Departure's Price To feel what isn’t there is all I need this far into a one-night adventure, daylight now ends. Wanting her to tell me nothing, except lies that would convince a clock to move forward to no return or a pause at the precise or rumored false step any love demands more than once... Around which we skirted, skilled as puppets who can do little more than entertain even when the applause is neither obsequious or false. And now the price of departure, a tax wanton drinking and lust begets, awaits with receipt... As we linger in a paid for bed without the energy for lies, I check messages that say nothing. While she watches, showing no emotion, a copy of me, trying to figure out long after the last kiss how to get out of this with a grace we both lack. Knowing this was a mistake and the new day only a chance to make more. K2 Driving to the airport, its nearly dawn turbulent dark skies and dim tiny stars my lone company- the radio's low. Trying to make sense why so much has gone awry or failed to transpire so far. all faith submerged , lost to the undertow. where life seizes you and then flings you down until you’re prostrate on knees or the floor someone shouting ten and you’re counted out. I'm driving to a new start and new town. It wasn't love K, you closed all the doors I kept knocking still, with all of my doubts. K, I see your face with its vague sad hope its goodbye tears, it wasn't love but close Beginnings Do not ask me of others, let’s start fresh. As if we were rare seedlings in the spring sprouting promises with our sweetest thoughts rooted deep beyond earthly wants of flesh. Beyond true love’s lost dark imaginings pale jealousies , tides of mistrust wrought. Let ardor beckon, wondrously new we’ll be its play things, puppets in a dance. outside the present to postpone regret by giving love each day its place, yet true to ourselves, mocking fate’s uneven chance diving to we know not, and come out blessed. So let’s begin, without a sin or stain after I ask you this-what is your name. Her Blank Canvases Home dining alone or with one who cares she claims she’s happier since the divorce won’t marry again even in a dream. When asked if she still paints, I’m made aware passing fancies and hobbies run their course as does a lover lost in the midstream. Where I drowned in drink after she left me to go to Paris with a man she thought loved her and did till the money ran out. While I stayed servant to the tapestries of color and wild imaginings caught in a canvas awash in reckless doubt. When I say I still paint, there’s dead silence ah there’s much that dies without violence. Truncated Affair You can kiss each of my tattoos, she said, if you buy me one. I asked about the scar on her cheek. She was silent, not wanting me near wounds, healing or unhealed. We made love, our confidence misplaced in a bed where excitement’s rush & its dichotomy to both discover and hide were the wrong guides to entwine us past the temporary. She was precious, much as she denied it when sober, which was rare. Each morning, pouring me coffee, she'd do two lines, check mgs, leaves me 2 poems someone else wrote a disquieting challenge I never clearly won or lost. When we traded kisses, I'd win every time it didn’t count. Real or imagined, her smile is always enough to earn her tattoos. Trouble came in a script for a movie she began to think was us... In real time arguments, complications, violence, plot twists to an ending. Predictable, even with all the rewrites. Her goodbye, open ended evil, made truth out of the lies in the disconnected thoughts of her I can't disconnect from now, unable to sleep i'm no longer awake without some cost. Imagining only her ink stained body again leaving mine unmarked with its sweat almost clean enough for purgatory.
Poetry from Sushant Kumar
Mother looks exhausted …..And she works Nowhere, some say Neither at any Administrative workplace Nor any I/NGOs No job; nothing, she does. Yet, she wakes up Always early in the morning Along with cock’s doodle -doo And, the whole day and late night And in sun, in rain, She accomplishes Something; Called, household chores Cause, She, a Mother, Who beholds a golden Future for her offspring She has no such thing As OFFICE TIME And, A Housewife, An identity all provide And exhausted, She always looks Multiple times than any Office goer As her eyes awake like Owl over the night And hands unrest like A machine Cause, A golden future As she beholds For her offspring. Be conscious and Considerate And read and interpret Your mother’s eyes, You see Tears rolling down Yet, smile on face And exhausted Yet, loaded with affection As your achievement is Her satisfaction So, she cares Upbringing you The best way Because, as a golden future she Beholds For her offspring Though her work is not recorded In any administrative office Yet she is uncelebrated, Unsung hero Behind her offspring, As a golden future always she Beholds For her offspring.
Bio: Sushant Kumar B.K. is a Nepalese poet, educator and freelance writer who resides in Gulariya, Bardiya, Nepal. He has MA degrees in English Literature from Central Department of English, Tribhuwan University(TU) and Political Science from Kathmandu Central. At present, he has been pursuing his third master degree in Public Administration. He teaches at Janasewa Multiple Campus, Baidi, Bardiya. He is also the principal of Bageshwory Secondary Boarding School, Gulariya, Bardiya, Nepal. He writes poems in English and Nepali language.
He has attended writing workshop jointly organized by Fulbright Nepal and Dignity Initiatives, Kathmandu, Nepal. His poem “An Age of Paradox” has been published in An International Anthology, Pandemic Poetry 2020, and his poems are featured in The Kathmandu Post, The Himalayan Times, The Gorkha Times, My Republica, Indian Periodical(India), Grey Thoughts(USA), The Piker Press (USA), Borderless Journal(Singapore), Williwash WordPress (Nigeria), Sindh Courier(Pakistan) ,Seto Pati, Sahitya Post, Shabdasopan, Central Khabar and Firewordsdaily . He can be contacted at bksushant26@gmail.com.
Short story from Mark Blickley
“My Better Half”
People who see me must think I’m eccentric, emotionally disturbed, or lonely. People who speak with me have told me that I’m an obnoxious, good-for-nothing bastard, a nasty prick, but I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. I don’t even care who reads this damned notebook. My name, Andrew Tremper, is right on the cover for all to see.
It all started about nine years ago. I was shacking up with this girl who was what they call a “modern dancer.” We lasted a little under a year together. Her name was Miriam and she went to some artsy-fartsy college up in New England to study THE DANCE. When she returned to New York she joined a dance company called Dervishing Divas. I met her at a performance on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.
I was confused. I’m an educated man and I know what a dervish is—it’s spinning around, out of control. But the Divas didn’t spin. Hell, they barely moved. For over an hour all they did was lift a leg or move an arm or twitch their head every few minutes while electronic music slammed into our eyes and pulsing lights irritated our eyes. The Dervishing Divas sucked, but Miriam looked awfully good in her low-cut leotard, and I could see that she had the rounded buttocks of a thoroughbred horse.
I don’t even remember how I got to a Dervishing Diva performance or where I heard about them, except that back then I used to make the rounds of a lot of inexpensive arts events because there was always lots of women and I was posturing as an arts enthusiast, a good looking, well built arts enthusiast. Hell, I remember the night I nailed Miriam. I had to put up with hours of her artspeak about how the Divas don’t dance, they manipulate movement and shit like that. Well, let me tell you, she moved like a worm with a match under it later that night and a lot of nights that followed.
When she finally skipped out on me, the bitch left me a going-away present—a life-size cardboard cut-out of myself. On a note pinned to its crotch, she said she had it made because talking to the cutout was the only time she could have an adult conversation with me, expose her feelings without being ridiculed, cut-off, or ignored. The note said a helluva lot more than that, it was a freakin’ manifesto, but you get the idea. It was a real artsy exit, don’t you think? And probably the highlight of her creative career. I mean, just imagine all the thinking, planning, and execution involved in trying to make me feel like a complete shit.
I was going to throw the damned thing out, but I grew sort of attached to it. She did pick a pretty decent photo of me to enlarge in cardboard, although I’ve always thought of myself as somewhat taller than I am. Standing back to back with the cutout proves we’re both the exact height, five feet ten and three-quarters of an inch. That sonofabitch dancer nailed me down to three-quarters of an inch. In her manifesto, she predicted I’d keep the life-size cutout because I was so in love with myself. Miriam was wrong. I kept it to show the other broads I bang the monument of obsessive love given to me by a former member of the Dervishing Divas. The girls I take up to my apartment all seem to be impressed, so I guess Miriam’s cruelty backfired on her. How’s that saying go about a last laugh?
I kept the cardboard cut-out of myself inside my apartment for about three or four years. It made its world debut at a stupid party thrown by a woman I was involved with who lived in Hoboken. The point of the party was that no one could speak. Everybody had to write these responses, keep them in their pockets, and then show them to other guests when communication was desired. We were kind of like idiotic mimes without makeup. I feel like an ass even admitting that I’ve attended parties that, but hey, in a time of wildfire viruses, artsy babes are the most liberal and liberated, so I played the game to win the prize. Sue me. It’s better than sitting home and choking the chicken in front of adult video rentals although that, too, has its moments.
I cut up a few garbage bags and wrapped them around my cardboard cut-out that I named Sir Andrew. As I pulled the plastic around Sir Andrew’s head, it felt as if I was trying to suffocate myself, which is ridiculous because I don’t hate me. I pulled the plastic off Sir Andrew and decided to take him outside in all his glory. I figured I’d allow other people to enjoy twice the pleasure of our handsome face.
I had to carry my cardboard cut-out of myself down to the PATH train station at Thirty-third Street. PATH trains are subways that link New York City with New Jersey, and man did I get some bizarre reactions to carrying a life-size cut-out of myself under my arm as I crossed the state line beneath the Hudson River. I dug the attention.
The reason why I decided to take Sir Andrew—I’m just plain old Andrew—to the party was because I’ll be damned if I’ll spend my time writing out silly shit on slips of paper just to appease some piece of ass. If they want me to be silent at a party, fine, they can talk to my life- sized cardboard cut-out, Sir Andrew. He won’t answer them back.
Sir Andrew was the hit of the party. A gorgeous redhead even slipped me her phone number when her hostess wasn’t watching because she wanted to hook up with the “creative genius” that had turned the party’s conceit into what she said was a new art form, for some crap like that, yet all I did at the party was smoke some pot, down glasses of great cognac that the label said was made by monks, and eat like a pig. Whenever anyone approached me with their little fuckin’ witty remarks on paper I’d shrug, shake my head, and point to Sir Andrew, who I propped up in a corner of the living room. So there you have it, the secrets of a creative genius. My mother used to yell at me that if I kept my mouth shut people wouldn’t know how stupid I was. I guess the old bag was right. Anyway, tragedy befell me and Sir Andrew later that evening. I had planned to spend the night with my girlfriend, but she caught me making out with the redhead in the bathroom and pitched a fit. That’s when the silent party turned into screams.
I told her to shut up and stop running the integrity of her party, to pull something out of her fuckin’ pocket for me to read if there was something she wanted to say.
The redhead immediately ran off and shortly afterward my girlfriend kicked me out of her apartment. I grabbed Sir Andrew and staggered my way back towards the PATH station. I was really loaded; that bitch should not have driven me out of her home. Before I even made it over to the subway, a Hoboken cop gave me a summons for pissing in the street. I think I even accidentally sprayed a bit on poor Sir Andrew.
I had a hard enough time navigating through the streets and train turnstiles, but with Sir Andrew tucked under my arm it became damn near impossible. My cardboard cut-out smashed into telephone poles, parked cars, fire hydrants, as well as other pedestrians, and was nearly decapitated by closing subway doors. By the time we arrived home, Sir Andrew was bent, ripped, crumpled, and stained. He looked exactly the way I felt. He slipped out of my hands as I flopped onto my bed.
When I woke up the next afternoon the first thing I saw was Sir Andrew, face-up on the floor, next to my bed. He looked scary. It was as if I was looking in a mirror at a decaying, diseased image of myself. My first impulse was to crush my cut-out and toss it into the garbage, but the idea of trashing myself like that was too disturbing. That was when I realized how attached I’d become to the fuckin’ thing.
I couldn’t keep the cut-out, but I wouldn’t throw it out either, until I could replace it. That’s when I remembered walking past this porno palace right off of Times Square that advertised they could make life-sized cut-outs from photos, although the sample displays were all these gross-looking naked people with bloated breasts and shriveled shlongs. They reminded me of my first experience at a nudist beach. I was about fifteen years old and was expecting to see all these incredibly hot babes jiggling about, playing volleyball, stretched out in the sand flashing more than just a smile. What a disgusting shock to discover that the nudists were mostly guys, middle-aged or even older and the women on the beach looked like my Mom’s friends, or like our neighbors.
Anyway, I set up a timer on my camera and took fresh portraits of myself in my favorite outfits, and picked out the best one. The guy at the porno palace couldn’t believe that my balls weren’t at least hanging out through my zipper. He charged me eighty-seven dollars and change and did a beautiful job. When I picked it up I noticed something quite interesting. My cardboard facial expression had a really strange look to it. I’ve since heard it described as compassionate, concerned, thoughtful, and affectionate. The truth was that my expression was affected by total anxiety. It was the first time I had ever used my camera timer, the first time I ever took pictures of myself and I didn’t think I was going to pull it off. I was too embarrassed to ask someone to take multiple portraits of me because they might think I was some kind of conceited, narcissistic bastard.
I liked having the new, updated version of Sir Andrew with me. Because of Saint Andrew’s success at the Hoboken party, I decided to regularly ferry it out in public. And let me tell you, it attracted and engaged more female strangers than if I had been walking the most adorable puppy in Manhattan. I did notice, however, that when talking with these curious and inquisitive women they seemed to be paying more attention to my cardboard face rather than to my real face that was sputtering out words of charm and profundity.
The first question I was always asked was, of course, why do I have a life-size cut-out of myself? My answer would vary according to the appearance of the inquisitor. If guys asked me I would usually say something like my girlfriend is going out of town and couldn’t bear to be without me for even a day, so she forced me to clone myself so I could travel everywhere she went. Or I would feign shock that they hadn’t heard about the terrorist attack in Florence and that they needed an immediate model to replace the recently exploded statue of David, so I was on my way to Federal Express Sir Andrew to the Italian authorities, you know, stuff like that.
When young women asked me the same question my response was dependent on how they looked. If I wasn’t attracted to the questioner I’d give them the same answer I gave the guys. If the woman looked like she had potential, I’d say something romantic like I was on my way to launch this cardboard representation of myself into the Hudson River, not unlike a Viking funeral pyre, because my dreams of trying to connect with true love had died, or my response would be something humbly humorous, like I decided to invest all my negative traits into this cut-out and was on my way to burn it in a sacrificial fire of repentance and purification or some shit like that. You get the idea.
Funny thing, it turned out women didn’t invest any of my negative traits into Sir Andrew- –they did the exact opposite. Sometimes I’d bang babes that I swear were more in love with my cardboard self than with me. I remember one girl insisting that I prop the cut-out by the bed and keep the lights on so that she could see Sir Andrew while we did the nasty. There certainly are a lot of freaks out there, but freaks are the most fun in bed.
Sir Andrew was pretty good for me in more ways than just the babe department. I never needed a scale. When I’d start to pork up a little all I had to do was compare myself with the cardboard stud and it would force me to keep myself in check. I had to maintain the same handsome and appealing appearance as Sir Andrew because my worst nightmare would be that one day I’d be cruising the streets with Sir Andrew and no one would recognize that it was a life-sized cut-out of me. Call it vanity if you want, but I call it a fight against nostalgia. I don’t ever want Sir Andrew to -represent my glory days—he must be representative of the here and now.
I take Sir Andrew with me almost everywhere I go these days. Aside from his talent for attracting women, I discovered that he also supplies me with peace and safety when I travel home to Manhattan after working in one of the sleaziest neighborhoods in Brooklyn. All the fruitcakes, psychos, and homeless assholes seem to fall instantly in love with Sir Andrew. I just lean back in my subway seat, close my eyes, and hold up the cut-out like a shield while some lunatic mutters away at it instead of pulling out a knife or hassling me about money. They tell the cardboard all about their wildest and sickest thoughts, experiences, confessions and actually seem to find comfort from that stupid look on Sir Andrew’s face.
But the truth is, I’m starting to get a little pissed over all the attention paid Sir Andrew. Why the fuck does everybody love him so much? Why is he more important to people than I am? I mean, if I don’t take care of him, protect him, he could easily be destroyed because he’s so goddamned fragile even a little moisture could melt his compassionate smile into a sneer and ruin him! Ruin us!
What started out as a gimmick to attract attention to myself has really boomeranged into a gimmick that diverts attention away from me. Sometimes I feel like I’m the prop and that my cardboard image carts me around to help me keep in touch with the rest of humanity. To be honest I guess I’d like to be more like Sir Andrew. I’ve noticed that I have a tendency to sprinkle profanities and slang into my speech in order to bolster my image as a strong man, but Sir Andrew is completely silent and no one, man or woman, has ever questioned his strength or manliness. And he really seems to be able to help people with their problems because he listens to them and stares them in the face when they’re talking to him.
In some ways I sort of admire Sir Andrew, but it’s kind of hard to change when your role model is yourself.
Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of the Bronx Zoo, He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. . His latest book is the text-based art collaboration ‘Dream Streams’ (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). His videos, Speaking in Bootongue and Widow’s Peek: The Kiss of Death, represented the United States in the 2020 year-long international world tour of Time Is Love: Universal Feelings: Myths & Conjunctions, organized by esteemed African curator, Kisito Assangni.
Poetry from Binod Dawadi
Love Love is what rules the world Love is the basis for relationships Love is what you feel for your boyfriend and girlfriend Between husband and wife as well as even a thief feeding his family. Buddha and Christ were men who left a legacy of love But I am only trying to keep perfect relationships I don’t know why all people are running after money. Money can't give happiness to you. Happiness should be inside you so know these things, if money could give happiness why do people suffer from illness and disease and problems money cannot settle? I know that I could live without materialistic things. You also can become non materialist like me in your life Why can’t you live like me with no desire and no pain in life We came here naked and go out naked so let’s live Today as our first and last day of life. Death may come at any time so let’s welcome death. Let's have no fear, all things of the world are supernatural, all thinking and imagining is omnipresent and omnipotent Whether you are a God or a devil depends on your behavior Let’s live seeing the perspectives of all living beings and non living beings of the world. This love is benevolent, let's have that type of love for all without any bias. All living and non living creatures are equal Let’s listen to the pain of all so we will have a mind without fear, without any problems. Let’s end selfishness and greediness and be happy with what we have In this is the meaning of life: you are me, I am you, you are the other, others are beings like us, beings can survive without killing others for our own benefit. You are perfect, let’s live like that then God will be happy Remember one who has hope has everything, has all things. Let’s hope till our last breath remains. Live as happily as you can then nothing of this world can stop your happiness. Be extra in living, live as a perfect dozen. Let’s erase tension and other unnecessary division. You are equal to all others, no class no bias no property, no matter. Sagelike, live in a perfect manner. Live life sweetly and freely always. Enjoy, relax, be cool, be kind and be patient. I only see love and power rule the world. Power lets us make a difference. Love could be the key material of the world. So let’s try to create smooth and kind love. For all of you are spirit and spirit are you, so be the best of best like God. Become the best and most excellent, be enlightenment. Be crazy, live madly. Not sadly. Every season has a fixed time so let’s love forever all things of the Universe. Be happy not sad, not afraid. Be patient.
Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope
Vincent Hollow’s The Weight of Black Holes
The Weight of Black Holes is a science fiction story that is written in a unique form. An astronaut signs up for a one-way mission into the furthest reaches of space. In order to go on the mission, he has to have body enhancements throughout his entire body to keep it from breaking down. Although he will have no human contact or companionship, he will have a computer to talk with and to help him through the mission. The astronaut composes love poems to his love who has vanished throughout his mission. This is quite the interesting read for the sci-fi lovers out there.
Swan Songs of Cygnus: The Weight of Black Holes can be ordered here.
Synchronized Chaos August 2021: From My Vantage Point
Welcome to August’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine! We hope this issue finds you safe and healthy and able to pursue your creative dreams and reconnect with others.
This month’s theme is From My Vantage Point, and is all about our perspectives, how and where we see the world.
Jerry Durick’s poetic speakers observe their world from a variety of vantage points. His speakers are often detached, like Jack Galmitz’ characters, who are inert, calm, and isolated to a degree.
This slightly removed perspective can be lonely.
J.J. Campbell reflects on isolation, intimacy, nostalgia and his advancing age in his poetry, while Michael Lee Johnson’s illustrated pieces are quiet reflections of age and solitude.
Sherzod Artikov, in a poignant piece, depicts an elderly aspiring actor who dreams of playing King Lear while resembling the character.
A more distant, abstract vantage point can also inspire thoughts of transcendence. Hongri Yuan, in poems translated from Mandarin to English by Yuanbing Zhang, suggests that our lives and bodies hold reminders of eternity.
Sharma Shashi leaves her Earth-bound home for a dream voyage to the stars at night, while Mahbub looks at nature, mortality, and inter-cultural disrespect and power relations from a standpoint of openness and curiosity. He wonders why the world is, or has to be, the way it is.
Some writers take a more close-up perspective in their pieces, focusing in on the absence or presence of personal relationships.
Aloysius S. Harmon writes of moments alone at home after the loss of a loved one to death, while Abigail George reflects on how romantic emotions can change over time, on personal growth in and out of relationships.
Nibana Dahal’s poem reminds us all of the giddy uncertain energy at the early stage of a romance. Santiago Burdon probes the lonely bitterness of addiction and the persistence of hope. (Santiago just released a new poetry collection, Not Real Poetry, available here).
Stephen Jarrell Williams’ poetic speakers pan back out to a more universal view, and are unashamed of their sentiment and caring.
Travel can also expose you to new people, cultures, and perspectives, giving you a fresh vantage point while leaving you less lonely.
Bonnie Lee Black observes casual friendliness and conversation among neighbors and strangers in Mexico, while Kim Malcolm finds tranquility in a South Korean Buddhist monastery.
Robert Thomas remembers bonding with men different from himself way out in back country Texas over the beauty of a well-designed automobile engine.
In a more fanciful vein, Christopher Bernard’s short story The Ghost Trolley involves a young boy who journeys into a realm of peaceful people plagued by those who seek to dominate them.
This adventure tale reflects one of humanity’s perennial struggles, as does Chimezie Ihekuna’s screenplay The Conflict, also about creatures with the best, and the worst, of intentions.
Rajendra Ojha expresses similar sentiments in a poem urging humans to use our lives for compassionate and good purposes.
Other writers address social issues from a broad perspective. Steven Croft reviews Joyce Carol Oates’ new poetry collection American Melancholy, which explores America’s strengths, flaws, and contradictions.
Ken Ciocco reviews Michael Robinson’s new poetry collection From Chains to Freedom, which illustrates the effects of past and present American racism on the Black male psyche.
Others narrow their lenses, looking at individual characters’ stories to explore broader societal themes.
Z.I. Mahmud looks at women characters in Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield to explore themes of feminism, strength, independence and caring. David Myles Robinson comments on the disorientation and unrest of the 1960s in the United States through the interactions of a couple and then of a dysfunctional family in excerpts from his new novel Words Kill.
Ike Boat focuses in on his own life in his autobiography, outlining his teaching, DJing, MCing, and promotional creative work.
In a completely different vein, two writers play with language itself. Mark Young crafts poems using ‘found text’ from various poetic and non-poetic sources as a starting point, and J.D. Nelson tweaks words and letters to produce a variety of sound effects.
Mickey Corrigan also provides humorous pieces about the state of Florida.
Whichever ‘lenses’ you use to observe our world, we hope you have a spectacular and inspiring view this month.
Poetry from Mickey Corrigan
Florida Man Rampage Florida Man lives in the Keys listens to loud music alone. Florida Man gets worked up to loud music alone. Florida Man goes outside throws a stone guardian angel from the garden through the window of his house. Florida Man stabs the tire of his car watches it go flat. Florida Man uproots a for sale sign thrashes it until it splinters, hits a metal mailbox with the signpost until it crushes, crushes flat. Florida Man pauses, waits for the arrival of the local police. Music and masturbation he explains make him feel like destroying stuff. Florida Man goes to jail where there will be more of what he already had at home alone. Florida Lawyer Disbarred For Harassing Law Firm Fresh out of law school the new associate worked for six years before being let go. He could not let go. A restraining order was filed. So he backed up a Ford F250 to the front entrance to the firm yanked off the doors ran in and robbed his former office: a safe, a server, a key to the storage unit for two office chairs and an AR-15. He could not let go. So he created a website with the name of the firm, held shareholder meetings at 4 a.m. with the only other shareholder: his twin brother. This disbarred lawyer will not let go. Florida Man Arrested For Felony Theft Of 66 Rolls Of Toilet Paper I do my job, I clean the mess you leave behind not caring about hotel floors, hall carpets trash cans full of empties, full condoms, vomit in baggies roaches, chewed gum, crumbs and spills, I wash lobby floors your dirt, filth, germs that kill I want to stay home, my family needs food, medicine toilet paper ran out so I wheel a garbage can out a back door with a Hefty full of rolls, roll them out to my work van, toss them in the back, fringe benefit hazard pay, it's just paper I clean up your mess yet I get reported, arrested, charged with theft from a public lodging facility a third degree felony, man come on, what about the rooms full of cheating spouses boozers, drug boosters, liars the senators who made a killing on the stock market response to inside news and polls rise for men who shit gold, all I get is more woe and no decent place to go. Florida Man Selling Mansion Pays To Get Rid Of Buyer A Mediterranean style mansion more than 20,000 square feet. She wanted to buy it, said she'd been looking for years. A home theater and 14 waterfalls on 16 wooded acres. She said she had the money proof of funds from a company that loaned her billions. Nine bedrooms, 13 baths, an entertainment wing a pub, poker room, music lounge. Said she'd pay $9.75 million if he threw in the Jimi Hendrix guitar, the Muhammad Ali gloves. A pool with a rope bridge a water slide, swim-up tiki bar. Days before closing she sued him so he couldn't sell to anyone else she had no funds a house in foreclosure a history of bankruptcies. He paid her $300K to go away from the estate he'd built as a luxurious respite from the stress of doing business in Florida: a sunny place for shady people.
Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes tropical noir with a dark humor. Novels include the mystery pandemic tale Songs of the Maniacs (Salt Publishing, 2014), Project XX about a school shooting (Salt Publishing, 2017), and What I Did for Love, a spoof of Lolita (Bloodhound Books, 2019). The Physics of Grief puts the fun back in funerals while taking a serious look at the process of mourning (QuoScript, UK, 2021).