead head to head t’ ‘im, saying, There. You have not been listening to a thing I say. You don’t care at all I don’t like that. Do you? You don’t really if you did  your would not have said The Slow Man, you mean? That Rip Thayer, the way you did. How I say things is not important, its what I say that is. And you aren’t listening.
Of course I am. You’re talking about a Rip “The Slow Man” Thayer—you’re talking about that, thinking its got something to do with Sod Martin. Sure I know that. I know what you said, fine. 
Eh get off your high balls already, Brucie.
Bag, please. Brucie is not my name.

No, but it is the name of that guy came up behind you there.
What—who? Turning—scanning—back—there is no one there, Bag.
No, but—made you look! Ha ha heh hey laff laff gigglo—but it could have been, Mr. Sweater—wait wait Sweater is not my name, also, hah! Your name also? Sweater is not your name also? Is not your name also? Sweater. Is not. Is not your name also, I think your name is also, that would be a great name forte you sir-ban Also. Sir Ban Also, A great name for you, sweet. Hachta-pooey.

The first time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:

And then he all went stopped.
Willy!
Bag Willy!
It came apparent Bag did need some sleep, so they taxied him back away to whatever some cheap hotel a block away probably, after pinning to his boots a demand to return tomorrow to resume the testimony regarding Pappy Back-Slloow Mandelly-Cooper why on earth would one retain such a psycho-pomppetoed non-liturgical game-name and that was put up Bag Willy’s front when he returned fresh the next day but, the simplistical porterman ushered him in discreetly warned him on the threshold, there is paper pinned to your boots, M’seur. Let me obtain it. And, as the man bent to reach down, Bag Willy palmed his back applying light pressure so that the porter would not rise and debeak him under the chin as he bent to say over the back of the other no, no, leave it, I want it left there to prove a point, that point being revealed ten minutes later as the also fully morning fresh coffee’d down interrogationist said also there is paper pinned to your boots senor, and Willy said, I know. And there’s a reason. Your big-backed doorguardsmen squad put that on me most insultingly as I passed out that way, and I resent. I resent being thought so dumbo that I would not know to so dumbo that I come back today same weave same rack o’ dumbo bean grasping Ricky that I am and so more much smarter than all around my most times, even though I really don’t look like much’s on my ball, I do know it they do not have to act on it when how the hell can they know it its hidden inside me? I’m the only one who can! 

Darn those piccolos!
And with that Bag reached down swope up the insultationing paper to eyes level, fashioned an airplane from it, and, cruised it gone out of the into of one of the large empty tubules of darkness draping the leftwall. Say, and hear, he was already saying so about a month after Rip “The Slow Man” Thayer presumably quit Sod Martin’s pretend to play bingohall, I went out way to the moneymaker with a big flatheaded Spadea-hoe to start the job of the manual turning of the clods up down and all—and there in the turn, get it or not—a human arm off at the shoulder the hand with a black ball tight in its death-grip.
Bang!

Bag Willy seemed then to shrink back into himself. What he had described had no doubt been a shock. And apparently still was—as he sat there silent. An arm, they reflected—watching him sit there—with a black ball tight in its death grip. An arm clutching a black ball in a death-grip, a death-ball turned up from under the clods first turned up before the start of a winter just endured and now ending. It had been so cold. And the warming had come for Bag Willy wherever he'd been since leaving the sod farm and so. 

The second time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:


He still sat saying nothing so—it was ventured to ask him, Bag? 
Bag! 
Why—why are you so quiet?
Nothing. Nothing, but they had to get him going to the end. They needed Bag Willy’s recorded transcripted testameentation to the end. Oh, guys—to the and because—I am—I am okay but—Judge Ranier said have it turned in bright-shiny and typo free—it was a hell of a sight to see—you could tell—by close of business today—oh b’b’rak, it’s breaking free, he’s out there in that field, I was shaken, I was shook, I was— 

Good, good. Seeing Bag Willy in full flow, once more they resumed quickly their back-standing jotterdownerinne activity scooping up the merest scat out the fiddlin’ Mouthhole of this Bag Willy as he went on into this; the one one step behind the one one step forward reflected back to his thoughts three or seven—or maybe just yesterday—Bag Willy shewed hisself into the office identification card, in hand. Anyone having information regarding activities on the Martin Sod Farm between this dat that one there and this one I hold in my hand—which have right hand left hand think fast think fast think fast, eh; you damned a’ lick oof a duc’, you know, eh eh—and we looked at each other without words needed, saying behind our eyes at each other, What kind of a person is this come in here for the possibility of our granting them an amount of money commiserate with the probative value of the information they provide, sweet willy; yah, I got you so okay your ID checks out—and all flew up to their respective nows, all very good but, again. 

The third time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:


Again Bag Willy had—fallen silent. Be careful, be careful, do not spook him to run. Time you must give. Like if you hit a key like on that there—yah that there machine over there. Or any machine at all actually. Frustration must not be allowed to rule.
Bag sat there. So say once, Bag? Why so quiet all of a sudden?
And his face’s unchanged. Choose wait longer, or ask again. 
Nothing and nothing and nothing nothing and an’, again. So.
Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—not knowing that this second time’s just rammed in against the first time already pushing, really slow—as a matter of fact not at all yet—to the back of h’ gullet. Not knowing. His faces show unchanged—but within’s the opposipette so wait. Again. Wait and wait and any rational truly professional questionagrapher would wait there interminably, as, how can they just sit there so patient how can they just sit there ignored by that monck? He is being so rude to them where are they getting that patient and. As though they know their patience is speaking to them at any onlooker again, they wait three bit more and swing in, stop there—now go halfway closer and; Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—slips in again guess what, the butt end of the second ask of that so there, madame, approximate tickle them there now go halfway that distance—heh! Still no damned answer. 
Why is his face’s unchanged oh yes wah wah Billy its nearly your bedtime come on lets his the hay Mr. Sumo—No! 

The final time Bag Willy went a’slumber on his feet:

No no no no no—he must be made to speak!
Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—slips in a’splat ta the butt back of the third, then so go halfway that space this time and-o L’; nothing. Nothing. All patience is gone now, but that  must not show so, so wait three short waits another’s for good measure.  
How can they be so damned patient with that slug?
Not’s really, as, Bag. Why so quiet all of a sudden—slips in a’splat ta the butt back of the fourth, then so go halfway that space this time and-o L’; nothing. Nothing—and not to b’bore the swollen out frostbit universe containing you all sweet sister the bucklin’ tha’ brotherman and how many other times you see yourselves in our mirror that way? The sad answer is ‘gain, no again, and no closer 1 2 3 4 5 4 3 2 1 ‘gain, no again, and no closer 1 2 3 4 5 6 5 4 3 2 1 ‘gain, no again, and no closer 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 repleted an-titioned all out; and these may be placed into any order desired; and so, fat back sass; because of your impatience displayed this way n number of times my God you are really hosed down now Bag hosed now so that wrapped this wat ta’ that day and so after the good night’s sleep the fine weather dished up for this out past their sides, the next day the navelmen declared the channels cleared, and in the pale rise of the sun’s light despite slight overcast no, no storm’s a’brew, his tone saying plain he really meant who the hell said that, say your name, say your name, condemned;
Condemned!
Condemned.
Condemned!
Splat! 

Jim Meirose’s work has appeared in numerous venues. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer”(Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson”(JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection”(Mannequin Haus), and “No and Maybe – Maybe and No”(Pski’s Porch). Info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose

fingers of the hairdresser

part I.

around my head is a pony that changes shape.
the crystal daylight kisses my tail
                                        and is forgotten.
the color of a dewdrop stings.
the plow is a mothball of song
                                              in
creamy stucco for
                           benthic pilgrims,
                           for
                           sky’s burning feet.
the blowgun is a mace
                           for maori who care to notice.
above tablelands crawling boulders
                                                pick fights.
handsome and benighted,
sugary and cracked and limpid
                                   as a devilfish,
a noose is pulled around weeping.
museums in-
                  sist on
pan-
or-
amas
not dead. tank convoys,
                  butter pats,
                  sequined eyelids,
                  barrel-chested animations
threaten my good name.
                                             the handle
                                             of messiah
dances with cupcakes in his hands.
i am finished when anemones soil
                        the water and clownfish
                        die.



part II.

there is something.
               listen to bravery
as a suffocating
        kodiak
searches for ice floes.

                                         tides are unguarded by gravity.

whiptails smell ancestors in every direction
and they usher along the squeaking pebbles that could
have filled
buckets. so even though
                               the fingerprints
                               weren’t 
mine, they moved like my hand dipped in
                                                                      butter.

part III.

once kings were graphics for birds of paradise.
the flannel crisped in
time;
cavities
in
be-
havior
were glass-
bottomed
boats trailing horse latitudes. the volcanic
puppets
are still iceland without strings,
tristan da cunha
                  without wind.
i am forced to listen to roll-
                                          ing wagons
of the donner (bless the noisemakers) party.
where are the women who sell candied yams
? where is the perfect sprinkle
of a coma-diet? which element, do i guess, is
filthy enough to chew?

part IV.

queens were publications of cassowaries -
thick fibers of falling clouds. chicken 
                                                    little.
at any throat are ribbons of the maypole.
the scheme of taffy bites down
                                              hard
                                              here in
                                              this jagged
sequestration of rice.
poor sacks. prisons of agriculture.
a sign for evacuation is not to be taken seriously.
scraps of
heredity
never
cancelled out
in-
fes-
ta-
tion. my coconuts lost bargaining power once
they hit the ground. beetles
                                     sang
of                                  the sharpness
loud
knives. little bones pressed in cages
             were beating hearts. little test
             tubes were songs of another
             monkey. my contrapuntal history
             is a burlap finger in ice.

part V.

singular attention is drawn to the caustic
                                                             veil if
it minimizes your image or
a bagful of mussels never escape.
when you eat that fruit
                                  salad
there are deviations for vegetables:
i call you one.
                  through pekoe tea
the apartment you live in
                           is cherry soda.
with the wash-
ing
done
         your caramel eye-
                                  lashes
are underwear closer 
than                               all the
                                        dirt in the world.

livelier than christmas ornaments
             shattering,
salt and pepper snakes observing
                             pentecost
is the fir tree caught on fire. but
no one on the face of civilization
                          will listen if i
                                                 have
global                                      aphasia.
and gingivitis is
a
yellow drool not to be traded for
persimmons or
oleander       or
bottlenecked blood going northward.

part VI.

luxury quakes/small eyelets are untied/ wounded
basilisk/ sand unperched to drift/seventeen hours
and no baby/ tears are muttering/ soft beans don’t
need midwives/the car hisses a sliding coatrack/don’t
fear the penumbra of any fool/image of goatcheese
and i shrivel/we pick crescent moons/
                       the sky waits for fingernails/
surgeries in greenland and antarctica/sun-browned
furniture/poodles vomit at curbside/one polyester-
wheedled touch/one picture of dorian gray/ one
for the money/ and my nose ziplocked/ passenger
pigeons/moas/great auks/dodos/incognito/and we
have billions.

part VII.


that symbiont has exposed herself to self.
that matador waits for blood and capes.
that southern conference of bishops is sissifying birth
and piliated woodpeckers are the souls of silence.
and the aquifer percolating –
and the tongue dyspeptic –
and the ugly confluences of spittle and chess 
are where my napkin ends,
and stitches of the penguins’ wings
are dreams of the night.


bird province

small concrete confections slurped through prehistoric teeth
are the crumbs of castanets gnashed too wildly.
they fall like feather,
float like rain in a wind that is chocolate and
vanilla and brick.
in a somewhere of temperature and
breadth and pressure
and whispers of crying,
dreams are infantilized
that clutch like skunk stink
with colorful warnings.

i said to you that limitations are folded
into prerequisites of dying; that cold
noses are a prelude to suffocation;
that passenger pigeons never really
disappeared. and
bird pain, nonetheless, jimmies
a lock on time, and look
what dinosaurs have become in the
midst of extinction. soporifics
blight the need for breaking mirrors
although i could use some bad
luck to pat down a new grave-
site
or to compress minor delusions
into the speak of a helium balloon
that bellyflops and spits without fear
dripping from its eyes. and when
i pass the tungsten and bitterness
flooding the road, a caramel color
is a flightless ditch and
my knuckles are butterscotch
tasting of rain. hold your screams,
I’m not listening. the fabric of
lamplight pours off your plucked skin
and witches tell 
tales i can’t ignore when forests
are broken and i see you hardening in mud
at the mouth of a river.



homecoming

i wasn’t afraid of the wolf,
it salivated like a warm sponge
and lowered its head like a bull.
there was a current in the water
singing past palisades;
timbering sunlight.
and i was sure that coming home didn’t
require a key or fishing for loose change.
the canoe wouldn’t take me that far, anyway.
i could’ve carried time in wheelbarrows
if clocks were, in fact, hands without bodies.
or weight scurried down pointless years,
and chimneys had never smoked.
the sundried cats i see are apple cores
grown cerebral in asphalt.
mercury still measures temperature but
no longer poisons.
there’s too much rubble here to cascade
only from skyscrapers bent and chewed on but
boots are water cannons
and insects are filigreed and heavy
with the muscles of condors and
carnage plummets from the sun.
forests are always in the way:
i’ve found a blanket of painted burlap with
the crispness of fog:
when i find a door half open, half decided,
i’ll re-schedule a greeting: lift a hand
in a gesture of morning; bring down
the axe on the rest of the day and asphyxiate
with one lung in my hand.
there was a cold front waiting for me;
the breath spirited away and
buried itself like a spore.



mechanoreceptors

the prison suppurates in shock;
creased with jacketed stone.
carry the dentist’s drill.
                 spill a caravan of sand.
i can’t fill a fleshy hand with bone -
the
cavities
sing in a vacuum. i will replace
blood flow for breathing; i will suture
a bull’s snout to a faceless minotaur. and

then
i’ll spit proteins to gel in
atmospheric grease,
resonating like wind
                           chimes.

cauldrons are ripe with recipes:
bluefin tuna on archaeological expeditions:
those ocean trenches dry as stone.

sundown is waiting for me as
a canyon buys time: the purge
of a mirror is the fear i want.

and maybe
the morning’s butter can slip
                                              down
                                              my fingers
in cataracts
    and billfolds and
                                  euclid’s elements will
stay still until they are finally counted.    

Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream and Professor of Biology at Niagara County Community College. His stuff has appeared or, is forthcoming, in Helix, Rabid Oak, The Blue Collar Review, Call Me, Rise Up, Old Pal, and others. His collection “Dead Calls and Walk-Ins” chronicles his work as a taxi driver several centuries ago.

Why


Why is the only question
that possesses no answer
and is the only retort for sons
born into this life so unsure.

Why is for the philosophers,
lacking any explanation of the essence
of what it means to truly suffer,
and to find oneself inside mile high fences.

Why is for the cowards,
afraid of the dangers of knowledge
hiding inside hospital wards,
instead of free falling over the edge.

Why is for the hopeless
seeking truths that speak only in lies,
as all logic becomes helpless
force feeding propaganda into our eyes.

Why is for the lost,
when even the cold crawls beneath the covers,
paralyzing the mind with frost,
permanently burying secrets under fresh powder.

Why is an answer without proof,
such as how ages pass by so quickly in youth
during their quest of spoken truths,
despite the extraction of each wisdom tooth.

Why cannot change the past tense
and grant time to a supernova sun,
so why make the end of each sentence
the end of one’s big question?




Byproducts of Our Environment


Byproducts of Our Environment


We plugged the hole
in the ozone with the rubber stopper
that once clogged the ocean closed,
as round and round we go,
swirling counterclockwise like coils
in this Pacific toilet bowl
we call home.  



 burning book


flame ate the paper. white sheets torn off the spine and thrown into the hell of the home. ink bled as it is
consumed and coughed up as smoke, escaping the mouth of the brick throat. storm clouds, with no rain,
blow slowly away. the wind is white hot. the pages become black. the embers fade. another page is written.
another moment of fire. Inspired.