Is he gone?

A child within me looks up from a nest of blankets

I look into his confused eyes

Melting into a puddle of legos

My vision yearns for the colors of the jungle gym at the playground

I spend nights wishing for the squish of my tiny feet onto the padded ground

My ears yearn for the stupid exaggerated stories told for attention

I find myself exactly where I remember

In the playgrounds

On the wet grass

I feel nothing but uncomfortable at the snot dripping from the noses of children,

At the toys being haphazardly thrown across the room

At the wrestling matches on the carpet

At the honesty of words that hurt

My bite yet again gains an extra row of metal teeth

I slip back into what I now know

Paper swirls like a tornado around me

Laughs vanish from mouths

I look down at the child inside

A figure lies in a nest of bloodstained blankets

“Hey little fella

Are you gone?”

———————————————————————————————

The Grand Foundational Introduction

By: Ontological Thinker and Researcher, Dr. Fadi Sido

Today, I declare it plainly and without equivocation from the heart of Bonn, the former federal capital: the contemporary German political and social model has nearly reached the point of announcing its structural and moral bankruptcy. The acute political polarization that the country is experiencing this year, and the growing rise of far-right forces along with their persistent attempts to seize power, are nothing but the most prominent ontological symptom of the collapse of a false consciousness that concealed itself for decades behind the masks of procedural, technocratic, consensual rationality. This is something we can clearly perceive in the current partisan and electoral confusion witnessed on the German street.

German bureaucracy, with its rigid laws and bloated procedures disguised as logic and order, has transformed the public sphere into a vast prison of existential alienation. They claim rationality, yet they produce the pinnacle of irrationality when the human being and human freedom are reduced to data records, or when the individual is treated as a consumption statistic or a production tool subject to the complex conditions of the traditional market. This is the true crisis that the current welfare state has failed to contain, after its safety nets were transformed into instruments for suppressing crises rather than liberating the human being. My fieldwork in politics within the German Green Party since 2018 has revealed to me firsthand how environmental rationality was domesticated and converted from a liberating existential project — one that defends dignity and nature — into a part of a cold technocracy governed by material algorithms and imposed upon citizens as suffocating procedural and fiscal burdens, further deepening their estrangement from the street and the state.

The Bonn School of Critical Ontology comes today to establish an epistemological break with previous theories — including the output of the Frankfurt School, which confined itself to diagnosis and instrumental critique without offering a material and constructive alternative — and to announce its grand thesis: Ontological Solidarity. We are founding a new concept of human existence in which dignity and comprehensive material and psychological security constitute a primary, pre-existing ontological condition that cannot be encroached upon, and a fixed ontological constant that compels capital to orbit around the human being, and not the other way around. Democratic freedom does not flourish in an environment of stifling existential anxiety and fear of market fluctuations, and genuine political stability will not be achieved through the dry bureaucratic reform packages offered by centrist and conservative parties — packages that have empirically demonstrated their failure to present any inspiring future project. Rather, it will be achieved through the adoption of the concept of dynamic quasi-stable equilibrium: a flexible political system that is nourished by pluralism and continuous critique, and that is structurally fortified against extremism and collapse, because its ontological solidarity foundation is solid and philosophically and constitutionally protected. This system wrests fear and anxiety from the heart of the citizen and reformulates the social contract on living ethical foundations, with which our philosophical and political movement competes against the greatest contemporary intellectual and universal schools of thought.

سيريوس ميديا

الباحث الدكتور فادي سيدو

Hoping to Give Her Hope

I preach to a dog.

First I find a treat

and give it to her.

Then I preach.

She listens well,

without comment,

without judgment.

A perfect audience. 

I tell her about our adventures in this mysterious place.

You and me, Lord, galivanting about, enchanting each other. 

I tell her about my hopes for knowing You and finding You,

of allowing you to root into my soul all the way to the core.

I tell her about how we talk, Your words of truth and light.

Over and over I repeat Your name, hoping to give her hope.

I tell her about our full-moon times, when I howl in longing

to return to You, in a full and whole heart. She likes that bit.

I mean, who knows?

The soul of a dog

is as precious as mine. 

And I want to preach.

Alas, I’m out of treats.

She saunters away,

finally done with me.

And I want to preach.

— DK Jammin’

So This is How it Goes

The trees let go 

today, this morning, 

after holding tight 

through snow dumps 

and whipping winds. 

It’s completely calm, 

and yet I am showered 

with fluttering leaves.

A boy hangs on

today, this morning, 

clasping his father’s hand,

exploring the hillside.

He’s eleven or twelve,

completely content, 

zero teenage aspirations,

attached to his best friend.

So this is how it goes.

It seems simple enough,

though I’m not so sure.

I let things of fading color, 

crumpled and crinkly,

float down and away.

I hang onto my Father as

we explore up and beyond.

— DK Jammin’

All the Gifts

Here’s my grandson, his first birthday.

He has no notion of what a toy is,

or what a gift is, for that matter.

Who knows how he’ll ever crawl

his way through all the boxes and bows?

Everything is unwrapped and 

baby nirvana falls in front of him –

things to hold and pound and roll.

No idea what they really are or why, but pouncing all over 

the dings and barks and flashes and sparkles and blinks 

and splats and wiggles in one glorious, giggling mess.

Time for a nap.

It’s too much, almost too much,

all the gifts You give me today.

I look over here, I look over there,

bewildered, amazed, uncertain.

We have so many spinning words:

call it a xylophone or call it grace.

Call it peekaboo and a puzzle or

call it compassion and a mercy.

I barely understand what they mean, but pouncing all over 

the help and hope and heavenliness and spiritual cuddles 

and flesh-and-blood lovers in one glorious, giggling mess.

Time to wake up.

— DK Jammin’

Bend, Twist, Stretch, and Shake

I’ve never seen it –

the moment the shackles break.

Do you think such a moment really exists?

I’ll tell you what I have seen.

A righteous rant change on a dime

to silent purity. Caught, stopped, and reversed.

True care, true concern,

when questions follow questions

and the thought of time, all time, slips away.

An always-aggressive driver,

refusing to yield to anyone for fifty years,

suddenly, sweetly, pulls over to let a tailgater pass.

Or the offensive smudge

somehow overlooked all week by everyone –

the household halts, comes close, and wipes it clean.

Do the shackles break?

Not that I have seen; however,

I do see them bend, twist, stretch, and shake.

— DK Jammin’

Somersaulting His Joy

Years ago, I went to San Diego

seeking something big,

someone life changing.

The excuse was a workshop –

we wrote poems and shared.

I was admired. 

I was still young, 39,

questing for my Jesus,

my Buddha, my Krishna.

Somehow I knew. I knew.

He was near, turning upside down, 

somersaulting His joy.

I found nothing but ocean.

People strolling on the beach.

He may have been among them.

Ten more years I kept looking.

The only thing that got my ass

up and out of the house.

False prophets and false starts, for sure. 

Then what happened?

(I hope you ask.)

— DK Jammin’

DK Jammin’ (David Kramer) is 75 years old; he has been a human rights lawyer, playwright, psychotherapist, and janitor. Through it all, above and below it all, he has been a spiritual explorer and vagabond. His poems have appeared not only in Synchronized Chaos, but also in Feed the Holy, Soul Poetry Journal, Metapsychosis, Macrame Literary Journal, and Disturb the Universe.

Love letter to a friend 

On these banks by the Thames river, when tide is low…

There’s a strand of wet sands, dirty and abandoned,

To the nostalgia of dreamers in London,

For anyone could walk there…  Often I did so.

On a misty – foggy I would say – dawning hour,

Once I left a letter to you, Bobbie, my dear !

On a clutch. In a pouch. By the bank. As you near,

The point of view where you admire our great Tower.

Please, go pick my letter, in a crack in cement !

It has been here for years, waiting for you old friend…

When you climb at the scale, just above a garment.

Who knows ? Unless I do ! There are told our secrets…

When sun rises, a beam on metal, lets you find,

Our love letter – prudence, cherished ! Be delicate.

*****

Inner Temple, London

There’s an hidden lane yard in London, BlackFriars,

Where are the Courts of law, pleasant, of reds and greys…

If you reach the East exit, from Inner Templar,

You will see a basin, where I sat and I prayed…

Oh ! Lord ! I was saddened by these days in London…

When I was just a child, feeling sorrow and pain,

But when I walked this path to school, the horizon,

Of my thoughts, by magic, would clear, at this fountain.

London, Inner Temple courtyard, I remember !

An Angel came to me, once there I was crying.

She told me I would need to be strong, then yonder…

Further, my life would heal, I shall be happier.

I came back to France ! Healed…

                             And there are still lying,

The diamonds I left to you, Angel, lawyer !

*****

London by Night

To a young foreigner…

Did you ever walk by London, at night, alone ?

Just walk, just contemplate the city, it’s magic !

You could wander forever, maybe, nostalgic.

Admire : the streets, the clouds, the jewels of the Crown…

They are all there before your feet, it’s infinite,

In that sense you could not, I believe, in your life,

See all of these, for sure… Be it haven, or strife,

Be it loom or a joy, a grey dusk, dark, or light…

Follow this way : you reach, out of Tate Modern,

By the waters, Southwark, the Globe, then Tower Bridge.

Cross to Saint Kathrine Docks, stay a while on a bench…

Walk backwards, reach Saint Paul, there’s a pub where to quench,

Meet an old mariner there, tell him you are lige,

To the blessed Kings of France ! 

                        Pay him, leave this tavern…

*****

London, you can !

London, London by night, London at dusk, at dawn…

You would be forever in my heart with the psalms.

I heard your chants, Christians, with their Anglican charms,

In a church where I wept. Whilst Christmas had just shown… 

You, English women and men, know the tales of Lore,

The ballads and the rhymes, and legends from old times.

I do believe in them, in their power, their prime !

I believe in the might from the mist at your shores…

London ! England ! You can make a young boy, a man.

Yes, I was on a thrive and sorrowful and lost,

Then I prayed ! I recall many nights if not most :

When I was in my room, puzzled, bent for mercy…

Thy o Lord delivered your child, for now I see,

Banks of Thames, twenty years later,

                                      By Easter’s shine.

*****

A Little Greenery

When I was a young folk, at Elephant and Castle,

I met no elephant, no snake, beast, nor cattle,

I saw no fortress, nor a manor, no palace,

But I used to go down a pub, to drink a glass…

This pub was « The Green Elf » where Jamaicans drove,

A little enterprise, entertainment I prized !

There I would get easily, for a decent price,

Some of these small sachets, with clouds inside, of love…

It is so beautiful than this world, we live in,

Lets the seeds travel far, and their gardeners too !

You would find a secret life, only few have seen,

In London City yes, my dear, if you look well…

The Kings at Buckingham slept while I slipped into :

The clouds… Elvens and fays, liquors, through my heart dwelled.

*****

Hush now, pretty French boy…

“Oh hip hip hip hooray, for Tim !” Chanted them all,

As we were at university, having lunch,

Joyful fellows, we were drinking, a beer, a punch,

It was about my eighteenth birthday… End of fall.

We were sat at the Peacock Pub, close from the Strand,

Where is the London School for the Economy !

They were partying there, happily, this for me !

Timothee the Second, Duke of Blue Magic Wands.

But I was desperate. At my sides two young girls,

Students like me, would cheer, even kiss on my cheeks…

I was a fortunate, glamorous, clever, “chic”…

And sad, pretty French boy, in England studying law.

Well, to my friends Angels, who I love, who I owe,

Thanks ! Joy has won. Praises still drift, to your robe curled.

*****

United they stand…

There is something hidden in United Kingdom,

Would you spend some time there, you would guess, I believe,

Of how can these people assume the way the live ?

Half Lords and Peers, half punks, half bourgeois, scholars some…

An oddity appears in their History bookshelves :

They invaded every countries in our whole world,

Except Lesotho, then quickly came back to fold,

Their sails, and drink whisky, sleep tight, all by themselves…

There is more : it is a known fact, I have seen it,

When young folks in London, go for a party out,

They are all half naked, in the cold, with no coat,

They would explain : “We don’t want to pay a locker…”

Whilst, I don’t know how they could avoid the doctor ?

Mystery rule these lands. With magic, and some wit.

*****

T.B.

European Poetry.

London’s Golden Seven…

25.IV.10.

Bona fida.

*****

In the modern literary landscape, the act of submitting one’s work can often feel like launching a message in a bottle into an indifferent, uncharted ocean. For the contemporary writer—particularly those navigating the margins of the Black and Haitian American diaspora—the mailbox becomes a site of quiet, vulnerable siege. Too often, our earnest inquiries vanish into an abyss of systemic non-responsiveness, our unique cultural rhythms rejected by rigid Eurocentric gatekeepers who demand that writers of color perform a narrow, curated script of trauma to be deemed “authentic.”

Yet, every so often, an editor’s response arrives not as a cold, automated rejection, but as a lifeline of radical hospitality.

For me, that lifeline materialized as an enthusiastic invitation from Synchronized Chaos and its Editor-in-Chief, Cristina Deptula. Upending the transactional coldness so prevalent in publishing, Cristina extended a level of professional courtesy and profound human respect that I had rarely been afforded elsewhere. In an industry where marginalized voices are routinely rendered invisible by silence, she established a rare and sacred sanctuary—proving that my voice was not just heard, but deeply valued.

To be welcomed into this literary home was to experience a profound artistic renaissance. Synchronized Chaos did not just publish my words; it granted me the sacred room to experiment, to falter, to stretch, and to “play around” with the very boundaries of my craft. This uninhibited freedom awakened a deep, dormant nostalgia within me, mirroring the foundational days of my youth under my high school writing coach, Mr. Powers, who fiercely protected and fueled my creative fire. In the pages of Synchronized Chaos, that protective flame was lit once more, expanding into a boundless sandbox of global genius entirely devoid of rigid walls.

Beyond serving as a canvas for my voice, this digital ecosystem became a gateway to international resonance. It was through the journal’s curated avenues that I found the path to becoming the Recipient of the prestigious International Naji Naaman Literary Prize for Creativity (2026), alongside contributing poetry to La Fenêtre De Paris. Today, my words no longer occupy a lonely margin; instead, through this online model, my Haitian American identity exists in a beautiful, borderless dialogue with poets, essayists, and critics from Greece, Ukraine, Bangladesh, and Uzbekistan.

This living blueprint for equitable publication has culminated in our panel selection for the 60th Anniversary AWP Conference & Bookfair (#AWP27) in Chicago, titled “International Collaboration and More Equitable Publication in Online Lit Mags.”

The conference will take place from March 17–20, 2027, at the McCormick Place Lakeside Center in Chicago, IL. Because this is an accepted, pre-recorded virtual event, the panel’s video will be available to stream on-demand for one month following the conference.

By de-centering the Western canon and utilizing digital spaces to bypass traditional colonial gatekeepers, we are proving that true equity happens when a publication expands its mold to fit the writer, rather than forcing the writer to dilute their culture. Finding refuge in Synchronized Chaos is a transformative gift—one that turns a yielding heart into a global symphony, and one I proudly pass forward so the rest of the world may fly.

 Jacques Fleury is a Haitian American poet, novelist, educator, essayist, arts critic, author, and Harvard University literary arts scholar whose internationally published voice spans continents. The recipient of the 2026 International Naji Naaman Literary Prize for Creativity—chosen from over 4100 global competitors from 83 countries—he holds prestigious memberships in France’s La Fenêtre de Paris and Lebanon’s Maison Naaman pour la Culture. His celebrated books, among them his opus Chain Letter To America: The One Thing You Can Do To End Racism… is held globally from Massachusetts libraries to the UK’s Askews and Holts, and historic sanctuaries like the Harvard Bookstore & Grolier Poetry Book Shop. Discover more of his Boston Globe-featured work at Authorsden/JacquesFleury.—

Gratitude — The Essence of a Happy Life

Give thanks for this beautiful land we call our own,
For this blessed garden God has graciously sown.
May our ancestors’ spirits guide us from above,
And may Uzbekistan’s borders stretch as far as our love.

As my parents once wished for me with all their heart,
So I prayed to God for you, right from the start.
As my parents cherished me with tender care,
So shall I cherish you, my homeland fair.

Thanks be to Allah, whose blessings shine so bright,
For letting me behold this land of pure delight.
Thanks be to Allah, whose grace has made it true,
That I was born in this blessed land, beneath its skies so blue.

One heartfelt prayer to Allah I send,
May peace in our homeland never end.
Let us raise our nation’s glory high,
And be an example for the young ones who follow by!

Dilnura Xudoyqulova
1st-year student, Faculty of Languages
Navoi State University, Uzbekistan