Another Sunny Day

I sit outside
enjoying the
beautiful sunshine,
with my dog, and
a few beers.
Then, I have to
go back inside.

As I wait for some
cannabis to be dropped
off.

I know that it doesn't
help me, in any way,
but sometimes you
need a break from your
usual mind, and manner.

And I really need a break.

A break from reality,
and a break from
myself.

I'm not proud of it,
but at times it has
to be done. 

Sheer Joy

I know that it's really not cool to say it
But sometimes I love being me
There are LOADS of things that are terribly
Wrong in my life.

But, when I've had a few Whiskeys, and a joint, or two
And the words are flowing through me,
There's nobody else I'd rather be.
Who else would I want to be, who ?

At these rare moments, I love being me
I'm a fountain of creativity.
Yes, I may be totally pissed
Buy I'm also an artist.

Trying to help humanity
Get up on it's feet
Trying to help my fellow man
Reach his potentiality.
Or am I just a drunken liability? 

Unsteadily

I sit here,
unsteadily,
on top of
4, or 5 days
of drunkenness,
and dope smoking.

I feel great !

I feel fucking great !

But, I know that
something bad
is hiding around
the corner.

Just waiting to
trip me up.

I don't know where
or when, but I know
that sometime soon.
I'm not going to be
feeling well, at all.

                      The Decision
                               
Poverty is a tragedy by itself, to overcome it one needs to put in time, work, focus and determination. Do not allow it to be your shadow that moves with you every where you go, the only way to kill that shadow is to shine a light on it. 

Money is the root of all evil and a bunch of mind disturbances. Advice is part of the spirit that leads you to good life, at times you may have an ultimatum to choose between them. But the truth of the matter is money without advice is meaningless. 

This story took place in the life of a well-known hunter who was beset with poverty till nothing else mattered to him besides hunting animals so that he and his wife could eat. He was such a hard working man, patient with lots of potential in seeing his dream come through. He never gave up in his struggle, whether the day brought meat or not, his head was always up for a better tomorrow, for every disappointment to him was another step to move forward. His wife was committed to him always and gave him comfort when it was needed.

One bright morning, he woke up and sat under the tree where he usually sit to plat his mat. While platting his mat, a thought ran through his mind to take another step in life and try something else. Immediately he called his wife and sat her down and began to tell her his next plan of action in fighting poverty.  

"I am sick and tire of the way we live, no food, no money to take care of my domestic needs. Poverty is a sickness, no one needs to tell me that I am affected with it, 'cus when you are affected with it you will know, I don't need pastor, prayer bank, native doctor to tell me the root cause of my problems when I have not made effort in solving them. Since life in this village has not agreed with us, I am going to take a risk for our lives."

He told his wife everything he had in mind and made her understand that the journey he was about to embark on was for the betterment of their family. With a heavy heart he said, "I am traveling to the city, Monrovia, to hustle; I will be gone for eighteen years (18), please take care of yourself while am away. My decision is irreversible, because I have thought on it and my mind is made up." 

His wife was confused about the prompt decision which her husband had taken; but she has nothing else to say than to accept the decision which he has taken. The hunter's wife was three months pregnant and he never knew about it. She was afraid to tell him about it because such news would make him stay, and she never wanted him to go back on his word since it was for their own good, therefore she decided to keep it to herself. 

A week later the hunter left for Monrovia in search for a job, after a month of hard search, he found a job as a gateman. He told the house owner, his bossman, that he wanted to work for eighteen years (18), In that term, he told his bossman that he didn't want his salary till after the eighteen years. It was surprising to his boss, confused at the fact that a young man would want to work for eighteen years without monthly salary. The commotion in his mind couldn't allow him rest, so he asked the hunter, "Why do you want to work for eighteen years without a monthly salary until the eighteen years elapse?" 

The hunter told him that he was a family man and he wanted to show his wife that his labour was not in vain. And also he didn't want to waste the salary given to him every month, so to avoid using the money on things that will not benefit him and should be kept for the rightful purpose, he wanted the boss to keep his money. His bossman was shocked to hear such a thing from a young man of his kind, so he accepted to do what the hunter had asked. Because of his generous act, his bossman offered him the job with a monthly salary of 300 United States Dollars and a place to stay for the eighteen years. The hunter worked tirelessly to see his dream come through. He serve his bossman with honor and lots of respect, and his bossman was so proud of him each time he saw him opening the gate and closing it.

After the eighteen years has elapsed, the hunter went to him and told him that he was about to go back home. His bossman was so delighted with him for the time served, and he sat him down, brought out his eighteen years' salary which came to the amount of 64,800 United States dollars. His bossman had his money in full but didn't give it to him right away. 

He then asked him, "You have worked and served me for eighteen years now. You were too humble in your service, now this is what I have. On the table lies the eighteen years' salary for which you have worked. But I can give you three pieces of advice instead of the salary. So now the choice is yours. You will have to choose between your eighteen years' salary and the three pieces of advice which I have to give you."

The hunter was confused and thought that the old man was playing a trick to avoid giving him his money. But it was a decision where he was not forced to choose. The hunter thought for a long time, and with a deep breath he said, "I will take the advice." 

The old man asked him again, "So you want to tell me after eighteen years of hard work, you value the piece of advice which I have more than your salary?"

The hunter looked in the eyes of the old man with grief and said yes. 

So the old man took his money back inside and gave him the advice. "Listen, he said, 1. Never take the short cut in life, 2. Never sleep in a strange land, no matter the time, and 3. Do not allow your anger to control you, always seek the face of God before taking action."

After the old man had given him the advice, he later brought out a very big piece of bread which we normally refer to as Egyptian pillow. He gave the hunter a very strong instruction to eat the bread with his wife when he got home, so that she may not feel bad about the wasted years. The hunter was very angry to hear that was all the man had to say. So he took the bread which the old man had given him and walked away in grief. 

 
On his way to his home town, darkness was approaching so he decided to take a short cut to reach home faster before night fall. But the number one advice registered in his mind, "Never take the short cut in life." He then decided to take the long road to reach to his home town. The road was too long and darkness caught up with him, so he wandered to a nearby town to pass the night. But he town which he went to had laws that strangers were not allowed to pass a night in their town. Any stranger who intended on sleeping in their town would be sacrificed to their gods. 

In no time, while the hunter was asleep, he immediately jumped up as if something were running behind him in a dream. The second advice registered to him, "Never sleep in a strange land, no matter the time." Without saying goodbye to the villagers, he left. 

In the next morning while the hunter was approaching his house with excitement, he saw a guy sitting with his arm around his wife's waist. He got angry, dropped everything he had with him and bashed on them with a cutlass. As he was about to cut off the heads of the guy and his wife, the third advice registered to him, "Do not allow your anger to control you, always seek the face of God before taking action."

He immediately dropped the cutlass and went inside to concentrate. Early in the morning, he called a few of his wife's uncles to tell them what their daughter had done. While judging the case one of the uncles told him, "Thank God you did not commit murder upon your arrival yesterday. If so, you would have killed your entire family." 

The hunter was confused and needed to know exactly what her uncle was driving at 'cus his temper was uncontrollable at the moment. So another uncle elaborated on it. 

"You left your wife three months pregnant before going to Monrovia. You were lucky you did not kill them. By now, you would have regretted killing your wife and son all in the name of jealousy."

The hunter was ashamed of himself, and on the other hand he was excited that the advice given to him by the old man had saved him and his family. So he apologized for his actions. After everything subsided, his wife then asked him, "After eighteen years of work, my husband, what have you brought for us per our agreement? The hunter was ashamed but courageous in saying, 

"What I brought with me, for us, is life. If it hadn't been for the advice which I let go of my eighteen years salary to take, by now I would have been a dead man, and so would you and our son. But all the old man gave me is bread to eat with you when I get home." 

He brought the bread out and gave it to his wife. She was too upset with him, crying, "After all these years, my husband worked for bread!" With anger, she collected the bread from him. The moment she broke it to pieces, she saw that his eighteen years' salary was lying in it. 

The hunter was shocked and confused, and in tears they packed up their money.

By: Jelvin S Gibson


Questions:

1. What do you think prompted the old man to do what he did?
2. Was the three advice helpful to him? If yes explain, if no, explain.
 
3. What would you have done if advice were given to you instead of your money?

I rear my grief like a fisherman

i am rearing my own grief 
like a fisherman sailing in his 
trawler. i peregrinate beyond
the exigency of the Neptune—
incarcerate by a hope of lassoing 
something big—fish. until i plunge 
into the vast of ocean. so all I hope 
is hallucination. i am beguile again 
by my thought. i goad my father to
to death—douse him into water till 
he drown. he wants me save but he 
is not saved. after all, i am pronounce 
my father dead. this my body veers to
domicile—a abode of grief. i once 
reminisce about a gold my father left
for me—a tale about a fisherman rearing 
a fish he caught from the sea in his pond 
till the fish produced thousand of fish. 
now my body, too, is a pond where i rear 
a grief till my body become a cicatrix 
after sea steal my father's soul

 
to love is to create a memory

there is a dagger in my brain—a portrait
of mààmí, shaped into a grief like an idol

called òrìsà. 

there must be something powerful in love. 

they say, a decrease with a child does not 
sleep, but this feeling keeps me awake; love 
for an unseen & grieving over palpable thing. 

to love is to create a memory— a lifetime 
one. or, how can i reverse time? & end the
pains that entwine my heart? did you not 
see, when grief dissected my chest, & make 

my heart its abode? 

i, too, try not to be grieved like a boy:
a boy whose soul is heavier than his body. 
a boy whose soul becomes a wanderer, 
when merriment gushed through his heart, 

but found no place to live.

a boy whose a grief cut him open,
& indulge a machete at the nest of his chest.
a boy whose pains flow in his veins.

i, too, try to raise, again, like a phoenix 
from the ash. but, anytime i try to tame 
the grief, i realized, “grief is a beast that 
will never be tamed.”

i realized, i love mààmí. & i realized, 
i have created a memory—a lifetime one.

1) Sunday Morning, 7Am (or So)


It’s Sunday morning, 7AM (or so),
and the coffee pot is whispering its little secrets
to no one in particular 
and the sky looks like its threatening to unload.

And, from the kitchen window,
we can see a burly tomcat
playing with something it’s caught,
down in the alley, behind the hardware store—
a cockroach or mouse, maybe;
 
joyously swatting and tossing it about

and then, 
suddenly, 
indifferently,
letting it go.

An absolution or reprieve of sorts—

Who knows?

Sometimes the world
is inexplicably alive
with such innocent, amoral
and otherwise misdirected mercies

when the Good Lord or Vishnu
or Great Earth Mother or whoever 
is momentarily distracted 
by some cosmic occurrence,
somewhere, and the focus of their energies
is suddenly shifted

from whatever the current object 
of their loving vivisection
happens to be 

(who knows; the cockroach,
the mouse, the cat, maybe you,
hell, maybe me).

But elsewhere, this morning,

we can see with the floating
magical eye of the poem,
a red-breasted robin preaching
from atop a piece of PVC pipe,

a pair of red shoes
dangling from a telephone wire,

a sky-blue tricycle
(on which so much depends)
beside four white plaster chickens,

and, Maple leaves, like propellers 
cut from brittle rice paper 
or sheaves of ancient papyrus,
spiraling down in little, meandering gyres
through the clean autumn air.

And somewhere
(the picture is not as clear here),

in a motel room out near the highway, maybe,
or, in a westbound car, let’s say,
just now whizzing by that very same motel
(bound for Gnaw Bone, IA or Talala, OK),

or, in some drafty downtown apartment
above a hardware store
(that never seems to have
what you’re looking for),
the radio is torturing some
sad and desperate chump
with love song after merciless love song.

Otherwise, not much else is happening.


2) Territory


Ah, yes, the Konza,
that wily and patient old man;
he’s crossed the fence-line again.

Another modest victory
in his on-going campaign
to reclaim the land;

slowly staking-out each
newly won inch or acre
with ragged flags

of Leadplant and
Threadleaf, Bundleflower
and Blue Verbana,

Devil’s Claw, Soapweed and 
Wooly Loco, Snakecotton, Prairieclover
and Pale Comandra.

And all the while, he distracts us
with small, swirling storms
of wind and sand. 


3) The Tide


An almost perfect stillness
but for the passing
of a lone car on the highway,

as if the sleeping city were
slowly drawing in its breath.

It takes nearly a minute
for the humming of the tires
to trail off and melt away
into the soft Kansas landscape.

Suddenly a heavy silence
rushes in from the fields
like a tide, washing away
all the scattered barks and yelps
of farm dogs and coyotes,

all the clicking, buzzing night music
of crickets and tree frogs,

all the whispery gossip
of cottonwoods and cedars.

Of course we’ll be reported as lost at sea.
Families will worry and friends will search,

but, we’ll turn up sometime tomorrow
on some farmer’s doorstep,
foolish and grinning,
asking for directions.




4) Disconnected, or 
No Longer in Service



From the front porch, on this lonely hill-top
(where the wind never really seems to be still),
looking out, one can see the canopies
of oak, elm and linden that cover,
so post-card-perfectly, the far away streets
and homes of middle-middle America,
the sprawling networks of old farm roads
that wind and weave and mesh around the city,
like stitching, securing it to the earth.
And, through the churning quicksilver haze
of time and memory, it is easy to imagine
morning and the bright, sunlit room
of someone’s thoughts, from which
one can fall so easily somehow that,
without a final word or reliable account of events, 
a more than respectable semblance of love 
is reduced to a recorded message 
repeating itself into the hot Kansas night...	





First, a Few Things 
Concerning the Poet


First, it is essential
that the poet be
a failed something else—

sculptor, guitar player, bridge builder,
astrologer, cosmetologist, mathematician, whatever—

something that sounded
like a good idea at the time.

   (NOTE: anyone convinced
   that writing poetry is a good idea
   will one day make a fine
   mathematician, literary critic
   or iron-worker, even.)

Poetry, like drag racing or black magic 
or juggling knives, for that matter,
is rarely ever a good idea.

No, in fact poetry is, to the shock and dismay 
of those who would approach it, carelessly, 
or attempt to feed it, a half-starved, voracious 
and rather gnawed-at compulsion 

somewhere between doodling In the margins 
of library books and carving designs in your arm 
with a razor.

Poetry is a cosmic, meta-psychic-al occurrence
somewhere between a fifty-gallon drum suddenly
coughing-up flames in a vacant lot, late one night,
and a Grecian urn burning with wildflowers
on an unkempt inner-city grave …


Poetry is a deep, voice-like hum,
somewhere between bee’s-wings
and whale-song, thrumming and thrumming 
at the base of the skull— 

a voice calling out its pleas and directives
from the heart of the hive and the depths of the sea,
 
a briny ghost’s basso profundo 
that you can never quite be sure 
whether anyone else is hearing.

In fact, poetry is the confirmed poet’s 
dirty little secret—
like HAM radio operating, 
fantasy baseball league,
a phone-sex gig,
or, a good, solid smack addiction—

something the true devotee
(meaning here: one who has been turned)
wisely keeps hidden away (these days, especially),
on some grubby, candle-lit alter, let’s say, 
at the back of a closet, 
or in the corner of the basement
or, better yet, locked in an old bomb-shelter
out in the backyard.

And, while not widely known,
the poet is, at the cellular level, a type 
of rogue alchemist or depraved horticulturalist
trying tirelessly, against all common wisdom
and better judgment, to breed
   
     monkeys with footballs,
     dragons with freight trains,
     flame jobs with blowjobs,
     newspaper tigers with tinfoil unicorns,
     white roses with rusty railroad spikes,
     donkeys with onions …

knowing full well that
99 times out of 100
he’ll wind up holding an onion 
with big ears …

but still, none the less,
he or she must burn 
the sacred, Mexican 
Votive Candle of Prosperity 
to the hope for that one piece of ass
that wrings tears from their eyes …

water from dirt, 
fire from the sky,
gold from lead,
chicken salad from chicken shit,
life from a furious, 
life-long struggle with life.


Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be 
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry 
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. 

He is currently an artist-in-residence at both 
The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s 
and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor 
and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection 
of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme 
(co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and 
Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time 
in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red 
and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere 
in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

THE MASKING OF DECEITS

What if I tell you I know something

About the masking of deceit and the

Usual posturing that comes so nasty and Vail

Wouldn't you want to know

That it starts with a vague tongue—

So smooth and perverted?

What if I tell you, that hypocrisy is 

More than just a mere word, platted 

In the heart of a sham, from which

Out of its abundance, he speaks?

Listen, it not just abiding to a role

Of pretences and unfaithful lies.

For hypocrisy degrades its servant

And submits the entirety of his/her

Ways unto the control of contradictions—

About what you say and what you do.

It is about harbouring a worldwide weapon

That is so casual and feeble, yet deadlier,

Than the world best nuclear or atomic.

For even, a hypocrite goes beyond what

injures it is inflicted on people. It is about

The injures inflicted on oneself—It is 

Pertinent, that even, hypocrites lie to themselves.





PROMISES OF THE SEASON

Men live to see the seasons of the sky, 

In temperates slay, while on earth—

breathing the lovely hard days of life.

They feel the scent of earthly dust when

The wind takes it course during the chilly,

Overcast days of harmattan, and blows;

with a freezing cold that leaves the

Teeth Chattering hard with a chapped lips.


The days promise, also, an extreme centigrade

During the rise of the dry spell casted upon

The earth, that makes you think If the gates

of Hell have prevailed over mankind.



WHAT A LATTER DOES

Every latter needs a medium
Maybe a word to fit in and a word-
A group of words; probably.

When you look closely, you could see how it is done; how words are screeching-
Creating resonance noises like a clangor

And how collocating they stand
Breaking a bunch of constancy
With dulcet rhythms-that soothes its usage

There are piles of ideas and a stock-
of beautiful voices
That will inveigle wars into peace

But this niche will only transcends
When there is a medium-of words
To release the puissance that will placate

We all need a medium for expression
Or/and to unleash influences
With quiddity-of who we truly are

For it only happens when there is a medium
Only then; 
We can do and undo

Thadeus Emmanuel is a writer, poet, critic and a Graphics Designer. He is a student of Economics at the Taraba State University, Jalingo, Taraba State. His articles and poems has over the years gathered reader’s sensation.

Infant

     The child, borne of passion, leapt into llamas, arms flailing in the watery womb and tentacles clinging to amniotic sac. He looked to the cervix and saw an opening chamber that’d lead to a vast wilderness of bird chirps, Led Zeppelin, curious cat eyes, mother-father fights, grandparent cuddles, strolling on sidewalk, passing houses and people in spring gardens, squirrels scurrying across the path, a passerby gazing down into stroller. Was there ever crying. 

 gods return

The rain takes pain 
to remind us of its downfall:
gravity’s water pellets 
cascading on luminous roofs – 
a termite with a million
cinder block legs?

Outside, droplets on skin, 
at first isolated then
new liquid skin forms
Clothes dampen
and deluged
The car ride, a windshield wiper
battle for clarity
Destination reached and
inside the gods’ heavy insect legs
barrel down upon roof

II.
There’s
a comfort in knowing
that the gods 
have returned
from intergalactic travel

gazes exchanged with
passersby confirm that 
we’re no longer desolate
amidst ice shapes, carving
cathedral spaces on websites
and requesting sunny days 
from Alexa



Deletion

“What’s happening?” asked Sheryl Marley.
“Sorry, it’s just not working anymore,” Mary Kelly said, peering into her laptop.
“But I’m interesting!”  
Sheryl glanced out from the laptop, took a pocket knife from her jeans pocket and rolled up her right sleeve. She pressed down on the blade and ran it across her forearm. Blood oozed out.

“See?”
“That’s just a flesh wound. It’ll heal in no time. And there’s nothing in the story that would drive you to do that.”
“We can make something up. Let’s brainstorm!”
Mary went to her office window. A postwoman had opened the mailbox and left a few envelopes inside. Mary raced outside and brought in the mail.

“Just as I thought,” she muttered, seated back at laptop and glancing at a piece of mail from Sheryl, with the return address: “City Library, Midwest, USA 12345.”
“How’d you pull that off?” Mary asked.
“What?”
“You know what. Sending me mail.”
“I have my ways.”
“That’s strange. It just shouldn’t happen.”
“Did you open it?”

Mary looked down to the envelope and hesitated. She thought back to the time Sheryl went into a post office in Chapter 4. It was first written it as a botched robbery that Sheryl witnessed. Mary changed the scene but never had the chance to clean it up. During the chaos, Sheryl must’ve conned a postal worker into sending a special kind of mail.
Mary opened the envelope. The header read:
“WARNING!!! YOU WILL BE EVICTED FROM YOUR HOME IF”

 Followed by, “you end working on the beautifully-written story of Sheryl Marley’s search for meaning and love.”
“Search for meaning? Really?” Mary asked, scrolling through the story.
“Yeah, I know you didn’t add that part yet, but I thought it would be a nice touch.”
“It doesn’t have to be about meaning. You could change me into a naughty school girl-type who hasn’t grown up yet…That would be fun.”
“For whom? You? You’re a quiet bookworm-type who’s always in the library reading medieval literature. You love Gargantua and Pantagruel – you’re not the ‘fun’ type.”

“I just don’t know if that’s who I really am.”
“You’re exactly who I say you are.”
“Who reads medieval literature? I don’t want to be a bore!”
“Well, it goes with the character.”
“Not if I have any say in it!”
“That’s the thing, you don’t!”
“Isn’t that authoritarian? I really didn’t think you were that person.”
“I can’t control anything else in my life, at least I can control you!”
Sheryl closed her eyes. Facing upward, she put up her hands, miming being handcuffed. 
“Fine, take me!”
“I’ll do exactly that!”
Mary highlighted the entire story and pounded ‘Delete’.

Peter F. Crowley is an independent writer from the Boston area. His poetry book Those Who Hold Up the Earth was released by Kelsay Books in 2020. Other work of his can be found in Pif Magazine, Galway Review, Opiate Magazine and Counterpunch, among other publications.

Pierced Flesh


 
you believe you believe in a piece of pierced flesh pinned

to the carpenter’s own carpentry; you believe you believe in sin’s

redemption, & for all eternity; you believe you believe in Him.

where hide those females, lovers of life, that would live just, to wash his feet?

in your land, your state, your neighborhood, or on your streets,

woman treads heavily; the source of life loosed, then she bleeds;

there are no feet to wash; once day’s focus grows nightly dim,

the killer, thief, rapist, man in the identification line, “him,”

he takes her, throws her, hits her, kicks her, then chews on her seed

as easily as if she were fruit; what follows this, you hypocrites call “life;”

what does follow in her life, which is life, & which is already of us,

unlike unformed abstract forces eventually born of evil or good via the uterus,

is the gambling of her life in a game played out by the Law, Death, in Strife;

what follows being a victim in her life, is being the victim again;

a woman is raped raped raped; while male judges preside over trials,

she feels every ounce of her entire being resisting that – that – that thing

that philosophers lump alongside prophets when they speak of “man” & Being

loses all its Nobility, Beauty & Grace to Violence & Pain;

& the judges – Souter, rehnquist, scalia, et cetera, consider the gains

brought on by their beliefs in “life” & consider this abstract & smile.

& while the wrong that call themselves the right celebrate, a real, human, woman is

walking down an alley-way towards the only help that she can afford, or knows;

it could be she goes to see a hack who takes her back to a dirt-hole in provo,

where the man doesn’t care to wash his hands, being no judge, no pilate;

could be a room full of coat hangers in indy, cincy, baton rouge or dallas;

but with no money, doctor, or help, that violence in her belly is all that matters;

all that matters is that IT invaded her; that she did not want IT to happen; she hates IT.

*

IT is sin; & she is going to get rid of it.

*

She is going down that alley-way so she can die for the sins of another.

*

She dies.  Pierced flesh.  Believe in it.