John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, and Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2023). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
A hyperstructure of surreal evocation: a review of Kaos Karma by Rus Khomutoff
Kaos Karma, the latest chapbook release from Rus Khomutoff, has remarkable weight for such a slim volume. Coming in at a mere nine pages, the book, were it not a digital only release, would feel delicate in the hand, something only barely able to delay its inevitable collapse. This feeling is soon swept away once you pull back its figurative cover and begin to read. What is found within is a poetry that is anything but delicate. It is a poetry wrought with energy and power. A poetry that does not relent and does not care for the easily overwhelmed senses. Perhaps it is a blessing that it is so short.
Kaos Karma does not bring the reader gently into its message. From the opening page, read as a solid block of full caps text, the reader is almost overwhelmed by the concrete, almost monolithic structure of the work. Its appearance seems almost intended to intimidate the reader. There are no soft hands to guide you as you read on, you are hit again and again by these unrelenting blocks of language. These almost endless sentences are like surreal billboards and indeed I would very much like to see some of this work as billboards. A wakeup from the endless detritus of the advertising world. A hyperstructure of surreal evocation.
The language of the book carries a heavy taste of surrealism, those dreamlike and visionary sentences that burn and strike the mind. ‘HEAR THE SECRET SUN SPEAK BLOOD LABYRINTH BLOOD FREED FROM THE WEIGHT OF ALL TIME ALL THE DARK REBIRTHS ARE MINE’ is but one example. Though this heavy language is broken up at times with a kind of new-age esotericism, ‘NOSTALGIA IS A DRUG’, ‘BE ALL THINGS IN ALL TIME’, the self-help for the burnt out searchers on the edge of an insane whirling mountain. Guidance from Khomutoff to where? And when? Who knows? This combination of the abstract and concrete in the language give the effect of the reader being brought back into a recognisable and understandable world, though only for a moment. Once the surreal language reengages the reader is sent back off into the vortices of mental propulsion.
And there is a purpose here, though it is obscure. The writing is taking you somewhere, like a guidebook, like the great Bardo Thodol, the Tibetan book of the dead. ‘ALAS THE CHILD WHO LIVES IN A MYTHICAL, PARADISICAL TIME RENEWING THE WORLD.’ But unlike that holy ancient text which reaches in to take the reader through the labyrinth of illusion through to a clarity of consciousness, through to the other side, Kaos Karma does not state which of its threads is illusion and which reality. Perhaps there is neither in Khomutoff’s cosmology, or perhaps both in a swirling miasma of meaning and nonsense. It is up to the reader to decide.
While only a brief taste, it is a taste so full and potent the reader will find themselves at the other end of Kaos Karma with the heady feeling of both clarity and confusion. This is an artwork both highly idiosyncratic and universal all at once. I have spoken often of the idea of the third text, a text that exists only through the combination of the mind of the reader and the work they are reading. A text that exists entirely unique and which is conjured by strange and powerful, but obscure language. Kaos Karma is such a work. The reader is all the better for having experienced it.
Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. He is a member of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X/Bluesky @NJApoetry.
Have you ever felt like killing someone? I think most have, maybe four or five times in a lifetime. My number’s higher, maybe twelve times a year. I don’t consider myself a sociopath or psychopath. I don’t know the difference. Is there a difference?
In 2005 I was on an elevator in the Prudential Building, glad to be out of the cold of late February, on my way up to the thirty-seventh floor. The elevator was empty except fore me. It glided silently up at a good clip. I was thinking about how much it would cost to heat this entire building in one Chicago day. Maybe more than I made in one year. The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and a young man got on board. He was skinny, dressed all in black, and his hair was dyed green.
The young man rode the elevator to the seventh floor. When we got there he stepped half way out, leaned his left arm on the door and gave me a big smile. Then he hit all the buttons on the elevator going up to the top by running his fingers across the panel. That meant the elevator doors would open and shut on every floor till I got to the thirty-seventh.
Anger flared through every muscle of my body. I rose up on my toes and slapped the now closed door with open palms. The anger management class had not prepared me for such a sudden show of hostility from a young stranger. When it came to the young, my anger made few distinctions. They seemed egotistical and took their comfortable world for granted. They had no respect for those who had sacrificed to serve their country.
I felt in my left inside suit pocket for the piano wire I’d had since my tour in the Vietnam in 1970. I kept it because Chicago is no longer a safe city. Even in the loop area, this close to Lake Michigan, a person might attempt a robbery. Now I felt immediately that I was justified in killing that smiling green gutter snake.
My plan was to come up behind the guy and strangle him with the wire quietly and quickly. Before that green dude got off the elevator, he was probably seeing as fat and out of shape. No threat to him. Just an old man.
I got off two floors above where green dude got off on the nineteenth floor, took different elevator down to his floor. I walked all the quiet hallways but I could not find him. I opened all the doors on the floor and looked in. Mostly they were law offices. No sign of green hair.
How can anybody be so stupid as to dye their hair green? Must be a lonely, attention-seeking dude. A narcissist. Pathetic. No women will ever love him. Leave green to the trees and plants.
I forgot my job interview on the 37th floor and went back down to the lobby to wait for the green guy. His hair was pasty like a green avocado, only shiny. I waited an hour, trying to look busy on my cell phone, but he never came down. Could the bozo actually have an office in this place? Maybe he had a company that sold hair color for men.
I decided to walk around the area near the lake and then over where the big department stores were, hoping I’d catch sight of him on the street. After an hour I gave up in the cold and ducked into a bar on Wabash to warm up. I was ordering a beer when I look down the long bar I see that the second bartender has green hair and wears black.
“That’s an unusual hair style,” I say to the guy standing next to me at the bar.
“That’s Pete,” the guy responds. “His father owns this place, or did. He died two weeks ago.”
“Well, I guess somebody has to run this dump,” I mumble.
“Yeah, I think the family has to sort it out. Does it go to Pete or to the brother of his dad? His uncle helped run it. The dad died at fifty-five and left no will.”
“I’m not a lawyer,” I add. “I used to sell cars. It seems right this place should go to the son.”
“That’s what the regulars think. We remember Pete when he was a kid pushing a toy truck between the tables.”
“I didn’t play with toy trucks. I had toy tanks, soldiers and fighter jets. My dad was killed in World War 2 at nineteen when I was two. My parents were from Alabama and got married at sixteen. I don’t remember much of my dad.”
“Hey Pete, come down here. This guy’s a lawyer.”
“I said I was not a lawyer.”
“Pete, this guy can help.”
“Great, tell him he gets free beers.”
“Pete, I’m sorry,” I say. “Your friend here got it wrong. I’m no lawyer but don’t mind a few free beers.”
“You look familiar. Haven’t we met? Didn’t I see you earlier?”
“No, I just pulled into town. I live in Wheaton over an hour away.”
“Sorry about the mix-up. Things are always noisy in my bar.”
“No problem.”
“What do you think of my hair? Odd, huh? My customers here can now always spot me.”
“It’s a bit odd by Wheaton standards.”
“I did it for Saint Patrick’s coming up. I thought I’d do more this year than green beer. It’ll give folks a laugh. We can all use some cheering up.”
Green Hair goes to get me a beer on tap. As he walks back toward me with the mug of beer I study his face. Is this the guy from the elevator? He’s the only green hair guy I’ve seen all day.
“Sorry about your loss,” I say. ‘Your dad left you something wonderful, and thanks for the beer.”
“You’re welcome,” the green-haired bartender says. He gives a quick smile as he walks away to help another customer.
Murodova Muslima Kadyrovna was born on June 29, 2010 in Jondar district of Bukhara region. Currently, she is a 7th grade student of school No. 30 in this district. Her first book of poetry was published in 2024 under the name “Come beautiful spring”. Winner of many achievements. She won the 2nd place at the festival held in the district. She won the 1st place in the district stage and the 2nd place in the regional stage of the “Bakhtim Shul: Zulfiyasiman Uzbek” contest. Her first anthology was published by the UK publisher Justfiction Edition. Founder of “Muslima’s” blog. A young teacher who was able to develop about 250 artists. Owner of more than 50 international certificates.
Well, The essay of mine is based on overcoming conflicts in my personal life. If I reveal something about my personality, character or lifestyle, it's that I am such a calm, peaceful, introverted, relaxed person. I can say that not upsetting people is one of my traits.
So, why am I writing or exposing my character in this essay? To explain that I have encountered so many problems, conflicts, issues and longitude considerations. I am absolutely saying as one of the minor member of this generation -people, especially youngsters, do not want to respect others. I had had some kind of conflicts with children, individuals and school organization that year, I am going to speak about them one by one in my essay.
Initially, my personal character has caused many misunderstandings with school mates during my school years. I do not fancy having a conversation with people who are irresponsible, irresistible, irrespective, rough, rude and also stupid. Nonetheless, we must admit these types of people are more and more around us.
Once upon a time, when I paid a visit to school in the past, some teens in my school were kidding me and say something worse about me. At that time I did not pay attention to their stereotypes. I though it was a simple childish thing of them to say. Then it escalated and I should have done something to prevent these bad things for me, at this time I had few conceptions of how to get rid of their violations or bullying.
Therefore I have three ways to figure out this conflict, First, I can utilize adequate manipulations to their psychology, because if they had had a good personality, they wouldn't have behaved themselves in this way. In this situation, not only did I not influence them with true and impactful opinions and conversation, but I was likely to be influenced. I just ought to speak to their guardians or parents, if I was not able to manage it.
I would call their parents, so that I could have a straightforward and easy conversation. The next day I did come across again to them in the hall. Tranquility was really gone there, they were bound to reveal some of nasty or unacceptable sayings again and again. After that I had been trying to have a top-notch and real conversation with them.
I requested them to please tell me why they were doing that to me. I had spoken about their life, asked them to be a merciful person. I told them about homes for orphans, refugees, and the poor. Then I said it was not too complex to be a better person.
Every person has a admirable personality, positive hobbies, and closest acquaintances who are able to shape that person from the core. After this phenomenal situation, every member of his "crew " left there without any words, genuinely realizing that we must be thankful, respectful, and responsible humans. We must take a look at the significant issues around our world.
They understood that embarrassing people did not gain them anything. I was both happy to influence someone to find out the significance of their life, why they are living in this life, what the importance of their goals and dreams are, and indispensably, to be a grateful person. They had bullied everyone, not just me, so that's why I did these campaigns to teach manners to them. It was beneficial for everyone who were suffering from their actions, because everyone has a right to live proudly and independently.
Faizullayeva Gulasal was born on January 28, 2009 in Gijduvan district, Bukhara region.The author of “My father’s dream” and “My mother’s paradise”.In addition, he made many achievements in chemistry and biology. English language, literature, mother tongue are among his favorite subjects. Participated in the “Festival of Book Lovers” – “Festival of Literature” and won a 3-day trip to Tashkent. There are 6 people in their family. His father died. She is a very talented, smart and beautiful girl. She has many plans, dreams, and goals for the future, so Gulasal is studying biology and chemistry and making every effort to achieve them. He wants to become a good doctor in the future and send his mother to Hajj. Her future dreams are to take IELTS, win student of the year, Zulfiya award and open a course and teach students.
