After Reading Charles Burchfield’s Journal #1

Last fading light after sunset at meadows
end. Wildflowers lose their color anticipating
an encroachment of trees. Nighthawks ravage 
the venous skin of leaves clustered between
the thatched tents of pupae evolving into
cabbage moths and insects that might be black
like flies. Once roused these predacious 
swarm becoming an infectious, stinging mass,
virulent as diseases spread by poison gas.
Walking here we are on the cusp of something
new but we don’t know what it is.

Nascent moon shadows well-worn
	path; solitary man
walking hears nothing moving.


Court Artist Jane Rosenberg’s Portrait
of an Ex-President of the United States 
Asleep in a  New York City Courtroom
During Jury Selection for His Criminal Trial

Slouching in his chair, bracketed by
legal counsels, the massive bulk of him
in weirdly tailored suit, unnaturally
orange tinted make-up creating an unhealthy
face, an imitation tan. There his thin, blow 
dried, artificially blonde hair, teased to cover 
a large bald spot, a caricature at rest, 
slack jawed and jowly, swollen pouches 
of excess fat, frown lined forehead, 
unruly eyebrows vaguely satanic looking, 
so much of him, looking aged, beaten, 
too tired to go on, almost peacefully sleeping. 
His silence is merciful, a blessing.



Sophie Calle’s True Stories: photos and essays

One stolen shoe: left-red
Nose before plastic surgery: a closeup
Self-Portrait as topless striper with blonde wig
Portrait: Real life artist model sketch defaced by razor cuts
Burned bed in the street from three stories up (hers)
Self-portrait with pig’s nose
TV Guide page in grandmother’s house after she died
Single die in jeweler’s ring case
New Year’s Eve resolutions: No lying, no biting-the husband’s
Las Vegas Drive Up Marriage hale-Open 24 Hours
Fake white wedding marriage gathering with family and friends
The breakup: the coffee cup, the breasts (hers)
Red Wedding Dream on Roissy airport runway
Dumped in August: two bird legs mounted on a stick
The View of My Life-cows grazing as seen through a window
Dead in a good mood-from her mother’s diary
When my mother died, I bought a taxidermist she named Monique (after her mother)
Death of the beloved cat: laid out in a coffin with a blanket
My Mother, My Cat, My Father (gone)
Caution sign: END



Time Reordered: From the Table of Contents
	Of Jackie Craven’s Whish

Under anesthesia I remember a moon
Dawn dreams a new upending
I’m speeding the Quantum Highway
My misery sleeps through sunrise
3 A.M hovers on a balcony
Half-Past Yesterday sleeps in my bed
A clock lives inside my looking glass
2 A.M. blunders into the damp city
8 A.M. broods beneath a gray umbrella
Half-past yesterday has abandoned me
3 A.M. hovers on a balcony
Clocks can’t be trusted in the electric city
2 A.M. jolts awake in the dining car
63:13 raps at my door
63:13 lodges in my sister’s frontal lobe
5:15 paces hospital corridors
Urgent care has no time for us
As her steel frame expands, the Human Clock writhers and turns to smile
Dawn dreams a new upending
Half-Past Tomorrow slumbers in the rear of the freezer


burned out by promiscuity: 
Byron’s life and letters excerpted

The first gonorrhea I have not paid for
A world of other harlotry
The Trinity college (stuffed) bear
I have quite given up concubinage
A Turkish bath-that marble paradise of sherbert and sodomy
I shall confine myself henceforth to the strictest adultery
There was never a man who gave up so much to women

We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and Williams 
	on the sea-shore
Cash is the sinew of war
I was a fool to come here (Greece) but being here I mut see
	what is to be done
Back! Out of my sight! Fiends, can I have peace, relief from
	this hell?
Come; you damned set of butchers(his attending doctors); 
	take away as much blood as you will: but have done 
	with it

the little ants marching
 

we are the losers

 

the glue of society

 

the little ants

marching for

hope

 

even though destiny

has other things in

mind

 

the lost souls

 

holding on for

something that

resembles a life

we dreamed about

as children

 

sometimes the sun

doesn't even bother

to shine
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

some people are
 

i once thought i

was in love with

this beautiful older

woman right up

until she got me

fired from my job

 

and it's not that

i'm unwilling to

accept that some

people are just

fucking evil

 

i only wonder

why the fuck

am i the one

that has to

experience

all of them

 

the witches

have won

again i

suppose
-------------------------------------------------------
just as damaged
 

all the beautiful faces

on those magazines

 

i convince myself

they are just as

damaged as i am

 

any chance meeting

and the life long

quest for the right

one will be resolved

 

and yes, i'm aware

these delusions aren't

healthy and are only

going to lead to

trouble

 

boredom doesn't

exactly keep the

juices flowing

these days
-------------------------------------------------------------
does the madness ever end
 

another day spent breathing

 

another day watching this

crazy fucking mess just burn

 

do i break out the violin

or join a protest and throw

a rock

 

does the madness ever end

 

where is the laughter

 

a joyous hug

 

instead, everyone is buried

in their phones plotting or

masturbating out of hate

 

i tell all the ones i love

that i do love them

every day i can

 

mostly because it is a very

simple act that can bring

someone a moment of joy

 

a smile

 

a flutter of emotion

 

something better than all

the shit we wade through

just to make it to a bed

 

the ground

 

or the concrete of a cell

 

i can't imagine anyone

calling this living
-----------------------------------------------------------------
an interesting test of pain
 

a ghost from

my past has

noticed i'm

mentioning

sex more in

the poems

 

any time that

ghost wants

to take the

hint and

pounce

 

she is more

than welcome

 

lord knows

 

two arthritic

wrists make

for an interesting

test of pain as

one is trying to

climax before

attempting to

get some sleep

 

each and every

night

 

glutton for

punishment

as always



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Black Coffee Review and The Asylum Floor. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

ENDLESS LOVE

You are altogether a wonderful damsel
Like a shed of flowers over me
So much soothing and ecstatic
Like a rain of moonshine splendour.
So much full of lovely-look like butterflies.
Ever  charming like the songs of a cuckoo
Endless love and timeless beauty have embraced you.
Your sweet embrace is life-giving
And voice is like a boisterous brook.
That flows dancing and jumping on solid rock.
Life has become a miraculous beauty for you.
Your endless love has surround  me from all sides.
It has glorified my mind
And filled me with unforgettable memories.


RESURRECTION

The pangs and pain still vibrating the air.
The hilltop was tinged and soaked with blood.
The sun hid away in shame, not to face, the cruel act.
Thus the darkness descends swiftly
Although, it was mid-day, in fact
The barbarians never left him to nail down
In his foot, palm, heart and waste.

There was tremendous roaring of the wind
The wind could not bear the torturous work.
There was a cry all over nature.
The butchers finished their works
Took away the clothes even, leaving him
almost half-naked.
Jesus prayed to the Almighty to bless the sinners

After hours
Jesus again came back with golden colours
Blessed the miscreants who were no more.
He blessed  all, the depressed and deprived souls
Nature changed again.
There were scents of flowers and greenery all around 
Nature was filled   with fragrances sweet and soft
Zephyr began to blow
Few of the blessed saints could see the resurrection
of Jesus
Jesus blessed the whole of mankind.
And left for the heavenly abode.


SPRING

Oh, Spring
With an intermittent  symphony 
As the sweet spell of cuckoo comes
From the dense trees
I remember you.

At dawn, when the soft sunshine touches the earth with beauty so bare
I remember you.

When birds-flock fly in the sky with so much glee
Leaving the foot print of their chorus  in the wide sky
I remember you.

Often seeing the bees and butterflies
in the lush green bush at my
barn, I know, you have arrived with all your splendour and beauty.
I remember  you.

When I see the vernal beauty
With  so many flower- bunch hanging in the  creepers and trees 
And there is festival  of flowers  and hues.
I remember you

My heart  thrills  with  joy in your  presence,
I remember the Almighty  for  this beautiful arrangement  for his creation.


Thy Songs Divine

Something thrilled the whole being
The sky and earth resonated
With the sound of your flute moving from sphere to sphere.
Thousand years have passed 
Yet, the voice of your flute is still creating sensation beyond reason.
Enlivening  the hearts of zillions, with celestial joy and splendor.

Still, your memory is so vibrant everywhere in space
Even, the story of your love and the teaching of Gita on the battlefield
Propitiates the dry heart like charging again with beauty and ecstasy.
In the lane and bylanes  of cities and villages
The subtle vibration persists in the minds of the people
The story of celestial love is alive like a radiant ray.

Thy legacy, thy teaching, thy love
Is a symbol and shining elixir of life.
Thy vibration of the teaching of the Gita is still an aspiring flame in the heart of all the Yogis, seers and seekers
The flame of the message of the Gita is the shining sermon of the world. 
Everywhere thy voice is heard as sweet melody
of life, enlivening the whole world.
Thy sublime message is the elixir of life zillions in the world

In the desolate sands of Yamuna
On the wide roads of Mathura 
And under shady fragrant groves of Brindavan
In all the dusts of Gopa Pura
Everywhere is heard; thy voice, thy flute.
Oh Lord, your flute is the symphony everywhere.
As a symbol and sign
The whole vast space is  filled with verses of your love 
And your love for the  whole creation

Thousands of years have passed
Yet, zillions are moved by the love and  songs of the divine  
The enchanting chanting of the sermons of human life. 


Dr. Maheswar Das
-------------------------------
He is a bilingual poet, translator, editor, and story writer. He writes in English and in the Odia language.

He has been pursuing his creative writing for the last twenty years and has authored more than one thousand English poems. All of his poetical exposition centers around Nature, God, love, and relationships. Some of his poems have been translated into international languages. He has co-authored three English anthologies of poems with his two friends.  Besides he is the co-author of more than fifty English anthologies of poems of many literary groups.

He holds the degree of M.A. in both Economics and History. He has accomplished a Ph.D.  degree in sociology from Utkal University. He also holds a law degree from M.S. Law College, Cuttack. He hails from Mallipur in the district of Cuttack, Odisha, India.

His English poems have been published in several national and international journals and Anthologies and have gained worldwide appreciation. He has received so many accolades from various national and international literary groups. He is a recipient of the Gold Medal award from the World Union of Poets, Rome.

From Sex to Super-consciousness 

(Musings of an anonymous MAN on sex, spirituality and everything else in between)

As I am wasting my monotonous days, reminiscences began creeping in of those sex-full days of wondrous, wanton lust, languidly fueling up my torn-up moods of boredom with something magical. And I allowed these emotions to distressingly float along the milky way of guilt and joy, dreads and dreams, being and becoming, and the suppressions and exuberance of an immaturely coming of age man in the city of never-ending little circles.

It combines everything together in a banquet of marvelous delight. I remember my love for that cheeky, whore-like colleague, one with brown black hair, a white-like face, and not-so-soft skin, for the pain of pushing, pulling, falling, digging, eating, and at the end, throwing something from my pocket and something for my horse-like thing—no wonder they call me a real hunter; I was always loaded on with my pestle those days, ready for a fire. Too cool, I thought, or perhaps just a fool.

I allowed my life to remain as an itchy despair.
I, the Hunter, as my colleagues have marked me, am a lone employee in the financial sector of the economy, working in little boxes in big buildings, counting and recounting huge cash with nothing in the hand, kind of analogy, here, eating and getting nothing wearing a leather cap. This kind of situation is so easy to put me off. I would shake and spring out life every night. 

For those days, I considered myself a sex seeker; I was a sex guru's imperfect disciple, but out of resentment, the gaze of “the other” fixed me as a hunter or for some a Billy goat. Yes, I was addicted in sex, but what does it mean for a man of twenty-four to have this addiction in comparison to those horribly ugly things that everybody watches without any disgust? No, I never abused, manipulated or harassed any one for my lust, it was all straight or nothing, all my passions were congenial partners or affordable professionals.

My habit of chasing fantasies began during my college days. They, with rugged cheeks and a bit of soft, tight tissues, all had to come down to this dull valley to make something out there to survive for their families. For happy buck goats like us, we were a pack of four back then. It was the days of abundance; they were everywhere and we were pushing, pulling, and throwing, and they were grabbing, blowing, dunking, and bucking. It was all white and blue. 

Anyway, it all started in a small wooden box. She had a soft smile. I put my hand all over her and then sucked from her nipple. It tasted awfully sweet. I was already high. I emptied my pocket and walked home alone.

In those days of thoughtless sex, I was there almost all the time, at the intersection of seven distinct turns inside the old house. 
Sometimes even the prostitutes found it hard to take my push; her juices were not enough.

After some time, my lousy friend arrived from Australia—wow, it was already down under—to find a young girl who would sleep with him for his foreign gate pass. The first thing I said to him was, Have you done it yet? He was perplexed. I still remember that docile rat running away from his horny girl when she wanted to kiss her. It's vivid, and I wanted to take him to my place, a new and recent one I have found near the holy place. Shiva X, and what next? 

They were ripe from the village and falling down in the valley with soft and sharp breasts; it was too good to miss. Again, what next? As the white explosions continued, I told my lucky-less friend to join me in my exuberance, but he was a bit too human, not half a kind of animal. I was sure that he had come back to Kathmandu to sharpen a dull pencil on a virgin cutter. He had a magical card to juice up any girl out there. That magical thing works for every middle-class girl? 
I can’t understand the black line of separation between middle-class young girls and my better-loved prostitutes; they both easily give up, don’t they? One for the money, two for a show, and three for a pass to fly away. All the same, I am not mistaken between a few thousand and a hard card.

My friend said, I am in search of a life partner to work with and sleep down under. I searched with the face of a sober hunter and found a young woman who was bright, glassy-eyed, restless, and tired of her stepmother and a confused father. I asked her, Are you interested in traveling to Australia? I was not surprised when I got her close, and she agreed. After a few cups of coffee, the deal was done; things will never be the same again.

However, I the hunter was not called for the marriage; I was not bothered, and can’t you see it? What an embarrassment it would be for them to find the presence of a hunter when both of them were thinking about goating each other. 

My friend slept with his wife, and that evening, without any disgust, I did the same with a girl in exchange for cash. It was relaxing.
After a while, a thought came rushing into my mind of that soft-skinned pale girl my friend was digging in all the while. What made her so lovely was that she was pretty and tall, like a slate pole. I wouldn’t reach for her hole; it seemed too tight and obstructed for me. Every time Prakash did something with her, it felt as if my spirit was being rapped through my asshole.

It was too much and too big for that girl, Sony, and my boy, Prakash. They traveled across the long lane to the filthy resorts to do that thing. Am I going to tell you more about Sony? Probably NO. Sony was among the girls I dropped for, but she was hunted down by my friend, and I would only say to myself that her grapes are tasteless and sour.

Still, I remember the day of her marriage; it was astrologically supported and arranged, and I even saw tears in her eyes. Her husband was dissimilar as my friend, but he was another kind of hunter; he was rich, round, dull, and bit of hairless in front. 
As I go through the news these days, I realize that sex has indeed become a bit too complicated and dangerous because people are too either curious or judgmental. It’s a looming disaster when sex ceases to become straight and spontaneous and begins as a point of abuse and bargain. What if you bump into a stranger who can trap you with lust and completely wreck you?

You may say I got away because I am not a celebrity; I was young and too fit, fine, smooth, and healthy, but I say to them I was an addict because without sex in that zone of quantity, I wouldn't have survived. I have never undermined a woman; even if I had bumped off a feminist, she would have never complained, because there were no tactics, tricks, abuse, false promises, or power involved; it was my nature; no betrayal. And thanks to my ocean guru I never turned into a suicidal man or a suppressed serial killer.

I don't know how I ended up in a marriage—from which side I don't know—but that was the day, around thirty-two, I realized the hunter also got hunted out and the Billy goat in me got castrated. I think to move out of sex addiction is something like moving up in the ladder of seven chakras, channeling that energy some more into the heart and head, and allowing those impulses to find their expressions on something else; there is no need to push or pull so much as these days, I paint, poet, music, focus more on math, and meditate; my guru would say take that leap from sex to super-consciousness.
 
Oh, my master, I have not touched it yet; I am hanging in between. But I have realized that in the cosmic scheme of things, a sage moon as he was, my master Rajneesh spoke that the urge for sex is an unconscious way of searching for your soul. Indeed, it gives a sense of transcendence to be with the mind, not obsessed with sex.

(Gaurav Ojha is a writer, researcher, and educator at different educational institutions.)

“In age of consumerism and materialism, I traffic in blue sky and colored air.” --James Turrell

Exploring the Arts: Nothing “Blue” About Blue Man Group
By Jacques Fleury

[Originally published in Oddball Magazine & Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]

In a world maligned by socio-political division, our society is most definitely overzealous for something to mitigate its intermittent malaise.

Then comes Blue Man Group:  an American Performance Art Company founded in 1987 like a fast moving storm, boldly rushes into The Charles Playhouse to strut their wildly colorful rapid-
fire Ritalin paced show! The Canadian Company Cirque Du Soleil purchased the company in 2017.

The show, which was surprisingly interactive, started out with the audience following the directions of a scrolling marquee. The audience was engaged in reading the words out loud which was meant to be like a warm up before the Blue Man made their blue
appearance. Another thing, which stroked me as peculiar, was that the first three rows of people were wearing raincoats. I must admit, since I was in a suit, I experience some minor anxiety not knowing what was going to happen. All I could think of was the performance artist “Gallagher” smashing watermelons to whet his audience’s appetite for a meticulously planned mess. Toward the middle of the one hour and forty-five minute show, the Blue Man squirted banana juice all over the eager audience! Interpret that as you wish!

Essentially, the show had the flare of a circus with something for everyone! It was what I would call edutainment, a mixture of education and entertainment. At one point, it became philosophical by encouraging us to appreciate the here and now instead of
worrying about what’s coming up next. Then on the other hand it was engaging when the Blue Men picked a female audience member, brought her up on stage and strapped a blue-breasted suit on her. Their comedic talents became evident when all they did for a
few minutes was just sit there behind a table all aligned in a row and stared while their “victim” masquerading as their date waited patiently for the Blue boys' next move.

Eventually they began to interact with her by playing romantic music, setting flowers on the table and sharing their “Twinkies” (described as a finger shaped cake filled with white cream) with her. Again, interpret that as you wish! Then in a disgusting twist, the newly digested Twinkies turned into yellow liquid and began to pour out of their chests, which emanated a drone of disgust from the audience.

All in all, the Blue Men were innovative and alluring. They even parodied what they call “The new Rock ‘n Roll” band as a bunch of choreographed boy bands who eventually disband to break out into their separate “projects” when they reach their height of success as a group. In doing this, they demonstrated their versatility as performers, gyrating their limber bodies to dance music. I was particularly pleased with their drumming, a sound that penetrating my pores so that the drum beats became synonymous with my own
heartbeat. The finale had pounding dance music and rolls of white toilet paper falling from the ceiling in a white fluorescent light reaching a crescendo of climatic proportions! Everyone was
on their feet, saturated in a creamy white glow and giggling like children during recess on the playground.

Then the Blue Men even waited in the lobby for picture opportunities and signed autographs with blue paint. The audience, a mixture of the young and the young at heart, left beaming from ear to ear. And that’s why the Blue Men are here in Boston to turn our moods from “blue” to blissful and for a brief moment, forget about our woe and foster a sense of unity and camaraderie in spite of our disparate identities.

the rain tarot blues, the world weary watery hues

along the worlds, the sleepy town, passengers by the mile, the down trodden in spirit for they have money but lack a smile. oh the skies; seven days and nights of it…wind and water and dark, even the artists who muse upon such things say, ‘This here is no lark.’ and somewhere past air brakes and tires on puddles melancholic and lit by electric light and chemical rainbows both, beyond old time Christian church some kind of Protestantism, further than the purlieu of the pastoral world (pastoral in summer sun past anyhow), is the unknown den of coyote far past the feral fields beyond coyote road. the tarot reader places the cards and speaks. there are truths spoken about the orphan soul, and how journey’s take their toll, but to yet take heart; for much w/light is writ for a double crowned poet inside an astral scroll. deep inside the witching hour dream between strange hours I walked in a small space w/kindred souls looking on. the space is too small, thought I; and it must mean I have outgrown it. and I awoke to the old rain laden branches outside the window, and they said nothing.