----------------------------------------------------------------------
to try harder
i usually have to be
pretty fucking close
to drunk off my ass
to try to talk to any
beautiful woman
i don't know
i remember a night
in a club back in
my twenties where
i approached this
gorgeous black
woman and said
some gibberish
she laughed and
told me to try
harder
i laughed and said
something stupid
enough to make
her smile and tell
me to go get her
a drink
when i came back
she was making out
with some other guy
apparently, i wasn't
drunk enough for the
beer muscles to kick
in
but i did enjoy her
amaretto sour
-----------------------------------------------------------------
the locusts
happiness is
one of those
rare events
anymore
i treat it like
a comet or
the locusts
it's not what
i want in my
life, but i
suppose it's
just the way
it is
they say
money can't
buy happiness
well guess
what
neither can
being poor
----------------------------------------------
in cowboy boots
drove past a woman
mowing her grass
in cowboy boots
i smiled
got home to find
my grass being
cut by the cousin
that molested me
as a child
i don't think
you'd call this
a smile
--------------------------------------------------------
the lines of pain
trace
the
lines
of pain
on this
broken
face
the
sweet
caress
of your
bloody
fingers
may
it be
the
last
thing
i
remember
--------------------------------------------------
looking for trouble
it's been years since
i went out drinking
looking for trouble
the last time that
happened i was
taking a girl to
go buy crack at
seven in the
morning
after a long night
of drinking and
fucking around
in some strip
clubs
looking back
i probably should
have had her buy
some for me
J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and The Asylum Floor. He has a new book out with Casey Renee Kiser from RaVenGhost Press, Altered States of The Unflinching Souls. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
experts
i’m surrounded by experts
wherever i go
in my walk-around listening-in days
they appear out of nowhere
carrying their wisdom
and give it out to all who will listen
just recently
i’ve encountered an increase of them
sharing their knowledge vocally
like the woman on my local jetty
telling her friend
how to fix up her marriage
the man in a park
giving information to another
about buying a rental property
the boy at a beach
explaining to his mate
the trick to skimming a rock on water
the guy sitting with coffee in café
instructing a young bloke
on what to do with his money
the girl in a busy bakery
advising her friend
on what to have for lunch
and on it goes more and more
every day in every way
these fabulous experts
directing those they’re with
on what to do
and how to do it
i thought to myself
while on the bus yesterday
i don’t think i’m an expert at much
and while i’ve certainly done
plenty of things in my life
doing things doesn’t make one an expert
but with so many experts
who have so much to say
i don’t think the world needs any more
so i’ll keep walking-around
and listen-in when i can
to the experts and their expertise
Stephen House has won awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s been commissioned often, with 20 plays produced, many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts to Canada and Ireland, and an Asialink residency to India. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His poetry is published often. He’s performed his acclaimed monologues, ‘Appalling Behaviour’, ‘Almost Face to Face’ and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ widely. His play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for four years.
Ripping Off the Band-Aid
Remember the roller coaster of emotions you felt as a kid when you fell off your bike or did something else to earn yourself a scrape wor- thy of a Band-Aid? I remember falling off my bike and skinning my knee more than once as a child.
At first, I felt the rush of pain as my knee hit the gravel, followed by the burn of peroxide once my mom began to patch me up with her first aid kit. Then, after we both blew on it, I felt the cool relief of the Neosporin and a Band-Aid to protect the wound so it could begin to heal.
In some ways, grief was like skinning my knee. After the initial pain and shock, I covered up the wound after the funeral with pleas- antries and a return to daily life in an attempt to heal. But just like wearing a Band-Aid, at some point, you need to rip that thing off and expose your wound to the air so it can finally scab over and fully heal. I had been dealing with my grief on a surface level up to that point, only allowing myself to know the depths of my heartache. It was finally time to excavate my sorrow and bring my pain to the light. I decided to join the Young Widows Grief Writing Workshop and braced myself for the necessary healing that only spilling my emotional guts could bring.
Our group’s first virtual meeting was on November 8, 2021. Five of us shell-shocked widows assembled on Zoom, and Joan quickly introduced herself and explained how each session would work. We would start with a short poem or writing excerpt and then be given
about twenty minutes to write how we felt about the writing, followed by each person sharing what they had written with the group.
Before Joan gave us the writing prompt, she asked each of us to introduce ourselves. It was awkward enough to meet for the first time online. Add the fact that each of us had lost our spouse within the last year, and you could cut the anxiety with a knife. Thankfully Joan had run these groups for a while and did a wonderful job holding space, including silence, for us to begin to open up.
The introductions were as painful an ordeal as you would expect. All five of us widows were in our forties, and each of us had kids. In comparison, I felt lucky only having one child who was now a teen- ager versus the other women struggling to piece together their lives while also caring for one or more children under the age of twelve.
Even though my situation was slightly different, for the first time since Al died, I felt truly seen and understood. Some of the women had a spouse die from illness, having to experience the added pain of watching their husband suffer for months before passing away. A couple of the women were like me, having their significant other stolen in an instant.
After our round of introductions, it was time to complete the writing prompt. The assignment was deceivingly simple. Joan asked us to free write for twenty minutes, using the phrase “This grief is ”
followed by a description of our feelings. I grabbed my purple-and- gold embossed journal and proceeded to bare my soul. Oh boy, here goes nothing . . .
This grief is debilitating.
This grief is insidious. It seeps into every thought, every move, and every breath in my lungs.
This grief is selfish. It won’t allow me to take my mind off it and comes back with a vengeance at the slightest hint of joy.
This grief is sad. More sad than I’ve ever felt in my life, and
I’m scared to feel this way for the rest of my life, but I’m terrified to let it go.
This grief is lonely. I don’t know how to connect with others sometimes because they don’t understand the magnitude of my loss. This grief is haunting. It fills my nights with thoughts of him.
With longing and regrets and desires to wind back time to have our love all over again.
This grief is awful. It sucks the life out of you and makes you wish you were dead.
This grief is a part of me. Like a scar I’ll never get rid of or a wound that won’t fully heal.
This grief is surprising in its depth and complexity, and magnitude. It swallows anyone and anything in its path.
This grief is special because it’s shaped by the love I had for him.
That’s why I cling to the grief some days in remembrance of him.
This grief is necessary to honor my pain and my experience. I need this grief if I ever hope to deal with the terrible thing that happened to me and my son.
This grief is confusing. Some days I can talk about Al and laugh, and other times if I catch a glimpse of his picture out of the corner of my eye, I’m enveloped in tears.
This grief is strange that way. No rhyme or reason. No predict- able pattern or warning. It’s just raw, primal emotion of a love lost and a heart broken in two.
What comes of this grief? I hear it wanes over time, but at this stage, I’m skeptical if it’ll ever go away.
I looked up from my journal after reading my piece to the group and was instantly comforted by the all-knowing eyes of other women who also had been thrust into the rotten club of widowhood.
For the next twelve weeks, I showed up to our grief writing group faithfully. Some days I dreaded attending because I knew during the
session the pain of my own loss and the loss of the other women in the group was inescapable. The fact that my grief was inescapable in these meetings was the unexpected gateway to my healing.
Afterglow Theorem:
Let 1 equal you and 0 equal the void.
0 + 0 = 0
0 - 0 = 0
0 + 1 = 1
1 + 0 = 1
1 - 0 = 1
1 - 1 = 0
0 - 1 = -1
Q.E.D.
Jazz Warmups:
Tortured yesterday means tortured today
only if you write it.
The more guttural the scream
the more intelligible.
Sam Shepard serving Nina Simone ice cubes
for her scotch: this is my thesis.
Oblivion obscurity christs still air—
everything's a target for revenge.
All heavens are alike
each hell's a hell its own way.
No one notices
a diamond among diamonds.
Splash in some horseshit.
Toro bravo:
I see a pair of ruby lips
I ignite.
My nostrils blast smoke.
I charge.
Hundreds of banderillas
regal me
yet I remain
standing.
Love, please—
if you won’t
deliver the final blow
let me.
Brooks Lindberg lives in the Pacific Northwest. His poems and antipoems appear in various publications. Links to his work can be found at brookslindberg.com.
a painting i did (not) finish
walking into my room
those i know always stare at
a girl trapped in the gray canvas
yellow bonnet covers her brown hair
that two sides show two individuals
her with a sky-blue dress
with wrinkles from the hot sun-day
but what they wonder
is why she has no face?
i tell them:
do you know about a girl
whose face a tone of mud
a neck colored with the noon sun
and white hands that
resemble caucasians?
do you know about a life
of black, of yellow, of white
intertwined
a product of differences
that belong to no home?
she has no faces
she has no races
she lives in the shade of her own
hands hugging one another
for support
for reassurance
but they are still searching for something
in this murky liquid
she is standing in the water
she is drowning
or instead, you can say
i don’t know how to draw a face
or how to finish the dress
that my little stupid story
is covering up for the lie
for why her skin has three colors
i guess you should know better
about a girl who has no face
because in real life
she has no face, either
search for her in the dark
search for her in the water
has she blended in
or is she waving in vain?
Bach Le is currently living in Hanoi, Vietnam. From young, Bach has had a deep interest in poetry, shown through his works in both written poetry and poetry slam. Through poetry, Bach unveils his insights in life, across topics from love and self-identity to grief and loss.
