Poetry from Mahbub

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The Death of The Dog

Mahbub, a Bangladeshi author and English teacher

It was just at the evening

Finishing my morning prayer at the mosque

I kept my feet on the highway

A sound stroke my head and heart

As it was knocked down by a vehicle

Moaning and groaning so poor in condition

Sickly sound the last for ever

Stop my breath taking for a while

Just like a baby before going to sleep

Keeping its front hands to its mother’s head whimpered

The last pathos lost for all

Brimming to the air

Revolved my mind and mentality

We all are going to pass the silence of the night.

 

 

Nightmare

 

We are born ambitious

Like to rise high, fly in the sky

Flow on the water, to the highest pick of the mountain

The lives lay flat on the ground

Innumerable skulls deep in the whole

Gnarled in the open air

We die every time in our sleep

Every night we roar and moan in nightmare

We struggle for something

We die for something for the next welfare

Achieved or not

But die for achieving till the point of the result

The ship is bound to the harbor

But found always in midst of the ocean

Sinking and rising

Making the belly a football

Crawling a long way seem to be too tired

Not to be able to enter into the hall

The sun rays too hot

The tigers devour the body

Bloods seeping from above

How can I escape?

 

 

 

Emancipation

 

Many children have been lost in the manhole

Many lost in the dark

Many fought but defeated in the struggle

Many spend the nights by the highways in the dirt and dust

What they eat we never think for

They don’t have the courage to the white spark

Man is born free but not for other’s future

We struggle only for power and dignity

We never keep our hand to the helpless world

We demand not so heavy only for the right to be loved

To take away from the condition of starvation

To plan for rehabilitation and sanitation

We eat we bleed angry and hungry

How can we flee from this dying and suffocating world?

Will it ever be possible to inhale the fresh air?

Is there any unseen hand that might emancipate us?

 

 

 

Come On, O Raindrops

 

The sky is ready with clouds

Pours the drops of rain

The thirsty land quenches its throat

From many years the leaves dried or dying

Likely to get drenched by the water

Thrives from the core of heart

Turn back me

Spread your hand over

Just like the water from the sky

Fill up the gaps green and fresh

So peaceful to the sight

Burning my body turning to death

O dear, come on.

 

 

Play Ground

 

In every step of age we are playing

Even in the sleep we play

As long as our heart beats

We play struggling to throw the ball in the goal post

We clap our hands glitter the eyes

We dance sigh a relief wind

I am to you are to me

We walk hand in hand in the ground

We look forward behind

Take care to win for the next time

The spectators on the gallery

Crying laughing

Defeated winner

In every step of life we are playing.

 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

07/07/2018

 

Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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Waiting Cheese Platter Under Wraps

 

I am sitting alone

in Conference Room D.

 

Beside the rattling tin of instant coffee

and waiting cheese platter

under wraps.

 

The wire microphones

in front of each swivel chair

like twisted forgotten

balloon animals.

 

Corporate art walls

and freshly vacuumed floors.

 

Then my wife comes in.

 

What are you doing?

I thought you were waiting for me

outside the bathrooms.

What if someone comes in right now?

 

I tell her to sit down.

That anyone who walks in

will assume I am in charge

and that I will run the

conference.

 

You don’t even know what the conference

is about!

 

But I know what it should be about.

 

Let’s get out of here,

she says.

 

I reluctantly give up my seat

at the head of the table.

Leaving Conference Room D

to fend for itself.

 

On the placard outside

it reads: Millwrights Union

Local 1916.

 

You don’t even know what a millwright is!

she scoffs.

 

Sure I do,

I say.

It’s a group of people that mill about

with the right posture.

 

That would have been one hell of an interesting conference,

she laughs.

 

I tell her we can always go back.

She can sit in and keep the minutes.

The chairs turn around just like in The Exorcist.

 

She drags me by the arm

while I snatch her purse

and let her know that I’m beginning

my life of crime.

A Complete Stranger

 

You got the stuff?

he asked.

 

And since I didn’t have the stuff

he turned away quickly

and walked off.

 

Looking back once

with a confused look

before he rounded the corner

and was gone.

 

 

Prong

 

The plug is fishing for attention

over by the outlet along the far wall.

It is harpooning whaling vessels

back into bloody waters.

Double-pronged and prom night

obvious with its intentions.

Four days until another

failed apocalypse comes to pass.

These doomsdayers keep

getting second chances.

I stopped believing what people

said somewhere around 1989.

That was a big year for me.

Hair on my balls

and my first time on an airplane.

I have given the plug what it wants.

Some undeserved attention.

Not a place in the wall with the spiders,

but the next best thing.

 

 

Shoosh

 

Lay off the big scream,

don’t let them hear you.

 

Make them lean into something else

like knocking over a stack of

old newspapers.

 

Tiptoe around the cauldron

Mr. Stir-stick.

 

Cover your mouth

cover your bets.

 

Your word is not enough.

They want all the words you

can think of.

 

 

A Princess Lion with Leopard Spots

 

Kitten has gone for her haircut.

To remove all the mats.

She is the manor work cat.

 

My wife calls to tell me that kitten

felt self-conscious at first,

but that everyone kept picking her up

and telling her how beautiful she looks

and that now she is strutting around everyone.

 

Little Miss Thang!

my wife says.

I thought she had stripes like a tiger,

but now that she’s shaved down

you can see she has spots more like

a leopard.

 

A princess lion with leopard spots,

I say.

 

Yes!

she yells excitedly.

Did I tell you that she tried

to leave work with me

the other night?

 

I tell her she did not.

 

Good thing I looked down.

Little Miss Thang was walking out

the door proud as she pleased with the hook tail

cats get when they’re happy.

 

She says she’s been told by her boss

that she can’t bring the work cat home.

 

She told Kitten she had to stay,

but that my wife would be back soon.

 

So she was running a hustle on you,

I say.

Trying to make you think she always

came home with you.

 

Oh yes, she acted like it was natural

and I was weird for questioning it.

It was so cute!

 

I tell her that if she had her way

we’d have all the cats in the world.

 

My wife laughs

and says she still wants that shirt

that says all the cats love

her best.

 

Even this cat,

I joke.

 

Ahhhh,

she says.

 

But don’t tell Kitten,

I say.

Those felines get

really jealous.

 

She promises not to tell

and we hang up.

 

Then I watch a documentary

on turn of the century madhouses

in England.

 

 

Ganglia Wires

 

If I could

see into the future

I would cut my eyes out

and give them

to you.

 

Snip the ganglia wires

and everything.

 

Now

they are your

problem.

 

Pass them along

the family line if you want.

 

I promise

I didn’t put a curse

on them.

 

That is just

bad luck.

 

 

2 Degree Sky Differential

 

I come downstairs

and she shows me what she

has been working on

all afternoon.

 

See what I did there?

she asks.

 

You made the colour picture

black and white,

I say.

 

Not that,

she says.

I fixed the sky.

 

You fixed the sky?

 

The sky was crooked,

she says

going back and forth

between the two pictures.

 

See?

 

Not really,

I say.

 

She turns the computer screen

back towards herself.

 

How can you not see that?

 

You’re the artistic one,

I say,

did you really think I would

march downstairs

and say I see you fixed the sky,

there was a 2 degree sky differential,

but you fixed it.

I like what you did there,

does that sound

like me?

 

She take a large swig of her wine.

It is a white Chardonnay.

 

I saw what you did there,

I say.

Does that count?

Frogs

 

The back door is open.

You can hear the frogs singing.

Before the real heat arrives

so there is no fan.

 

And we are drinking rum.

Something from a bottle made to look

as though some second rate pirate stole it

and buried it in our fridge for

safekeeping.

 

I come back from the bathroom

and it is Summertime.

 

Not the real summer in full,

but Sydney Bechet

on clarinet.

 

The wife was always good with the reeds.

Has a natural aptitude for music.

The frogs still singing in the dark.

 

A napkin over my mouth

to wipe away the

evidence.

Essay from Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)

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Deception 6

He (or she) has a sexually not-good past but will change, though, still in the habit of flirting

Chimezie Ihekuna

Do you know that when you form a habit, the habit will eventually form you evil communication corrupt good manners?   Indeed, it takes sheer determination and special grace to give up this life-long addition to cigarette smoking promiscuity of unpleasant consequence. Audrey, a dashing middle-aged young man, had been smoking since the age of 15.     Now married with children, he is yet to say “no” to cigarette smoking.     If not for the principled nature of his wife, Lilian, probably his three sons would have taken into his lifestyle of cigarette addiction.   The same analogy is applicable to sexual promiscuity.

He has a sexually not-good past but will change, though is still in the habit of flirting

At this point, if you have a spouse who is busy ‘playing around’ with other ladies, then I suggest you ask him the question, “Sexually are you worth being faithful to?’’ His sincere response will tell whether or not you should go ahead with the relationship. What makes you think he will change, considering the fact he is been busy “sharing” you with other women? Would you be surprised if I told you that he apparently sees your sexuality as no better than the ladies he had rammed, despite his seeming praises of you? Probably, he is financially or materially assisting you, does it mean you cannot prevent the imminent blindfold – his flirting habit? Given this identified recognition, what gives you the impression you are mentally and physically prevented from the clutches of insecurity and doubt, diseases, lack of focus and judgment? Automatically, if not now, in a not-too-distant future, like he had done to other women, and if not changed by then, you will be realistically be seen as a sex object and just as the disposable (medical) syringe, he will treat you like or leave you for other women. If you really want to get on with the relationship, then the need to strongly change him by painstakingly imposing on him with humility practicable truths of managing one’s sexuality by yourself or the services of a trained counselor is undoubtedly very essential.

She has a sexually not-good past but will change, though is still in the habit of flirting

The dream of most responsible men is to be in serious relationship with or marry chaste girls. Imagine a situation where your spouse is gallivanting with other men. Would you ordinarily be in a relationship with such a person? What do you expect from her- fidelity, a good home, a secured marriage or something? Judging by her promiscuous lifestyle, there is no significant difference between her and just by-the-roadside sex hawkers. Do you want to marry such a lady? Even if she is intelligent, beautiful and possess what you think are essential requirements of a lady, can’t you exercise the worth of self-control on her and teach her the essence of upholding womanhood—fidelity? If you think you can’t leave the “love of your life’, then I advise you strongly yield to this advice. On her part, it takes self—determination and a special grace to turn a new leaf from this chronic habit.            This can only be met provided she can practically exercise the lesson of self-determination and special grace. It must be established the warning: ‘’this will be a herculean task to complete.’’

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry from Damion Hamilton

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Criminal

 

I was at Starbucks

and they came for me

they hadn’t been for me in a while

but they came for me

I was just sitting in my car looking

at my phone, harming no one

heard a tap at my window, businesslike,

police, I figure it would be something

minor,

“step out of the car.”

“someone said you followed them from home.”

“what?’

“they said that you look at porn on your cell phone?”

“what? I would never look at porn at Starbucks.”

“it sounds like he doesn’t believe what he is saying.

he seems suspicious to me and i am suspicious to him

the flashing lights come in, and they light up the night

three more police cars. I feel like El Chapo.

I don’t have a criminal record.

at 41 i thought i was past this.

being treated like a criminal.

but i feel like 25 again, not having my shit together.

It seems like they are being friendly with me

but they hate me, “sit on the curb!”

they would say that they are just doing their jobs

always doing their jobs

I take everything out of my pockets like i am told,

but that is not good enough.

he has too take everything out of my pockets

and sits on the car trunk.

this shit is so embarrassing.

I feel people looking at me, I don’t look up.

I try to smile, it is difficult though.

they are dissecting me,

they have been watching me for months.

I have been minding my business, and been

so quiet, just working on my laptop, reading books,

and listening to podcasts.

the boys need to remind me I am a fuck up, and black,

not whatever i think I am

they tear the car apart looking for

for heroin

looking for heroin

the do their best to find that

but they don’t find it

I don’t have it, and never had it

I used to hang out in bars.

and this is one of the reasons I stopped

I figured i would be safe at Starbucks

not fucking with anyone.

I thought the employees were my friends,

some of them, but they are with the police too.

these people act like they don’t know me,

act like we have never talked or joked with one

another. I feel betrayed betrayed betrayed

this is Kafkaesque

who set me up? and why?

betrayed betrayed betrayed

 

Insult Me

and he bought me drinks and played video games at bar, we

were bar buddies, not too many people liked him. And we were

both outsiders at the bar. I remember him saying, “you know my job

is hiring Damion, we could always use another janitor.” As if that would

be the only thing i would be qualified to be. I thought it was funny and

interesting if he intended it to be an insult. And deep down it was. Something

was going on in his life to insult me. And even though he worked for Boeing and

made a shit load of money he was not happy. UN happier than the shipping clerk

he wanted to insult, interestingly enough

 

 

The Clerk is An Angel

I got to the grocery store and was impatient,

line building behind me, Sunday night and cart full of groceries,

no bagger, he went home, meaning the cashier would have to bag the groceries

too, which will slow up the line.

the line didn’t have any movement, as still as the sky

this made me uncomfortable as it made others uncomfortable,

but people started chatting with each other, and I just picked up

a can of beans in my grocery cart and read the ingredients

I felt as uncomfortable as a traffic jam, almost unbearable to me

and the clerk’s voice was so calm, with no hint of frustration, or anger, or impatience,

and I haven’t seen anything like that in a while, as he asked, “how I was feeling?”

I kinda snapped when i said, “just wish you had a bagger.”

with impatience and anger i was trying to temper, yet couldn’t quite do this.

I put the card in the machine, it holds and releases,

he gives me a receipt of the stuff I had bought,

his face is still so calm, I admire that

“have a good night I say.”

realizing my foolishness

 

 

 

Sleep

I took a benadryl

and was knocked out for hours

in sleep

this sleep, dreamless at times

when I woke up, I thought it was

eight in the morning,

it was one in the afternoon,

this Memorial day holiday

weekend.

I did nothing except sleep mostly

no plans

no trips

no yoga

no exercise

or TV

it felt good to me,

not to notice what time it is

except it was my time for a while

and the world dissolved for me

into blue smoke

for awhile

Federico Wardal interviews Federico Fellini

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Fellini and Wardal

Video excerpt from Wardal’s interview with Fellini

——————————————————————-

Description

Preface :

There is a parallel between this interview by Count Federico of Wardal, Fellini’s muse for Fellini 100, and the movie Interview by Federico Fellini that tells us about Rome’s Cinecitta Studios celebrating its 50th anniversary. In the movie, a Japanese television crew arrives to interview director Federico Fellini (played by himself), who is preparing to shoot an adaptation of Franz Kafka’s novel Amerika. Federico Wardal is presenting his new movie Federico and Fellini telling his story with Fellini for Fellini 100. It is like a timeless interview which reflects Fellini’s poetics.

——————————————

What would you wish for your mentor Fellini for his one hundredth birthday?

W: Every day I think about him, so every instant for me is like his birthday.
Q-He was born on Jan 20th and you on Jan 24th , correct ?
W: I am an Aquarius and when I asked him, as a joke : ‘Are you an Aquarius too?’, he said : “No, I am a Capricorn, but we are at the “border “ of the two signs “ . That told me that we have many things in common.
Q-Fellini was very involved in esotericism and you believe you have the power to tell the future.  What did you say to Fellini about his future?
W: always I avoided any esoteric topics with him.
Q- Why ?
W: Adding the esoteric ingredient between Fellini and I would have changed our relationship.
He was hungry for esotericism which in our relationship would have obscured fundamental aspects of how we related to each other.
He had his private magicians and I knew them and we had two twin magicians in common too….lol!
Q-Who?
W: oh, you are so curious!
Q-Wardal, this is a public interview for a magazine…not a private conversation..
W: lol! Ok , they were the twins Laura and Lia Levi- Strauss.
Q- A very important Jewish family! What kind of relationship did you have with Fellini?
W : Creative, extremely stimulating, a soulmate relationship. .
Q- Feelings?  Sensations?
W: Soul to soul.
Q-Platonic. He was deeply attached to his wife Giulietta Masina.
Space for other relationships?  What kind of space did Fellini have for his relationship with you?
W: Dear, a lot of space. A soul is beyond one sort of space.
Q-When you met him for the first time, he was 55 years old and you were a teenager…
W: yes, but again : the soul has no “ space “ and no age, lol ! Anyway,
he needed young people to regenerate his creative inspirations.
Q-How did you meet him? Common friends ?
W: We had common friends, the Levi-Strauss twins, but I met Fellini just by a coincidence. An actress told me to rush to talk with him, because, she said, I could strongly inspire him.
Q-Where was your first meeting with Fellini? And when?
W : On April 1975, at Cinecittà, on the office upstairs of theatre 5. Some people quite famous were waiting to see him, but as soon as I arrived, I got to go straight up to him, since Norma Giacchero, who was Fellini’s edition assistant and Maurizio Mein, who was Fellini’s direction assistant, immediately opened for me the two doors that separated me from him.
Q-Then what happened?
W: a strong impact through our eyes , an atomic explosion ….
Q- On both sides?
W: yes. We both tried to hide it.
Q-Why?
W: because…that meeting between Fellini and I was about my role in the movie Casanova and not to talk about something else deep and out of that context.
Q- But to talk about a character who belongs to a Fellini movie with Fellini, is already “ something deep “ .
W-Yes,  Fellini is an ocean and we were just on a sea…lol!
Q- then?
W- then he started to explain my role to me.
We remained, gazing eyes into eyes, for about twenty minutes.
Q- Big language! And so, what about your role ?
W: The young Casanova . Casanova as an adolescent.
Q-An important role. Which kind of criteria did Fellini use to give you such an important role? You were just an adolescent .
W: Age doesn’t matter to a genius. There was Fellini’s intuition….and afterwards, the “ atomic impact “…I will tell you later…
Q- Because it is a surprise?
W- Ok,  I will tell you now.
Q-Let’s do it.
W: After Fellini met me personally, after the “atomic impact,”  his curiosity about me grew moment by moment.
Q- And so ?
W: He confessed to me that I was confirming my rightness for the role he had envisioned for me, he wanted something more from me, something extraordinary, amazing …
Q- What exactly?
W: The role he had thought for me was an adolescent Casanova prone to sexual vices, dissatisfied, sad, since Fellini-Casanova  saw himself being alone in his future. Fellini told me that he would write some extra lines for me and while he spoke, he started to write down those lines for me.
Q-Do you remember the lines? Sorry, I know 45 years have passed since then, maybe you forgot them.
W: No, it’s impossible to forget something like that. Every word he wrote is engraved in my life.
Q- So please, go ahead .
(Link from the movie Federico and Fellini where Federico Wardal says those lines:  https://youtu.be/zg27pxKBbUk)
W : … “I know that my life …. will be an immense dream made by travels,
face powder (he is touching his face) , sex, masks and fogs  …and mirrors that are lying to themselves….
impossible desires, elusive loves … and I know that one day all will vanish
as if nothing never happened.
He said that maybe I could recite this, immersed in the fog of Venice, in a night of total silence. I quickly took what Fellini had written and I started to recite it.
and when I finished, Fellini ….
Q-Yes, what happened?
W: it happened that Fellini took my hand and kissed it, while Maurizio Main, his first assistant, entered the office. Fellini told Maurizio that he had not finished with me..
Q- An unthinkable honor for you.
W: Sure. Tears invaded my eyes, but I immediately stopped them.
Q- But had you acted before meeting Fellini?
W: Yes . Although I was a teenager, I had a lot of experience acting in front of large audiences.
Q- Amazing. Surely Fellini asked you with whom you had acted.
W: No, Fellini was curious about other kinds of things. In this case, Fellini was interested in the result, not in how the result had been achieved. I told him that I was acting in a theater in Rome with an actress that he surely knew. That actress was a friend of Flora Carabella, Marcello Mastroianni’s first wife.
Q-What is the name of the actress?
W: Maria Teresa Albani, actress, director, playwright, intellectual.  She had
attended the Silvio d’Amico National Drama Academy of Rome with Marcello Mastroianni.
Q- Mastroianni would have been a perfect Casanova. Why did Fellini choose Donald Sutherland?
W: Mastroianni had already played the role of Casanova in the film Casanova 70.
Fellini wanted a grotesque character, tall in stature, spectacular, with a strong face and languid eyes. Although Fellini totally modified Sutherland’s face with strong makeup, Sutherland is very tall, his face has strong features with light eyes…
Q- What about you?
W : I’m the opposite, totally natural.
Q- It means that over the years Casanova became a caricature of himself in Fellini’s mind.
W : Yes
Q-What’s the similarity between you and Casanova?
W : I am Casanova.
Q- Why?
W: Not because I have Venetian heritage through my father, not because I am aristocratic as Casanova was, not because I am a magician as Casanova was, not because I am an alchemist as Casanova was, not because for me make up is more important than history as it was for Casanova, not because I am sad over love as Casanova was –  and I can continue without end…
Q- But Fellini liked to play with the truth…
W: Fellini invented a role for me, based on me.
Q-May be he invented the real Casanova whom he really wanted?
W: For another movie! Casanova-Sutherland-Fellini, this was the movie he made. A great unforgettable Fellini movie.
Q: Above and beyond this, there is the Fellini’s connection with Mastroianni.
Help me to understand it.
W: You already asked me this question and I already gave you my answer.
Although Mastroianni and Fellini had a destiny together, Mastroianni didn’t fit into Casanova by Federico Fellini.
Q- Many years later, Mastroianni refused to do the last Fellini movie The Mastorna’s Voyage. Why?
W: The energy of their artistic relationship was over.
Q: You are preparing the short movie “Federico and Fellini” for Fellini 100.  Is this film the continuation of “Casanova”?
W: There is a secret about that.
Q- Welcome secrets revealed!
W: In that movie I talk with a ghost of Fellini who comes back from his death.
Q: To close the circle? Did you talk with Fellini about that idea at that time?
W : Yes, I did.
Q- He agreed about this idea?
W: Which idea ?
Q-To do Casanova’s sequel.
W: Well….In a few words….Casanova as an adolescent and Fellini as an adolescent transformed into themselves because life works in an amazing way. Maybe the wish of Fellini was to be what I was. Then life transformed me in an amazing way. So, Fellini was right.
Q- So, because of this, your movie could be the Casanova sequel ?
W: To tell the truth, Fellini’s intention was to shoot a sequel to Casanova, but after shooting The Mastorna’s Voyage. 
Q: So your movie can’t be the sequel to Casanova because Fellini never shot that movie.
W: I will explain it later.

Artistic rendering of Federico Wardal

Count Wardal and his favorite mask

Synchronized Chaos August 2019: Stories, Under Construction

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Welcome, readers, to August’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine!

We have an announcement from Tabitha Grace Challis, the writing and media professional who designed our original website back in 2008. She and her husband are in the process of adopting a child from Eastern Europe. This past summer, they hosted a teenage boy “K” who they fell immediately in love with. The opportunities for K in his home country are very slim and most orphans have little or no chance to build a life after they’re released from the orphanage at 16. Since there are a lot of costs involved with international adoption the family is fundraising to support this new phase in all three of their lives! People are able to contribute here.

This month we open the hood and watch narratives in progress, put together by a variety of storytellers.

Available free here: https://giphy.com/gifs/personal-YPXKpdSNR26bu

Some contributors reveal the subconscious through their pieces. Ken Dronsfield writes of memories and dreamtime, with poems that share vignettes and impressions from childhood. Mark Young joins together words and phrases from mathematics, culture and technology, allowing them to flow in streams that seem to connect on a pre-cognitive level. Amlanjyoti Goswami’s new poetry collection River Wedding, reviewed here by Cristina Deptula, incorporates literal streams and rivers as a motif and a metaphor for the movement of characters through both time and space.

No matter how far they migrate from each other, for educational or personal reasons, Goswami’s characters retain their familial tenderness and caring. This reminds us that what we see in life, the narrative we choose to create, depends as much on who we are and who we choose to be as it does on the world around us.

Some contributors demonstrate the power of our words, and our priorities, to shape our understanding and our actions.

Denis Emorine’s novel Death at Half-Mast, also reviewed by Cristina Deptula, presents a professor protagonist who exists in the uneasy middle between personal identities. He reaches a crisis point when he must make a choice that has huge consequences, not just for himself but for those around him. 

Henry Bladon points out the potential long-lasting negative psychological effects of words shaming and dehumanizing someone who unfortunately happens to share my first name. Sylvia Ofoha shows how deception destroys intimate relationships, even when love is present, and Chimezie Ihekuna argues that financial security should not be the only criteria for marriage.

In a more positive light, Norman J. Olson illuminates how his personal interest in oil painting leads him to notice the craft that has gone into the works he sees at museums abroad and makes those experiences all the more enlightening. Michael Brownstein’s travel pieces also reflect some prior knowledge of the diverse locales he visits, as he can identify the local flora and fauna.

Jaylan Salah writes about film director Ibrahim Fakhr, highlighting his role in crafting characters, and archetypes, over time.

Several contributors explore the creation of cultural and political narratives, and what happens when these clash.

Sometimes that happens when diverse groups of people come into contact with each other. Patricia Doyne contributes poems about refugees on the US southern border that explore how different framings of the issue affect how those people are viewed and treated. Geoffrey Heptonstall uses an incident of theft to probe issues related to survival, tourism, human rights, and law in a world with large wealth disparities. Judge Santiago Burdon probes a dilemma minorities can face once they gain greater social and cultural acceptance: what to do with a dominant cultural narrative that defines you in terms of your marginalization and struggles rather than letting you define yourself as a full and complete human being.

Other writers present work that reflects and conveys their worldview as well as their poetic sensibility. Pesach Rotem writes of groups of people coming together to take mass action, celebrating direct democracy. While each person may be mortal, groups can make lasting changes. Judge Santiago Burdon gives a ground-level perspective on rioting as a method of bringing attention to marginalization and injustice decades ago in Chicago, and on the plight of individual people caught up in the situation.

Daniel DeCulla uses earthy humor and the language of faith to refocus the attention concerning environmental sustainability issues while celebrating nature’s less traditionally aesthetic aspects.

While less openly political, J.J. Campbell points out the disparities that we sometimes see between cultural messages and promises and reality. Just because people say that the world will work a certain way, even when many powerful people affirm it, that does not mean that reality will follow suit.

Three separate authors rework early Old Testament Biblical narratives to make new points. Christopher Bernard draws upon the language of Genesis to illustrate a potential re-creation, a path forward for humanity away from destruction and towards cooperation. Dipe Jolaade rewrites the creation story to critique humanity’s weaknesses, while Doug Hawley adds to the ‘historical record’ in academic style to suggest that the paths our ancestors followed may not be our only option as a species.

Allison Grayhurst graces us with an epic faith-inspired journey of surrender, growth made possible by releasing the self and the past.

Our lives, as most narratives, contain a mixture of joy and loss, growth and despair, beauty and tragedy.

Indunil Madhusankha’s selected poems reverberate with the energy of kittens and puppies, yet in the next breath bring the tragedies of lost love and deaths due to terrorist and military violence. The official narratives of why the loss of life was worth it, whether from the government or the terrorist organization, bring scarce comfort to the grieving families. As in J.J. Campbell’s pieces, cultural messages don’t always trickle down to people’s personal lives.

Michael Robinson mourns the loss of his mother in a set of tightly crafted, elegiac vignettes. Mahbub celebrates the inspiration and renewal that he finds in nature, and grieves the urbanization of the landscapes he loves. KC Fontaine celebrates new birth with a photo of baby hummingbirds in a nest out his window.

From JanellRardon.com

We hope that the sight of them, along with other glimpses of hope, will inspire you to read through and savor this issue.

Short story from Judge Santiago Burdon

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Chicago My Hometown 
I was in Chicago Grant Park 1968 when Mayor Daley let loose his army of Chicago Gestapo on the crowd of protesters that late summer afternoon. A buddy and I along with another High School acquaintance that I didn’t care for, thought it would be entertaining to attend the demonstration.
There were mobs of long haired scruffy Hippies and also some referring to themselves as Yippies; the Youth International Party with a pig named Pigasus as their leader and also a candidate running for President.  The crowd assembled in Grant Park that summer afternoon were enthusiastic and quite passive. They didn’t appear to be aggressive fostering only one item on their agenda, just a contingency of young adults voicing their protest as a group against the Vietnam War. I remember feeling as though I didn’t fit in because my hair wasn’t as long as I would have preferred ( father issues). Couldn’t imagine anyone would take me seriously as a dedicatedly  disciple looking so straight.
It was embarrassment enough that I was called “part-time”as a nickname in High Schoool. I was referred to by that nickname because I participated in sports and was dedicated to my studies and academic career which occasionally interfered with social activities . Those activities often were hanging out at the park getting high or creating minor mischief, nothing of grave importance but somehow my group required my attendance. The choice to juggle my studies and my illustrious social life was a decision I implemented on my own. Besides I enjoyed school, it kept me hidden from the scrutinizing eyes of my old man. And sure as hell was more entertaining than getting stoned and making shadow puppet figures on the walls of the park’s bathroom building. Thus the nickname part time hippie which was shortened to just part-time.
We had to park near Soldier Field to get an available parking spot a long way from the event and walked what seemed a punishing distance. Luckily, we entered through an entrance used for volunteers working the gathering and ended up extremely close to the stage. Banners and posters adorned the area, all basically voicing the same Anti- War sentiment. There was one however that captured my attention and I remember to this day with brightly painted flowers popping out of the letters and peace symbols placed were the “O’s”appeared in the message; “We don’t need to have the same dream to live together in the same reality .” I’m not sure why I considered the message so profound. It may have been just that place in time.
Everyone appeared so angry and defiant, with fists raised in the air, “fucking right man, fuck them, you fucking know it brother, we’re fucking with you ” A great amount of “fucks” from the crowd screaming their responses to the speeches. The sentiment on the painted bed sheet seemed in someway out of place and extremely pacifist. The S.D.S were there, Black Panthers, American Indian Movement, Vietnam Veterans Against the War and a new group actively recruiting members called the Weathermen Underground Organization. They didn’t arouse my interest because their name “Weathermen” didn’t sound radical at all. In the years to follow they would prove my assessment of not being radical, a major underestimation and error in judgement.
I had no interest in membership of any group simply put, organized groups were too regimented. I wasn’t able to grasp the concept of rebelling against rules or those conforming to stuctured concepts and the establishment, ‘whoever they were?’ when their guidelines for membership demanded the same set of principles. Besides I was expelled from Boy Scouts so I was aware of my inability to obey directives.
I was hopeful and excited to possibly hear Abbie Hoffman speak with his talent of mesmerizing followers with his descriptive words of inspiration. Instead this dude (That’s correct I wrote Dude) spoke, receiving thundering applause and cheers from the crowd as well as many “fucks.” Jerry Reuben is how he introduced himself, leader of a faction known as Yippies.
He went on for five or ten minutes basically saying nothing that inspired me to do anything and was what I determined as rather boring. I spent the time checking out girls in the crowd. The Chicago summer heat was starting to wear me down so I left my companions to search for a refreshment to cure my thirst. I remembered there was a booth selling fruit juice drinks about a block away. It was then I noticed an extremely large contingency of Chicago Police, Illinois National Guard and United States Army soldiers surrounding the area.
Without any type of verbal command to disburse the troops with clubs drawn, shields and dressed in riot gear began an assault on defenseless attendees. These Sons of Bitches meant business trotting at a hurried pace swinging clubs, punching and kicking downed people relentlessly.
I immediately began to run in the opposite direction into the crowd screaming the “Fucking Pigs are coming! Run! The Pigs are coming!” Some heeded my advice and began a mass exodus others I remembered glared at me in complete disbelief. I recall a few laughing as I ran past. I’m sure a minute or so later there wasn’t anyone laughing.
I made the mistake of running to Michigan Avenue to avoid the onslaught, thinking the action would be isolated to the Grant Park Bandshell area. If there was ever an instance when I shouldn’t have listened to my own advice that was the time. Thousands of others must have heard me giving myself advice and were emptying out into the avenue.
The Police had set up a perimeter along the avenue protecting the Hotels especially The Hilton where Candidates attending the Democratic Convention were staying. Tear Gas, screaming and complete pandemonium ensued as I attempted to make my way to some kind of safe area. I wasn’t aware at the time there was no place of safety available.
The figures in uniform kept coming swinging clubs punching, hand cuffing and pulling kids toward Paddy Wagons. Every time I encountered a Cop I’d scream and point behind me,” They’re over there. Over there! They’re coming from over there! Watch out!” I don’t know what the Hell I was talking about but it served as a temporary distraction that aided in my escape. I was struck only twice once in the back and on my left side which resulted in a large bruise.
I was exhausted from the running, tripping over bodies, being pushed and trampled upon when I’d fall. The Tear Gas was burning the hell out of my eyes and my sweating caused pores to open and my skin became irritated with a incurable firery pain. I was running, dodging, jumping, shoving my way to a different area of battle. Some were throwing rocks and bricks that had been taken from walls surrounding the park. I had arrived at Akeldama field ready to meet my end. Their was no escape.
I tried Roosevelt, Wabash and Harrison streets with devastating results. The Art Institute was only a few blocks away and I thought it might possibly serve as a sanctuary. My companions I considered a lost cause and I’d find some other method to get home if I got out of here alive.
The crowd was running at me as I tried to make my way North. Entering Grant Park again from Michigan Avenue I dodged and weaved in between the wave of scared confused faces, some bloodied being assisted by a comrade leading them back into the Tsunami of violence.
 It was beginning to get dark and lights in the park had been turned off. The street lights on Michigan Avenue and lights from buildings were the only eyes in the darkness. Traffic on LSD (Lake Shore Drive) had been blocked by the hoards escaping the gauntlet earlier. It now was shutdown by the Police roaming the road in Squad Cars with red and blue flashing lights, spotlights trained on the crowd. Buckingham Fountain was also not functional, the colored flood lights surrounding it were cut off. The crowd was thinning which allowed me to stop temporarily at the fountain to dip my face into the water washing away the Tear Gas as well as cleaning my arms of the residue. A fast drink, cupping my hands two or three times then off I ran to the Art Institute.
Bullhorns screamed with Police ordering once dedicated protesters to disburse in a peaceful manner. The directives weren’t being ignored, the Chicago Police and National Guard weren’t allowing the crowd to obey. The beatings and arrests continued without an intermission. The darkness helped me become somewhat undetected except for the occasional spot lights from Police Cars shining their beams on stragglers.
Confrontation had centered on Michigan Avenue where the Police were not going to allow, still a large contingency of determined protesters to disrupt the Democratic Convention. I could see the Art Institute in the obtainable distance walking at a hurried pace but not running so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. My left side was beginning to throb generating pain, causing me to think a couple of ribs had been fractured.
I reached the Art Institute which was surprisingly devoid of protestors or any type of disturbance. The steps and entrances were protected by Guardsmen that appeared young with expressions of what I interpreted as fear. I took refuge around the back of one of the huge Lion Figures that stand guard in front of The Art Institute. Finally an opportunity to be rested and not arrested.
I could hear voices getting closer with heavy footsteps. “Hey you come away from there! Come on get over here!” Damn, once again as if some cosmic force or omnipotent being was constantly subjecting me to some type of vendetta. I have never possessed the ability, the luck or dispensation to get away with anything my entire life. I would get blamed or accused of incidents I had no part in. And in some cases be reprimanded or punished for committing them. “I’m coming hold on. I’m coming!I surrender.” There stood three Illinois National Guardsmen that had been patrolling the perimeter of the building.
“I was only trying to get someplace safe from the riot . I was not a participant in the…” I attempt to plead my case. “Hey don’t I know you? You’re Carlito’s little brother aren’t you? What are you doing down here?” A guardsman asks. “This kid is like twelve years old. I went to school with his brother. We should probably take him into custody so he doesn’t get hurt.” He declares. Actually I had just turned sixteen the month before, I was extremely small for my age short and baby faced. I wasn’t about to correct the Guardsman concerning my age. “Seriously, what are you doing here? You could have gotten seriously hurt. You’re name is Santi, that’s it. I know your brother Carlito. You remember me?”
“You live on Utica huh? I remember you. You’re Butch Larkin with the motorcycle, right?” “That’s me! Let’s get you outta here.”
I’m escorted by three Guardsmen to a bivouac that has been set up as a communication base. The place is crawling with National Guardsmen some appear to be injured and are receiving Medical attention for cuts most likely from rocks. They lead me into an area with a couple of cots as well as tables and chairs. There’s some big guy yelling into the radio dressed in a uniform straight out of a Hollywood War movie. My escort addresses him as Captain explaining my situation.
“So young man what’s your story? Are you one of these trouble makers? Come on start with your name, address, phone number and who we should contact to come and claim you.” ” Isn’t name, rank and serial number? Give me a pen and paper and I’ll write it down. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call my parents. Rather take my chances with the Cops, their beating would be far less than what my old man will dish out.” “What the hell are you doing here? Explain your reason for attending this Anti-American display of disrespect and anarchy. You understand what I’m saying? Cough it up. Tell me!” “I came here with a couple of guys to visit the Museum and Pawn Shops. I’m looking for a Guitar and thought they might have a cheap one. We were gonna screw around then head back on the train to home. I had no idea the Police beating people for no reason was going to take place. I got separated from my buddies and made my way here. That’s it. Now can I go catch the Rock Island and get outta here Captain, please?” “Beating people for no reason. I’m not going to defend the actions of Law Enforcement to a kid. That’s not gonna happen, you’re too young to leave unattended. You’re twelve years old we’re gonna have to turn your smart ass over to the police. Then Social Services will probably take it from there.”
“Hey Captain why do you have to be so mean to me?  I didn’t do anything. If you turn me over to the Cops it makes it look like I did something wrong.”. “Sorry kid dems the rules and we all gotta play by the rules. Now sit over by the table there and don’t get in my way. I’ll call the Police to come and get you in a while. Ya got it?”
“I’m awfully hungry and thirsty can I get a glass of water and some of those donuts please? ” “Are you sure that’s all? Hey Murphy get the kid some water and a couple donuts. On the double. Now I’ve got a riot to contend with. Sit there and make like a good boy.”
This Captain Kiss-My-Ass was beginning to piss me off. I looked around the tent and everyone appeared to be wrapped up in some unimportant task looking so very busy. The donuts were stale and filled with entirely too much sugar but I chowed down on them despite the baker’s poor skills.
“Thanks Captain! I’ve got a question for you! Why aren’t you over in Vietnam fighting the real enemy instead of making war on a bunch of kids? Seems to me that…”
“Why you little smart ass Son of a Bitch who are you to question my service? He interrupts “Larkin get this lil’ bastard the hell out of my sight. Get him outta here. NOW!” Guess I found his hot button. It was however a perfectly valid question. “Come on Santiago follow me double time.” Motorcycle Butch orders. “Where do ya want me to take him Captain? What am I suppose to do with him?” “Find a Cop and hand him over then make it back here. The protestors are being herded this way , we need to set up a flank.” “Yes sir!” “Captain? My mother is a very nice lady. There’s no reason to call her a bitch.” He turns around and throws a partially full Styrofoam cup of coffee at me but ends up dousing a Illinois State Trooper who has just entered. What a surprised expression showed on the Troopers face. “See what you made me do.” Captain Uncourageous screams.
I exit following close behind Motorcycle Butch “Damn kid that was hilarious. You sure got under his skin. Thanks I hate that Son of a Bitch.” Butch continues with his accolades moving through a crowd of Law Enforcement Officers and stragglers left over from the protest. I wonder how long Butch kept talking before he turned around and noticed I had escaped custody.
Harrison St. was fairly empty and accessible as I made my way to the loop then La Salle Street Station and the Rock Island Train south . I just couldn’t get the song out of my head.
“Chicago, Chicago that toddling town
Chicago, Chicago let me show ya around.
You’ll have the time the time of your life
You better carry a gun or a knife
Chicago, my hometown.”