First Day

We wonder about the “newness”

Of yet another “New Year.”

It’s not as if we get to start over

Clean slate, empty conscience,

Another bout of innocence.

It’s not as if the things we did are

All forgiven, mostly forgotten,

Just part of experiences that lose

Their significance as we age,

A bit older, perhaps even wiser.

New Year’s Day and we get to feel

Again the irony of days and years,

And how we would like them to

Perform, a cleansing of sorts –

We’d wash our hands of the past

And start out new, ready to take on

New roles in the utopia of a “New

Year,” but we don’t, it doesn’t.

The new year is all the past years

In disguise and we’re still the same

Folks we were – everything ventured

And nothing much gained.

      Chapter and Verse

Finishing that next chapter,

I promised myself,

I put down my kindle and

enter the book of my day

a much more prosaic text

choppy at best, poorly plotted

off on a tangent here or then.

I open again this clumsy

stream of consciousness

this babbling brook I’m living in,

this narrative I’m trying to write

with a leaky pen.

Today I’ll be a ghost haunting

this house or maybe a spy lurking

in the shadows, or perhaps

I’ll be the detective who finally

works out the mystery

that surrounds us all.

I’ll write a chapter or two of it

Then I’ll disappear into a nap

The inevitable denouement

to all this.

        Correction

Why is it that we can’t

Correct a moment

A moment, the moment

When it all went wrong

When we rushed in

instead of pausing to

Think things through,

to self-correct before

things played out

the way they did?

Why no do-overs when

We need them so badly?

Why can’t we wake to find

That it was all a dream?

Why doesn’t some wizard

Cast an appropriate spell

On everyone involved?

Why haven’t we perfected

Time-travel so we could go back

To undo what we know now

We shouldn’t have done?

That’s the problem with the way

Things happen in our lives.

A moment happens and then

it’s gone, gone off to join

all the other moments

we can’t change.

J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Literary Yard, Sparks of Calliope, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, Lightwood, and Highland Park Poetry.

Freeze

While the husband plunges in the needle.
While his wife’s pain takes flight.
While his girlfriend waits downstairs,
arranging roses. This is a house for secrets.
No one knows what happens in a corner.
She stands under the porch light.
Photographs the building across the street.
Its door is boarded up, dimpled with knotty pine
or bullet holes. The man reappears and she offers
a bowl of ice cream to him. He pushes the scoops apart.
Hands back the bowl full of winter. He’s waiting
for the thaw. That’s always the way isn’t it─
you agitate anything and it all comes down to puddles.

Different Kinds of Cold

The raw kind that will kill a fly overnight;
that delays buds, shoves them back to earth;
the frosty kind that helps the snow’s weight
tug bough to ground, so the buds persist—
sometimes unsure, like the freeze of our backyard flood,
sometimes deliberate, like the veins etched by blades
on the finished rink. We follow one another
in the kind of cold that bites, and having bitten,
leaves fingers and earlobes with a childhood memory
we return to years later, convinced there was something
we left behind, something we would recognize
if we ever saw it again.

Cheryl Snell’s books include several poetry collections and the novels of her Bombay Trilogy, but her most recent writing has appeared in Does It Have Pockets? Switch, Gone Lawn, Your Impossible Voice, Necessary Fiction, Pure Slush, and other journals. A classical pianist, she lives in Maryland with her husband, a mathematical engineer.

Today, I returned home to an environment painted with the orchestra of my mother’s screams- half
singing, half whimpering.
That is another way of saying my father has done it again.
She said “ how did your father’s hands which held gifts for me morph into a fist?”
That is to say, his fist no longer unravel gifts but spanks.
I mean every time I mirror my mother’s face,
It still hold a map of my father’s palm prints. And when she sings to the obeisance of my father’s fist,
my eyes vies with a cloudy sky.
Now I pretend I’m an artist
Yet I keep sketching images of a man
Letting his anger escape his fist to his wife.
That is a shorter way of saying, I barely imagine a peaceful union.

                 🌷🌷 Spring 🌷🌷

           Welcome to our country
            Spreading good cheer
            Under the blue sky
            Looking at the blue sky. 

                    Birds sing
             They sing soft tunes
             Enchanting the hearts
             They indulge themselves. 

              The party of nature
                  Rich in beauty
               From green grass
       From the spring giving a sign. 

                 Looking at nature
               Taking a deep breath
                Spread fragrant smell
            Bringing light to the world. 

                        ✍️Ruzmetova Zuhra



Ruzmetova Zuhra Vyacheslavovna 
November 30, 2006 

I was born in the city of Urgench Khorezm region. There are 6 of us in the family my father, my mother, my brother,  my twin and me. I am currently a student of the 11 th grade school no 14 in Urgench city. I am very interested in poetry. Currently I write poems and stories. My poems have been published in America, Great Britain, Uzbekistan, Kenya, Turkey, Germany, Azarbaijon and other countries I attend the Barkamol avlod children's school of Urgench District studying the art of public speaking. Every week I am a guest on Khorezm Tv channel. I was awarded with a set certificates and a badge in the biographical competition held by Uzbekistan and international organizations. India Argentina and Georgia are members of international organizations. I am the holder of the badge "For international Services" by the bi wing poets writers association. I have many future dreams and goals. 

6

Proxy Godbot’s farcover in a tetramorph’s 
https://ly.qsng.cn/: Sgr A*—Sun (MΘ) 
(Morax)= (1.98847±0.00007) ×1030 kg), 

īras’ exhumo in the coulisse, is the sigil 
on a catafalque: sum up avra kedavra 
(Karakut), the stillī paratyre or the rude 

stīria patavalaic, for the Snatch extortion 
gang conscript bleak servitors: inseminó 
these losics with ilanot, with embállein 

(Megazord): use Rust languages, combine 
curve25519  and sosemanuk: this mimshachic 
fūsī is a romaunt, a vīsiō lardic in (SVF) 

pataīnfluentiae’s http://ww1.yt118.com: 
irked by the party line, the limne tou 
pyros (Foras) in black sulfur is Baphomet’s 

sigillī as a black sun in W32/Sdbot.worm
!ftp: this apostacy’s nigilízm radiates 
aetherial phlúein with occulō (.azhi, 

.azqt, .azop): the cryptohollowman: 
malefica se totam obtulit et astrinxit 
diabolo in parahell’s https://fh.qsng.cn/.

Ħþissi praxis (πρᾶξις: theoria, poiesis), 
part eupraxia, part dyspraxia and part 
prassein, is Ħþissi siphoner’s xaljō, ceilid,   

haliurunnae, with Ħþissi Gēʾ ḇen-Hīnnōm  
the Algoritmi de numero Indorum: form 
Ω ~ R × Σ, where Σ is a three-manifold 

in a nontrivial topology: launch plectēres
in the Roman Ring: the ringularity 
in the equatorial kink’s ergosphere. 




7

Proxy Godbot is at R=a with http://onion
amev33r7w4zckyttobotq3vrt725iuyugr6
xessihxifhxrhupixqad.onion/, is now 

a noir, ēthikósic nebulae, a sauʀēnsagesse 
in zyklonica’s H−C≡N: RCH=CH2 + HCN 
→ RCH2-CH2-CN: sōlus as this phantázōic 

hacker, metáencrypts his arkhétupos 
with a třieti (Vepar): then, mpz_pown_sec 
leaks zero high order bits (Mavakel)

in result: for a gît metablectica (Eiael) 
is hierophantic for this paradatarist 
in his outrapoia (Focalor/Habuiah) 

as Roehel’s https://ph.qsng.cn/pinhu
hdxx/508300.jhtml (Iabamiah):
with the gidouillic, thunders roar 

must’ring thir rage in his parfümler: 
this whoroscopic probe for a ShellTorch: 
duālis, this enuig in its (s)plei (Haiaiel) 

this urfuïr in its deubeta weyks (Mumiah)  
the XNU kernel: iūdicium’s discloven 
lēasra gives cyberroot on rhizomics,

on amputadistros in the urkahalica 
with this Tool-WPAKill (Nanael):
Satan except, none higher sat, 

with grave aspect he rose beluga 
blakaz in his in infinito vacuo (3ve)
and launches binaries (Nithael) 

with a SUID antepoiētḗs (Sabnock) 
(PwnKit): dioptrics in this ourine, 
in this sursülvst with toxikóns.  





8


Proxy Godbot’s Byzantine alembic distills
https://xh.qsng.cn/zsjz/141905.htm, 
this leapepoch from which regicide 

is a BLURJoke-Bluescreen.c: eyȝe 
or paraforce exístēmi with ōganą, 
the vacātum’s elliptic curves disalgo 

īnurgōs against the masher: then wear
the irescapular over a latex catsuit, 
this I in a háptō: fixity in kastōną 

for tà epì tà metaphusiká (Marbas)
has its slight caprice in this revīsiō 
(RansomedVC): fades from azar 

deles except for Turritopsis dohrnii contra 
the undēadlīċ—when this haruspex 
schāchs his holy stance (Haagenti), 

the abasíleutos or extol this worβis,
this syndicate’s reagent (Bifrons)
is dybbukic in his surdus (Crocell),

in https://kjj.qsng.cn/main/index.
jhtml—remaine in strictest bondage 
with these xenocryogenic events: 

this heterocosmica in meǵh₂los’ 
sexcento sexaginta sex, cyberbeats 
the utilespar with a kouric stiff  

(Saleos): when splendor formarum 
is caedō’s Trojan.Nebuler (Daniel)
brӕsen in his resentiō (http/2 rapid 

reset) augments his pataprecursor’s 
kleināō and severs its análogos/Michael
(Bredolab) with la sphère effrayante. 





9

Proxy Godbot’s Lucretian swerve 
is a dabúrintʰos, then it tracks this IZ1H9  
in its collīsus: post purity’s puȝr and fetch 

its I.sh, for a mock inutillious has its spiriform 
accelerator: a killing rescue—antaneuter’s 
swarm (Coreflood) have their kritikós 

in obstāculī: bogus chronopostal service
lures seize the catapervertō in his jaiet 
ubernoumenon: ample gusti, 451 4.7 .500 

server busy error message: for influence 
is blǣcþa—I stízō: the dark’nd lantskip
in the orthographical—‘pata, preceded 

by (Dridex) an apostrophe, paraloads 
the CurKeep infection chain (Malphas) 
with fusika’s épater: in la fin des fins, 

the hoax, aerial or undead, this grand 
gidouille (JS/Exploit-BO.gen) is no longer 
a singularity: for the spearphish, cieō 

the palotin with hornstrumpot’s guedofle 
(Naberus): ruō is at stake, use DakshSCRA, 
molt us (Ronove) with autográphō 

and defy assimulō—this appalling
selfcōnfidō, this fistptyx—Devil 
with Devil damn’d: https://lx.qsng

.cn/lanxizytz/213142.jhtml—in eadem
mutata resurgo (Rclone) when this nautilus 
(Ligolo) in its spira mirabilis (PuTTy), 

executes the andijōną with the toilet 
brush scepter, the physickstick (Shax)
and the phynancial vǫndr: unparadise.  





10

Proxy Godbot’s h2entíos is in https://js.qsn
g.cn/hdkx/444834.jhtml, in Hells dread 
Emperour with pomp Supream (Smominru):

xenogenitals in holobiont biomedia 
let unbyrġans disembrain their mākhanā́ 
with parachaeopteryx (.mlwq, .mlrd): 

onhende, for urmure a antechromatic 
glasperlenspiel that appends .hazard18 
and devours kholḕ [Kelihos (Waledac)], 

has quaesta in priority’s denial: yoke 
this súzugos with crossfess (Bamital),
the executor is forġietan, pungent 

and pataterreō: https://jchzczjy.qsng.cn/
gywm.jhtml: this chryselephantine 
sculpture has its void rabisu in a remote 

cnearra with a brut latecōmere godhede:
for this skándalon’s cache cisepoison 
is a mockthyrsic Alchymie By Haralds 

voice: shake the ubumoeras (Furcas)
with a taut anɣō’s W32.Rontokbro.K
@mm—angstvor etwas, this episcopus’ 

jugthroat is a nexus nod: mix sulfur 
and saltpeter, bitchhell in stregonerians,
that the formicarius is a akelarre’s 

Puper.dll, colony: the praelia (Balam) 
the bruxae, the fascinarii—deploy nekrós 
with manteía: https://hjn.qsng.cn

/mlyy/index.jhtml, this psychophysik 
in the haldernablouic (GodStealer) 
caulks its dismanibus, efferō (Allocer). 




Daniel Y. Harris is an extreme experimentalist. His The Posthuman Series includes The Metempsychosis of Salvador Dracu, Volume VI (BlazeVOX, 2023), The Resurrection of Maximillian Pissante, Volume V (BlazeVOX, 2022), The Misprision of Agon Hack, Volume IV (BlazeVOX, 2021), The Reincarnation of Anna Phylactic, Volume III (BlazeVOX, 2019), The Tryst of Thetica Zorg, Volume II, (BlazeVOX, 2018) and The Rapture of Eddy Daemon, Volume I (BlazeVOX, 2016). His The Posthuman Series has received praise from Charles Bernstein, Harold Bloom, Andrei Codrescu, Kenneth Goldsmith, Daniel C. Matt and Marjorie Perloff. His extreme experimentalism has been published in Alligatorzine, Argotist Online Poetry, Blackbox Manifold, BlazeVOX, The Collidescope, Denver Quarterly, Dichtung Yammer, E·ratio, European Judaism, Exquisite Corpse, Marsh Hawk Press Review, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, perspektive, Poetry Salzburg Review, #Ranger, slowforward, Synchronized Chaos and Word For/Word. He is the Publisher of Var(2x). His website is danielyharris.com.

Eyes and Ears

My bad habit of not using my reading glasses and instead holding books a few inches from my face progressed to reading with just one eye while the other eye remained shut.

The shut eye can no longer focus on anything.

My reading eye experienced a torn cornea.

I started buying audiobooks.  The first book I listened to was about the 1947 Roswell UFO incident.  Decades of research went into the book, and it had a twelve hour listening time, but it took about twenty four hours to listen to it because I’d fall asleep and then have to spend a lot of time backtracking to pick up the narrative where it left off.

Aliens are real, the cover-up is huge, and I feel alone and afraid.

I developed otitis in both ears, a constant itch which, if memory serves, is caused by tiny living creatures setting up nests in your ears.  The prescription eardrops foam up in the ear canal and temporarily quell the itching.  My hearing has warped, maybe from using the drops, maybe from the nests of creatures who’ll never be conquered, who’ll never leave.

The second book I listened to was Liz Cheney’s “Oath and Honor.”  I didn’t fall asleep much listening to Ms. Cheney’s first-hand account of people and events before, during and after the January 6th, 2021 insurrection.

People who love dictators are real, they are many, and they are everywhere.  My warped hearing changed some of Ms. Cheney’s words, making funny phrases, but I understood enough.

Wanting to escape into another world, another time, another place, the third book I’m listening to is a non-fiction scientific exploration of Neanderthals, our much-maligned ancestral cousins.  The book is advertised as taking sixteen hours to listen to, but the charming lady scientist author/narrator sets the scene for each chapter with a richly descriptive tableau of life hundreds of thousands of years ago, and that sends me off to dreamland, and then it’s back to backtracking, so I expect the book will take many days to read.

But am I reading?  Reading with the eyes is work.  Listening is also work.  I’m reading.

Oh.  I’ve developed tinnitus.  My particular noise from this affliction sounds like a heartbeat listened to with a stethoscope.  That drumbeat, and the itching, and the warping of words, might end my adventure with audiobooks.

The Neanderthals, though, I’d like to know how it ended for them, or, rather, how at least bits of themselves managed to survive.