—————————————————————————-

the breakfast of a champion

leftovers and

christmas cookies

the breakfast

of a champion

how much liquor

in the coffee this

morning

whatever it takes

to avoid the inevitable

chasing death like

a whore in church

that dark haired vixen

of the teenage years

imagine if she would

have said yes and all

this bullshit would

have never happened

imagine if you were

actually someone

worth saying yes

to

————————————————————————

a visit to the doctor before a snowstorm

blood pressure of

someone in perfect

health

blood sugar of

someone that will

be dead in a few

months

more scratches of

the head than i have

seen in years

but as always

what designer drug

will the insurance

pay for

i guess the pain

can wait

i suppose all this

booze is here for

a reason

———————————————————————–

flirting with disaster

one of these nights

one of these drinks

will probably kill

me

i feel like i am an

expert at flirting

with disaster

a quick tongue

will get you

places in these

sordid circles

she does believe

we are going to

spend forever

in harmony

i hate to break

it to her

but the chances

of that happening

are even worse

than my impending

doom

—————————————————————————

just a few inches

snow on the way

now the panic

will set in

long lines for

gas and groceries

jesus christ

just a few inches

some stupid fuck

will ask where

the hell is global

warming now

this is when i

would love to

grab him and

tell him about

the good ole’

days of four

fucking seasons

instead of just

hot and cold

———————————————————————-

into something beautiful

and here comes

this angel willing

to grab me by the

throat and drag me

into this century

of course, as much

as i want to believe

she has my best

interests in mind

this fucking wall

i have been building

won’t allow my

complete belief to

grow into something

beautiful

this is where the

distance apart

is my friend

allows me many

miles to get my

split brain back

into one

i hope those stunning

eyes meet me on some

edge of the world

and we both decide

to fucking jump

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is a 3 time Best of the Net nominee and a recent Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s been recently published at The Beatnik Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and Yellow Mama. He is currently working on a yet to be titled book of new poems. You can find him most of the time on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Wael Elouny, star bridge between Egypt and Hollywood

Wael Elouny, 42 years old, is an Egyptian star, born in the cultural capital Alexandria, home of the legendary Bibliotheca Alexandrina. Wael Elouny is making his debut in Europe and the USA with the film “Ancient taste of Death …on mother pearl floor” by Antonello Altamura, a film with new philosophical aspects. Wael has a spontaneous character, a very lively spirit, a volcano of creativity. Wael, in addition to cinema, has experience in theater and television and is the winner of  many film awards.

Walking with Wael through the streets of Cairo, everyone recognizes him and stops to ask for his autograph, because people like Wael and he does not want to have the mask of the star. Wael works with big film productions, but is attracted by indie productions, overflowing with creativity and certainly a faithful mirror of current customs. For all this I introduced him to the Italian director Antonello Altamura, 50 years old, for “Ancient taste of Death” an indie movie of the Hollywood Art Film Production, based between Hollywood and San Francisco, so the production is Californian in cooperation with an Italian production.

It is a film that links the dramas of the Hollywood golden age with the enigmas and dramas of ancient Egypt at the time of Cleopatra VII. It is a film where the world of the invisible and the metaphysical acts on reality, which, elusive, never, really allows itself to be fully identified. The scene I shot with Wael is totally immersed in this context. The character of Wardal, who has two souls, goes to the oracle of Siwa to meet Bayed (Wael Elouny), since he is opposed by Ottavio-Ottaviano (Antonello Altamura in his debut as an actor). Bayed advises Wardal against eliminating Ottavio. Wardal rebels against Bayed’s advice, which he takes as an insult to his power, which he sublimates by saying: “I am history”, while Bayed interrupts Wardal’s abstraction-delirium, who points a gun at Bayed, but Bayer’s charisma prevents his assassination and Wardal, consumed by the drama, falls at Bayer’s feet.

Wael and I wanted to shoot the scene in Arabic, under the supervision of the great political journalist of “Akhbar El Youm” Ph.D. Ahmed Elsersawy. On that day in December 2024 Wael was busy with two films and I with a television recording. We both wanted to shoot that scene which in the film will be called: “I am history”. We repeated it several times and each time we enriched it with a new idea, in five hours of work, pressed by our other work commitments. There was a perfect harmony between me and Wael, a great professionalism. Then, from Cairo, we made a video call to Antonello Altamura in Turin. Wael and I were very satisfied with our work and Altamura likes a lot that scene. 

Here is a true story of our world of cinema, here is an important step of cooperation between Californian and Egyptian cinema and the Arab world. There is a project to create a solid bridge between Hollywood cinema and Egyptian, Saudi and Arab Emirates cinema through a colossal film festival. Fingers crossed.

LIVES ON FIRE

LA is a forest of lives

now feeding carnivorous flames,

flames that cremate neighborhoods, and grow.

It’s a painful choice—stay, spray, and pray?

Or run for your life–

taking only kids, pets and meds?

What about looters? Water damage?

Grandpa’s first editions?

How can we live without heaped-up trivia

that tells us who we are?

Then add critics.

You’re living in a desert, dummy.

Now you want bail-out?

Trump says the fire is California’s fault, anyway.

As LA incinerates,

the face of homelessness changes.

It’s no longer the curse of drugs and crazies.

With homes, jobs, and banks in ashes,

the homeless are now doctors, teachers, plumbers,

people who lived charmed lives—

lives eaten up by equal-opportunity flames,

flames that treat everyone alike;

flames that leave everyone alike

bereft, betrayed, and defeated.

Palisades, Eaton and Hurst are war zones:

drought and dense construction

in no-holds-barred battle with

consequences.

Infernos always win.

         

“Nothing has remained”

Everything has gone

The homes, the souls and feelings.

Our joyful summer became a frightening winter

With its long-darked and terrifying nights.

The ghost of death eradicated our hearts

And stole our souls.

Our beautiful spring became a lifeless autumn

Our children fall Like the leaves of the green trees,

So quietly with the breeze of death.

Their souls fly

As the hovering and glamorous butterflies

Lost in the vast universe

And increase the number 

Of the shining stars.

Our feelings turned into a dry valley

And a burden desert

They’re frozen as an ice bar.

We don’t feel the loss 

As it’s numerous 

And no feelings to joy 

We’re still alive 

But nothing has remained.

Affective Seasonal Disorder Three Times

1-

Deer at first light

wreathed in mist

transforming to real

objects

escaping dream

2-

Sunlight spreads

light on still pond

surface

3-

The pattern a setting

sun makes on clouds

before they disappear

Affective Seasonal Disorders Five Times

1-

Ground fog makes

headstones out of

black rocks;

silent tides recede

2-

Thick night fog

swallows street lights;

the moon

3-

Blue Heron in sunset

afterglow at full moon

rising

first flowers on trees

4-

Early first ice withers

last cling of leaves-

the grass tingles

5-

War  memorial statue

in Central Park-

icicles on sculpted

guns

bayonets

Affective Seasonal Disorders Six Times

1-

Dawn without light.

intense fog, then

a light rain.

Slowly the sun

clarifies.

2-

Gray haze over

bay. Fragments

of light breaking

through-

almost dawn

3-

Bike trail in Winter.

Frozen ruts where

the tires go.

4-

Free of ice pond.

Still water reflects

mid-day sun.

5-

Clear night-a full

moon creates shadows

6-

After noon white out,

wind-blown drifts,

sideways snow,

white on white

Summer Dreams Four Times

1-

Hottest night of Summer.

A fan in every window.

Who let the skunks out?

2-

Pieces of blue sky

between low black clouds.

Sunlight trying to break

through

3-

Fractured light filtered

through stained glass

window

Broken prisms

on hard wood floor

4-

Sunset over the ocean-

a study in scarlet

Lunar Caustics Three Times

1-

Full moon eclipse.

Prophets say:

“The end is near!”

For now, a thing

of beauty.

2-

A circle of fire

surrounds the moon-

a dream with red

objects in it.

3-

Falling stars leave

scars of light

across the night sky

Mostly Crows Three Times

1-

Crows in Winter sky:

black wings furled

against gray clouds-

ice chips for eyes.

2-

Birds nesting in

eaves-wasps

live there too.

3-

“Do crows dream?”

Zen poet responds,

“who cares?”

Gordon Lish, The Selected Stories of Gordon Lish (“How To Write a Poem”)

I tell you, I am no more of a sucker for this thing of poetry than the next fellow is. I mean, I can take it or leave it—a certain stewarded pressure, some modulated pissing and moaning… But once in a blue moon I have in hand a poem whose small unfolding holds me to its period. It needn’t be any great shakes, such a poem. I don’t care two pins for what its quality is. Christ, no— literature’s not what I look to poetry for.       Fear is.       You know— like the fear of nothing there.

That old zenophobic fear sucks       PoWorld has no answer for it       Jaysus Mega-

Church of CanPo, duh       Take it or leave it       Pissing in the wind       Wind dript

in your face       Faced with a stiff lit-lite riff       Never shakes out       That’s it,

there —       39 shades of night noise behind your eyes       Once all the other water-

marks float       Revved up 71 percent       Lil’ reverse press seventeener     

 Modulate a miss to a mess       Unfolding blue-tinged moan       Infamy’s no thing in

your eternal hand       A steward’s needles & pins       Next you’re a sucker for

anything else, period.       Poet, you deserve to be voided

Jean-Patrick Manchette, Fatale (opening line; trans, Donald Nicholson-Smith)

The hunters were six in number, men mostly fifty or older, but also two younger ones with sarcastic expressions.

Kill me now, or later?

Braggin’ & raggin’ in the gym

or in the field …

oh ’em dude-bros         oink —

“Porked a dozen B’s just las’ weekend”

She is five foot six

Well bölls me over, trolls

by the numbers, please —

Yep, fifty-six is all on relation•shits    

(ships & giggles, hips & wiggles)

Coexistence is coming up elevenses, squatter

“Your Body, My Choice,” say 4chan

Um-fictional         they jes’ voted last week

con•verted the ever tiring Big O         45’s

now 47  (hoho) —       real teamwork!

Orangutan now on Roids, boyz

Michel Houellebecq, Serotonin (opening line; trans, Shaun Whiteside)

It’s a small, white, scored oval tablet.

Small is good, white is forever throwing shade

(& that’s just not clicket, bluddah)

Like someone scored a century at Lord’s

or a lid behind the library

(We’ve hit numero 100% completion, hon!)

Makes us all happy together

singularly…   even pseudonymously

You never really remember which…

Pls don’t re-uptake this tab inhibitor

let it go, might just be our last

over at the oval

Stephen Bett is a widely and internationally published Canadian poet with 26 books in print from BlazeVOX, Chax, Spuyten Duyvil, Ekstasis Editions, Thistledown Press, & others. His personal papers are archived in the “Contemporary Literature Collection” at Simon Fraser University. His website is stephenbett.com