Renegades:

The town ran out of graveyard. So they buried the dead in the air. But the night winds were so strong they blew all but the heaviest corpses away into the desert. So they buried the dead in their dreams. But this made sleeping unpleasant. So they ignored the dead. But they kept tripping over them during errands and chores. So they outlawed dying. But the town was full of rule breakers. So they lived with the dead. But this required shutting one’s eyes to see. So they forgot the dead.

A Treatise on Human Nature:

The only women with bulletproof smiles

are those who know

there are no bulletproof smiles.

All men with bulletproof smiles

have been shot dead.

Death discharges all debts

male, female, or other

but most the population

is alive.

Half the world knows

blonds are responsible

for most the world’s woes.

The other half

should meet more blonds.

The human heart

is a wine cork caught

in a kitchen sink’s eddy—

wild, undrownable,

governed by forces

not its own.

We cannot think.

So don’t. 

Brooks Lindberg lives in the Pacific Northwest. His poems and antipoems appear in various publications. Links to his work can be found at brookslindberg.com.

——————————————————–

the end of this parade

i had a therapist tell me

that writing out my pain

would be a good thing

he was one of these fucks

that was never interested

in what i had to say

only wanted to make sure

the money was good

and people wonder why i drink

i feel like i can see

the end of this parade

that the light in the tunnel

is a fucking train and i feel

no desire to get off the tracks

i tell my mother there is

no reason to fear death

it is only the natural

conclusion of life

i don’t know how to be

a hypocrite on this one

i close my eyes and

accept the pain

i could care about

what comes next

but then again,

if i’m dead…

—————————————————

hoping to look cool

frank used to make

his saxophone howl

on a saturday night

i used to stand there

smoking a cigarette

hoping to look cool

putting pen to paper

when the moment

would arrive

there was a drunk

woman that took

my pen one night

i was hoping she

was going to write

her number down

on my hand

she threw it across

the street where it

got run over by

a car

i’m sure she has

kids now that bitch

about their kids and

all the school taxes

frank died a few

years later

and i haven’t been

back there in years

i did learn though

to hide my fucking

pen from the drunks

———————————————–

last nickel to my name

maybe love is a dragon

misunderstood and pissed

off about it

any delicate nature isn’t

tolerated anymore

as usual i am lost

broken and disheveled

last nickel to my name

a glass of scotch and

a clove cigarette for

that last reminder

of my youth

she was a snare drum

in a long solo from

coltrane

how she ever found me

will remain a mystery

i probably will never

get the chance to

read it

most likely

i am just a footnote

a chapter that some editor

will mark as not necessary

for the final edition

—————————————————

never cool enough to enjoy

two in the

morning

alone

it feels like

morning is

just another

reason to die

love is some

distant rumor

you were never

cool enough to

enjoy

once you got to

the second hand

of dead friends

you stopped

counting the

ones that beat

you to it

so many years

behind you that

the truth slaps

you and never

in the way you

would like

a cold reality

jack and coke

old reruns of

austin city limits

just hoping for the

right song to start

playing

————————————————

hoping for some kind of reply

i can remember the

quiet nights waking

up alone

thinking of you on

the other side of the

world

all the damn messages

sent

hoping for some kind

of reply

even a fuck you is

better than the waiting,

hoping

what good is this instant

society if you still believe

in smoke signals

the blinding sun and

a bottle across the top

of your head out of

nowhere

the average man

would take that

as a sign

i was blessed with

stubborn genes

i hope one day

someone can

appreciate that

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and The Asylum Floor. His book with Casey Renee Kiser, Altered States of The Unflinching Souls, was recently published by RaVenGhost Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

So many people in this poem	

Here I am walking through the streets covered with oppressive silence
Under a sun that consumes its trees
Nothing on the asphalt
Just traces of the remnants of fusible dreams
Yes,
When nothing but worry fills your bags
boarding the bus
will be very difficult, completely like getting off it
......

Believe me
I was about to write a poem about you
But the neighbours that separate me from them are a slanted question mark
I heard them whisper = she is destroying the time in his watches=
The pedestrians I walked by on the edges of my heart near them
I heard them whisper=why doesn’t she use the side roads, shorter, more mysterious, and
darker? =
The bus driver who looked at me out of the corner of his eye,
turns to the side of the window to whisper = every day, every day, when will Sunday come?=
I am between being and I can’t
I get stuck in their crowd and your absence
And the day was like a sudden slap,
elapsed.


Faleeha Hassan is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq. She received her master's degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is a Pulitzer Prize Nominee for 2018, and a Pushcart Prize Nominee for 2019. She's a member of the International Writers and Artists Association. Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, and the Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021). She served on the Women of Excellence selection committees for 2023, was a winner of a Women In The Arts award in 2023 and a Member of Who's Who in America 2023. She's on the Sahitto Award's judging panel for 2023 and a cultural ambassador between Iraq and the US. 

First of all, an announcement on behalf of Synchronized Chaos Magazine. We’re going to help authors with research by setting up a section where readers and contributors can volunteer to provide information to authors who want to do research for their writing projects. So, if you have knowledge or lived experience in some area and are open to answering questions for someone’s project, please email us at synchchaos@gmail.com and we’ll add you to our upcoming list!

Now for this month’s issue: Self, Others, Source. As a teenager I attended a spiritual retreat where the leader encouraged us to think of our relationship to ourselves, the people and other beings in our lives, and our Source, the higher power, however we understood that. He commented that when we got in trouble, we could imagine sending out an S-O-S and looking within, to our social networks, and our faith.

Some of this issue’s contributors engage with the self.

Bari Robinson’s excerpt from An American Daughter of Brown describes the inner strength and struggles of a young civil rights-era Black girl claiming her sense of self.

Sandra Rochelle describes a healing journey where a woman chooses play and joy over self-conscious judgement.

Rus Khomutoff speaks to dreams, the surreal, and the subconscious as Texas Fontanella’s pieces express energy, tension, and action within the artist’s mind and Mark Young sends up swatches and swathes of color and texture. J.D. Nelson experiments with thought bubble bursts of words.

J.J. Campbell reflects on memories and disillusionment and the fragility of hope as Elan Barnehama offers an exploration of how an introvert and an extrovert cope with tragedy.

Jonibek Miraxmedov presents the poetry of youth: first love, optimism, dedication and determination, and joy in life. Z.I. Mahmud examines the psychological and emotional world of T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Mykyta Ryzhykh speculates on the competing twin powers of passion and destruction, Eros and Thanatos, sensuality and fear and death. Prosper Isaac draws on the dual nature of the cultural symbol of flowers, joy and grief, weddings and funerals, the happiness and sorrow making up all of our lives.

Salihu Muhammad’s piece reminds us that like ripples in a pond, our attitudes and character shape how we view the world.

Other work addresses the human and natural world around us.

Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photography captures moments of delicacy, small creatures or objects, and encourages us to pay attention to our world on a micro level.

Marisa LaPorte describes a quest for peace of mind and peace within a family. Taylor Dibbert continues to reflect on a divorce and all it portends for his poetic speaker. Abdel Zahra Amara’s short story, translated by poet Faleeha Hassan, comments on the difference between pretty sentimentality and actual love.

David Sapp reflects on adult friendship and what makes a good friend versus a good colleague as Quinn’s evocative story highlights the power of childhood friendship to change a life and remain in a person’s memory for years.

Talia Borochaner finds the poetry in childbirth, gardens, and kitchens as the heart of much existence. Abdullajonova Zurakhan’s poem laments a caring and faithful uncle who passed away. Nosirova Gavhar writes of a young ballerina shaped by the love and encouragement of her father. Ilhomova Mohichehra celebrates the sweet fruit and memories of her home village. Tursunova Sarvino brings a scientific analysis to an aspect of childcare, the development of children’s speech abilities.

Akmalova Zebokhan Akobirkhan contributes a whimsical love poem about the disorientation she feels due to her emotions. Maja Milojkovic reflects on different types of sentimental sweetness in life and cautions us to enjoy with discretion. Mesfakus Salahin evokes the various senses in his love poem.

Raquel and Brian Barbeito reminisce on the joy of living with seven dogs throughout their lives, each of whom had a unique personality. Sushant Kumar merges with both the Earth and a lover in his poem. Sayani Mukherjee highlights the power of the sun in an evocative summer pond scene while Wazed Abdullah reflects on the calm of a moonlit night. Naeem Aziz’ poem draws on natural imagery to highlight the inner and outer beauty of a woman he loves. Maftuna Rustamova’s work urges preservation of the natural environment as Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa calls on people to step up amidst their trauma and exhaustion to heal Mother Earth.

Madinabonu Mavlonova outlines methods to improve seed germination in a plant biology laboratory.

Jonibek also suggests ways for Uzbek businesses to adapt to technological changes and increasing environmental awareness. Muquaddas Maxmarejabova outlines the many practical and social changes that came with industrialization.

Isabel Gomez de Diego’s work captures history still standing: a concrete cellar and castle from centuries ago and a dinosaur museum. Shodiyeva Mehribon asserts the pride she takes in her heritage and homeland of Uzbekistan as a young person shaping her country’s future as Alina Ibrohimova offers a tribute to the nation’s Olympic athletes.

Sitora Otajonova outlines the promise and problems of social media for contemporary users. Pat Doyne expresses her hopes for civil dialogue, equality, and progressive values.

Fatima Abdulwahab’s piece is a lament for a lost home and family in a war-torn country while Faleeha Hassan describes war as a hungry, predatory, grotesque animal. The poetry of Abdulrasheed Yakubu Ladan highlights the corruption often present in politics when there is a great power imbalance. Mahbub Alam draws on the metaphor of a large bird being chased away to depict the recent student revolution in Bangladesh. Daniel DeCulla’s poetry highlights how even candidates praised with lofty rhetoric and slogans will not be perfect or bring peace to our world. Naeem Aziz writes of students taking to the streets to make things right.

Anila Bukhari encourages writers to bring hope to those who struggle and bear witness to the world’s tragedies. Martha Ellen’s poetry muses about wide-ranging effects of trauma on a personal level, finding compassion for aggressors as well as victims. Komron Mirza laments the decline of dignity, ethics, and compassion in his society.

Bekzod Ergashev highlights the problem of youth unemployment within Uzbekistan and its effects on the economy as well as on youth confidence.

Nigora Tursunboyeva’s short story highlights the pain of impoverished orphans in Uzbekistan and the fragility of all our lives. Sonmin Yoongi urges people to live lives of compassion, dignity, and faith.

And still other contributors consider matters of faith, the divine, and sources of ultimate purpose and meaning in life.

Stephen Jarrell Williams’ poem evokes the light of truth coming through the darkness.

Jacques Fleury reviews Lori Shiller’s The Quiet Room through a philosophical lens, as a memoir of finding purpose and meaning through community and service while living with disabling mental illness.

Amirah Al-Wassif renders family tragedies and spiritual searchings into surrealist poetry while Kahlil Crawford reviews the eclectic, evocative, and ethereal stylings of musical artist Pinhdar.

Duane Vorhees probes and turns over thoughts about religion and art, history and youth, in his poetry.

Of course, facets of our existence cannot so easily be divided into three boxes. Many contributors’ sense of self is shaped by their communities and cultures, many times meaning and purpose in life comes from serving others, and it becomes possible to live in a healthy relationship with others when one is strong within oneself.

So, while these dimensions inevitably overlap and influence each other, they provide a general guide to understanding ourselves and are a source of artistic inspiration.

Sphere of the Present

Long ago he sought

only fulfillment

of his wrath and

lust. Entitled. The

dog from El Norte shed

the insignificant. A

Mexican girl

died. The meager

love she thought

true, endless

for her and

their baby, only

careening toward

the end unaware.

Her voice pierces

time seeking

justice. It reaches

into the present

“Ayudame!” I hear. I

knock on doors.

“Listen! Stop the

White dog!” Barred.

Locked forever in

an insistence to let

sleeping dogs lie

especially dogs

from El Norte.

Hidden horrors decades

old no longer

matter. Only now.

The Sphere of the Present.

All of us tangled

together. A Rat King.

Locked in a futile

struggle to survive. All

there ever was

or would be until

the end. Her

voice fades. Never

ends. ayudame

ayudame ayudame

ayudame ayudame

ayudame …..

Blonde Boy

Meet the smiling blonde boy. Never makes a fuss. [Probably.] “Hi, hun. Love ya.” A subdural, cerebellar arachnoid cyst above the right ear. Developed during gestation. Useless bits of convoluted gray matter lie about. Shaken baby. [Don’t know for sure.] A funnel-shaped cell all the way down. Down to the reptilian brain. His accomplice, Hunger, incarcerated there. Let out at night…..to feed. “Yippee!” Grinning. Mayhem. Gnawing bloody bones. Dawn. Heads for home. Door slams shut. Moans, snarls, guttural growls. Awaits dusk. Smiling blonde boy. “Good morning, hun. Love ya.”  [Maybe.]

Wounds

The wounds of our

protagonist are deeper,

more profound than

I had thought. Inflicted

in infancy. An unloved

newborn denied

even a crumb

of care and

tenderness.

He was starving. Desperate.

His faux persona might be

loved. It is all

he has. Without it

he might die adrift

in outer darkness.

Alone. No one

cares.

He has no real

self to return to if

this one fails as

it certainly will.

The artificial

can never be

sustained.

He is a parent now. The

cracks are beginning

to appear. I had predicted

he would fall like an

imploding building

destroying only

himself. But that is not

the case.

In existential crisis. He

doubles down.

Screaming. Insisting the

fake is real. He is

becoming cruel.

He is terrifying

innocent children who

need the love

he denies

them.

And when confronted,

commanded to stop

the tirade,

told he is a

monster, he lies down

to nap curled up

like a small

child.

Merge Within

With no ground of distrust,  
No agony within,  
Without worry of separation,  
Like autumn leaves  
Falling with no care,  
Meeting the earth  
And merging with it.  

In the same way,  
Come with deep desire.  
Sometimes, you bury your face in my arms,  
Seeking comfort and solace.  
Sometimes, I nestle my face in yours,  
Finding serenity in your embrace.  
At times, you somersault  
Like a playful dolphin on my lap,  
Seeking joy and laughter.  
And sometimes, I too somersault,  
Offering you happiness and delight  
From dawn until night.

[Sushant Kumar B.K. is a Nepali poet, translator, educator, and freelance writer from Gulariya, Bardiya, Nepal. He holds two degrees: an MA in English Literature and Political Science. He primarily writes poems in English and Nepali. His poems have been featured in national and international anthologies, magazines, newspapers, and online portals. He can be reached at sushantacademia@gmail.com.".]

A Tale of a Bird

A bird of prey flew away before me
While I was watching, I could not turn my eyes for a single moment
From that scene of changing ponderous sight.  
I was not born at the time of independence of our Bangladesh
It ignited my nerves and blood to see the way of people’s
Breaking the curfew flowing the waves of the ocean on the road.

The king bird sat with the chief of staffs
But what an irony of fate no way other than 
Resigning the post of the prime minister!
It had only forty minutes to leave the nest of Gono Bhabon
And at last the bird spread its feathers and flew away out of sight.

I would not like to write any episode for this
Though it has already been written in every part of the earth
And will last in every pages of history for the generation after generation
They will learn the type of bird and will sigh in astonishing
I see the birds everyday flying over head
Not like that on 05 August, 2024.

Chapainawabganj,  Bangladesh
13 August, 2024.


Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.