I AM
My Attention
  Unconditionally 
      & just Rest a bit.

  As I AM is Attracting
 As LOVE draws near.

     ENERGY   is
            FORCE times
                    DISTANCE,
perhaps as
 time draws 
  nearer this thought
    unconditionally.
 
      I AM
        Here
 Calls  Looking  at
      The Expectations
           of LOVE
  & just Blessed a bit.




by  John Edward Culp
Scripted Sunday Morning 
October 30, 2022

Note: In 1840, Sir Thomas Browne’s skull was removed from the St. Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich when his coffin was “accidentally” disturbed by workmen. The skull wasn’t returned to lie with the rest of Browne’s earthly remains until 1922. In addition to writing “Religio Medici,” “Urne-Buriall,” and “Pseudodoxia Epidemica,” the 17th century physician and essayist is credited with coining dozens of words including medical, hallucination, electricity, exhaustion and coma.) 

From the Misadventures of Sir Thomas Browne’s Skull

#1: Medical

after testing magnetic fluid with apples

tongue tied with a string 

& knock      

     ing on the farmhouse 

floorboards 

in Hydesville, NY

the Fox sisters gnaw’d

the skull 

of Thomas Browne 

from seed husks of sunflower & Caledonian pine

communing a shadow image 

assembled like the worldly goods 

of a Dutch still life

14.7 cm wide 

right socket cribra orbitalia,

spermaceti wedged like a fennel bulb in the left 

& drip

     ping with the endless mutations 

of Nature.

#2: Hallucination 

her eyes mention sunsets, briefly 

but then she nods twice at the overcooked agave 

cankering my broad lace collar & breeches

“hole in your lip,” she says & I 

glance in the bar mirror at my skull

a festoon of beads & sequins, almonds

painted leaves & roses wreathed around 22 bones 

that come together like a puzzle, a calavera 

that upon closer inspection is missing a name

it could be me

or just another departed 

soul. 

#3: Electricity

I sd to the son 

of the candle & soap maker

“a tenuous emanation 

or continued effluvium

retracteth fire from the clouds”

whereupon the early capitalist 

stood in a field 

with a large handkerchief

waiting for Zeus

to jump from / the sky. 

#4: Exhaustion 

After 

a 48 year 

country ramble

I’m sitting at the Horn of Plenty 

in Whitechapel 

& I says, Jack

the body is open 

to contemplation. 

#5: Coma

doorknobs & doorjambs w/ hasps & hinges / 

yellow bananas launched on blue boats / telephone game /

the benefit of planting trees in latticelike formation / snowflakes 

slide softly soon / where is the square / 

doors and jabs w/ hooks & hikes / 

blueberries craunched on blue coats / broken telephone /

dead kingfishers do not make good weathervanes / Edinburgh / 

the skin of a snake bred out of the spinal marrow of man / 

After The Storm

Candle light
Dark sky
Silhouettes of trees
Line the view outside
Booming thunder
Flashing light
Replaced by the sound
Of crickets in the night
Dull fire shines bright
A blanket of wet
Coats the surrounding land
It’s calm now

violence in the air

 

cast your eyes

off into the

ocean

 

you can smell

destruction and

violence in the

air

 

there is no force

on earth quite

like mother

nature

 

no matter

whatever any

blowhard in

power tends

to believe

----------------------------------------------------

a lesson

 

i was

told to

think of

prayer

as talking

directly

to god

 

so

i guess

waiting

for those

prayers

to be

answered

is a lesson

in being

fucking

ignored

----------------------------------------------------

an appropriate goodbye

 

i used to always fear

that i would die while

masturbating to the

home shopping

network

 

now i wish it

would happen as

i think it would

be an appropriate

goodbye to this

world

----------------------------------------------------

this beautiful cruel mistress

 

asking questions

before it's too late

 

a hole in your new

pair of pantyhose

 

sliding into whatever

the fuck dm's are

anymore

 

you're not interested

in swiping

 

and aren't exactly sure

if this is something

you're interested in

 

participating in life

 

this beautiful cruel

mistress

 

a flip of the coin

 

hitting the jack

on the river

 

luck is only for

those willing

to lose

------------------------------------------------------

with their concern in mind

 

whispers in the neon

 

the prettiest girl in

the room is chatting

you up and everyone

is looking on with

disgust

 

the joy of not living

with their concern

in mind

 

it is a hard lesson

to learn

 

but once you do

 

it makes life so

much easier

to live

 

with no handcuffs

holding you back

---------------------------------------------------------

J.J. Campbell

51 Urban Ln.

Brookville, OH 45309-9277

jcampb4593@aol.com

https://evildelights.blogspot.com



https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where all the lonely housewives went. He’s been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Jellyfish Whispers, The Rye Whiskey Review and Dumpster Fire Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Sleep

riotous fortitude              the feet at       his command
forcing into rectitude        colours flood    night time
semblances those              flattered tears   encapsulating
weary figures of disgrace     the flitting  fortunes dipped
in honeycombs of perfection’s    strangled     hand the
beauty fades into           day’s long calling        subtlety
wrenched & wrecked       from epiphany    wild dreams
engulfed          in             sudden falling       shards
distilling          your virtues      controlled  antipathy
golden memories  recycled  & harmony     reboiled
in among the               snakes         of            wrath their
seething                      nightmares             claiming in sleep.


Vowels

damn bursts        into    shards    unruly laughter
the destitute rehearse        comeuppance for
the gentry whose falling      failing          capital
lays siege     to wailing    wallflowers  and embrocation
a dalliance  with     creatures     from    darkened pools
emitting  blood       lusts    of    linguistic  deadpan images
throttling gestures rekindling          tears of russian literature
& innocence devolving           once again      the inhumanity
of man        his drenched        thru           bones declared
whittled down               in   passages        a trespass on this
night-time curfew          its razor blades     screeched against
the vowels                      laid before           his lolling tongue.

These two poems are from Clive Gresswell’s new and as yet unpublished collection SPACES. Clive, 64, suffers from bi-polar but still worked for 30-plus years as a journalist. Eventually though ill-health caught up with him. He is now a well published innovative writer and poet the author of five books of poetry and published in many magazines from BlazeVOX to Tears in the Fence. He has an MA and a BA (First Class) in Creative Writing obtained as a mature student.clivegresswell@gmail.com

CHAPTER 1
My First Shot

WHEN I GRADUATED from my New Jersey high school in 1979, I was an honor student and a junkie. I don’t mean I smoked a lot of weed or popped too many pills—I shot speed daily. Methamphetamine to
the chemist, crank in my hometown, crystal in modern terminology.

I hit a nerve in my right wrist as I injected before the ceremony. When the principal presented my diploma and shook my hand, I bit my lip to suppress the scream that surged from my belly to my throat.

Inside the leatherette cover, one note congratulated me for winning the most scholarship money, but another demanded repayment of sixty-two dollars from a candy sale, funds I had used to score a gram
of meth.

My classmates avoided eye contact when I staggered off the stage.
They giggled and prodded one another, excited to launch the next chapter in their lives. I slumped in the plastic chair, dread suffocating me as I contemplated flunking out of college. I almost failed last semester, skipping school so often, and UCLA’s gonna be so much harder.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and die of an overdose on a dorm floor. I snapped the folio shut. Jesus, is that my best option? How the fuck did I get here?

Ten months earlier, after snorting crank for three days, I had fallen into the turbulent sleep of an overdue crash. I clawed my way to consciousness, then focused on the clock radio’s fluorescent 7:08.

“Cindy,” I shouted toward my sister’s room. “Is it AM or PM?”

“Goddammit, I’m sleeping. Because it’s morning.”

I threw off the sheets, struggled to a sitting position, and waited for the dizziness to subside. As I stood, I planted my hand on the bed for balance. Trudging to my mirror, I examined the dark roots setting off my Nice ’n Easy blond hair. Smeared mascara framed bloodshot eyes above sunken cheeks. I held up my hand and watched it shake.

Shit! I look like that old drunk at the Silver Fox who spends her days chained to a barstool.

I shuffled to the refrigerator and grappled with the Pepsi tab before I collapsed on the sofa and lit a cigarette. Like every other morning, I snatched my purse from the Formica coffee table and dug for my drug kit. No crank. Just a few black beauties. Warm tears spurted down my cold face. It’s okay, it’s okay. You have the beauties.

Weaker than meth, but at least these pills delivered an amphetamine high. Should I break them open, discard the time-release ebony granules, and snort the powder for a more intense rush? My nostrils ached from overuse, so I swallowed two.

As I waited for the energy burst, I smacked my cheeks. Pull it together. You need meth. This early, Bubba’s your best bet. If you look trashed, he’ll send you home.

I spent the next hour constructing Mary Beth. Shower, blow out, hot rollers, another black beauty, frosted blue eye shadow, maroon shorts, and a breast-enhancing halter top. Scrutinizing my image again, I straightened my shoulders, tossed my hair, and practiced a laugh. Relief! A façade sufficient to hide the depths of my deterioration. I drove my brown ’73 Valiant to Bordentown’s four block city center.

High school dropout Bubba worked as a midlevel drug dealer. At twenty, he still lived with his parents in a narrow row house. I exchanged pleasantries with his mom as she spread her famous ham salad on Wonder Bread. “Help yourself to a sandwich if you get hungry later.”

Bubba beckoned me over and we walked a couple blocks to spend the day with Matt. His wife at work, the unemployed truck driver provided a safe haven in a tacit exchange for drugs. Proud of his chiseled body, Matt would use speed and then spend hours weight lifting.

As we approached the two-story brick apartment building, Bubba tugged at his loose pants. Naturally plump, too much crank and too little food had reduced his waistline. “Mary Beth, if I’m not careful, I’ll be crazy skinny like you.” “Hey, I put on a couple of pounds.” “Hmm, I’ve never seen a collarbone stick out like yours.”

Mary Beth O’Connor’s memoir From Junkie to Judge is available here.

This excerpt is from Mary Beth O’Connor’s new book, “From Junkie to Judge: One Woman’s Triumph Over Trauma and Addiction.” Reprinted with permission from Health Communications, Inc.

 

Mary Beth O’Connor has been sober since 1994. She has also been in recovery from abuse, trauma, and anxiety. Six years into her recovery, Mary Beth attended Berkeley Law. She worked at a large firm, then litigated class actions for the federal government. In 2014, she was appointed a federal administrative law judge, which position she held until 2020. Mary Beth is a director, secretary, and founding investor for She Recovers Foundation and a director for LifeRing Secular Recovery. She regularly speaks about multiple paths to recovery, to groups such as Women for Sobriety. Mary Beth’s op-ed, “I Beat Addiction Without God,” where she described combining ideas from several secular programs to create a robust recovery foundation, appeared in the Wall Street Journal.