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[zmwisethepoet]

Eradicating Chaos, Inviting Duende

Published as the Cover Letter in Harbinger Asylum: Fall 2020 Issue

           It is no secret that we have entered another dark chapter of earthly hell this year. I have yet to meet a soul who claims that 2020 was not that terrible. I thank goodness that this conversation has not transpired, because if it did, I would be rendered speechless and walk as far away as my feet could carry me. Sheer optimism alone will not cloak the prominence of our two main invisible enemies: COVID-19 and racial injustice, the latter of which has been occurring since time immemorial. While we as humans try with every fiber of our being to do what is necessary to protect our species, it does not always pan out in our favor. As history shows, it rarely seems to bode well that way. One too many have fallen at the hands of others. To this day, why we willingly degrade, exile, inflict physical and mental trauma, corrupt, and kill our own kind based on what we deem as inferior, whether it be gender, race, orientation, religion, or other factors still baffles me beyond all belief. It pains my heart to see certain peaceful protests and demonstrations of equality turn riotous because of the ‘authority strike of fire’ on an innocent. It makes me question the very nature of our collective existence. Perhaps this makes me ignorant or unmindful. Perhaps it leads me to believe that there is no hope for humanity whatsoever. As much of a neutralist [or cynical realist] as I am, I refuse to believe that we are headed straight for oblivion. While we are infants in comparison to other species on this planet, we have much to learn and we are still attempting to do so.

          The late comedian George Carlin once said that our species had our chance and we squandered it. I agree with him to an extent. This is part of the reason why I am neutral on the prospect of our species colonizing on Mars. Why is it, however, that the many groups of people who attempt to preserve our sapphire and emerald home, as well as its inhabitants, are overshadowed by the amount of parasites that form into one gargantuan maelstrom? It is fascinating how a great deal of us choose to focus on the negative and leave the positive to be feasted on by mental scavengers. Let us not forget the alarming amount of natural disasters, a gory political battle, and a certain species of hornet with a menacing moniker.

          The aforementioned virus has been the cruelest teacher that this planet could ask for, save certain actions that should have been taken in its preliminary stages. It has taught us what we can accomplish as a collective as long as we cooperate with the necessary precautions. It has tested our mental limits and patience, provoking us to lose our craniums and step out into the warzone as if our lives are still perfectly normal. It has separated us into two categories: the paranoid and the reckless. The tragically hilarious part is that both sides believe that their actions are correct and the other side is being moronic in some form or fashion. I do my absolute best to remain in the middle. I am not going to subject myself to any small or large variations of a high-risk environment with high-risk individuals while protecting myself and the people I love, but I am by no means going to board myself in my home until this umpteenth wave of chaos has ceased to be. It has attempted to rewire our thinking and survival tactics. I am torn between shaking my head at those who freely choose to remove their masks in public and congregate in larger crowds, save a few noble causes, and feeling a massive amount of pity for those who have lost the willpower to remain isolated from those they love and the social activities that were suddenly stripped from them. Our species was not wired for prolonged isolation and quarantine. Many introverts have converted to extroverts who wish to splurge their social juices. Nevertheless, such actions have caused medical staff members and frontline workers around the globe to put themselves at higher risk than anyone else. They are more heroic than people seem to realize. I lost my mind within the first couple of months of this pandemic and I have yet to reclaim it, but I am not going to risk everything and everyone I hold dear to me just for the possibility of losing health as well. John Lydon once said, “Life is precious and not a thing to be destroyed,” though he was speaking on the subject of Kurt Cobain’s sudden passing. Such a statement relates to our present situation.

          If you have read this far in the ink words of such unintentional vitriol, I salute you. After all, as author Madeleine D’Engle once said, “Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.” Where does chaos end and where does duende begin? For those of you who do not know the latter word’s definition, that is quite all right. I am not speaking of the Latin American mythological creature of the same name. Duende is one of many ‘incredamazing’ words that cannot be translated into English, but contains a powerful definition. Duende is described as ‘a work of art’s mysterious power to deeply move someone’. For centuries, many creators and their chosen crafts (or the crafts that chose them) have spread a trillion and eight possibilities, unless they carried a sole intention. During a fraction of this time, the element of self-expression came into play through the creation itself. Most of the time, it has been used to evoke thoughts from the masses. It is also during this time that the arts have placed our minds at ease amidst the chaos, whether through aural pleasures, the written word, the visual and suspended, the visual and in motion, or kinetic and tangible. We have relied on the arts to keep us relatively sane, centered, and balanced. A personal philosophy of mine, especially during the accursed year of 2020, is that as long as you do not inflict harm upon others or yourself, sanity is overrated. At this point, if you are not at least a tad bit cuckoo or peculiar, I may not trust you. For me as an individual, the arts, whether appreciating or creating, is a lustful craving, akin to fitness, meditation, and other various pleasures. What is more relevant is that it contains the power to grant us hope and to aid us in not losing that hope, even if at this point, hope is a thin, sliver-shaped shrapnel piece. Despite the number of life-threatening cases that seem to continue piling on, we cannot lose this shrapnel of hope. Many of the word wielders in this issue of Harbinger Asylum exhibit this intention through their poetry and prose, as well as the captors of photographic serenity. I am thankful to have played a major role in the development of this journal and Transcendent Zero Press in this manner, as well as the manner of diversity in our pages. Each issue and each manuscript we release is like a basket of potpourri delights, some containing mysterious elements and the other with raucous neon gods.

          We are not out of the woods quite yet, my dearest fellow peoploids. However, we will make it through this seemingly apocalyptic Tartarus. We must make it through, for the sake of our health and the universal love we cling to day in and day out. I would personally like to dedicate the Fall Edition of Harbinger Asylum to the fallen victims of 2020, whether through the violent brutalities of racial injustice, those whose bodies succumbed to the virus, and those we have lost due to Madre Terra’s disasters, as well as the disasters we created ourselves. To your families, every medical staff member, frontline worker, and to everyone reading this journal, I say, “Pax vobiscum. Poetry lives. Long live the arts.” …and dare I add, “Long live love.”

[zmwisethepoet]

ANNOUNCEMENT FOR EVERYONE IN THE ARTS!!

Are you a poet (written or spoken)? Are you a writer/author in one or multiple disciplines? Are you an editor or publisher who owns/co-owns an independent/small press or publishing house? Are you a musician? Singer? Songwriter? Producer? DJ? Are you a filmmaker? Director? Actor? Are you a visual artist? Painter? Sculptor? Mixed media artist? Cartoonist/Graphic Novelist? Graphic Designer? Are you a model of any discipline? Do you create jewelry or any other visual product (relaying back to visual art)?

Looking for some exposure? Well, look no further! I want to interview YOU for my Youtube channel (https://www.youtube.com/user/ZMthePoet)! It does not matter where you are in this blue-green sphere. I want to help expose your work and assist you in being more well known, whether you are an aspiring creator or an established creator!! If you are interested, I can either conduct it by telephone or by Skype (Skype only for international artists). If you are interested, PLEASE send me a message in my inbox and spread the word to others who are interested!! You will have the chance to tell the world about your work, what inspires you, and have a chance to share a sample of your craft at the conclusion of the interview! I love promoting my work like crazy and I expel an equal amount of joy when I have the opportunity to do so for another creator. :-) Though we are in this craft for ourselves, we must support one another!!! POETRY LIVES!! LONG LIVE THE ARTS!!!

[zmwisethepoet]

HAAAAAPPY...

National Poetry Month to all!! Personally, I choose to celebrate international poetry as much as, if not more than, national poetry! :-) Read them! Write them! Quote them! Bathe in the emotional roller coasters of chaos and serenity!! BREATHE poetry, my friends...and song/rap lyrics, too! :-)

[zmwisethepoet]

Being “Left on Read”...

Will you please put your petty complaints aside about 'being left on read'? In some cases, it is rude, while it is not in others. How do you think a book feels after you close it before heading to sleep?! Ponder on THAT one, my fellow peoploids!

[zmwisethepoet]

[zmwisethepoet]

Walking Hypotheses between an Aristocrat & a Bohemian

Published in Ginosko Journal

Oh, wealth is the basis of all personal game. Security and stability come in as income, swimming in a stock pile from the one that raised salaries and questions. And through the pane of pain, it wanes on in the never ending monopoly game. Money: the finest hour of power.

This hand… by this hand, the bountiful land we live off of, the hand fits on the land as an organic glove wearer and cloth bearer. This community… by this community, the workers are dedicated in daylight and dance around the moon’s white. Heat in composition: tonight.

While the strains of the rain remain in plain sight, towers on the rise, with structured organization, harvesting the Bossperson’s organ to the glossy bossa nova beat. Glam wears the outside in. Play that mediocre music average, Beige Boy on thin ice. Your eyes are on the teenage crushed diamond.

Suppose the crops rot like abuse violence victims in driftwood caskets, affording to only be buried three feet under. The eulogizing will carry on, stoned heads with inscriptions. So sick of the nicotine-stained plastic clubbed-out femme fatales. They have strayed from the lifestyle of giving birth to a breath more important than they are.

Swim under thousands of leagues of reassurance in print. Bank with the super ball, eating away and bouncing back. Tireless efforts and effortless tires, reruns of promotional moments out to represent royalty, earned through humanistic tenacity. Not inherited through Father’s phallus.

We, the Modernists, say nothing. We, the workhorses, light bottom fires under pressure, not from peers, but you. There is no fourth wall to break. You are already processing looks of deception. Break away from possessions. There is only one self. There is indecisive progression.

Heard the news today, junior citizen? Seen the newsprint? Hell’s frozen icicles have penetrated warm bodies and dropped the stocks off of jagged rock bottom cliffs. Feel the innuendo of hollering dollars, the censored image carries roaring twenties, stacks in her undergarments. The iced earth took a volcanic turn.

Every wave that crashes upon this shore adds one more reason to wear this well-dressed laurel, for we will keep following the footsteps of the dead. They write in symbolic hieroglyphs. Metered verse, free-flowing from the spoken tongue, spooned and not forked, cryptic in society, but mastered by orators on the page.

July 7, 2014

Copyright © Z.M. Wise 2014

[zmwisethepoet]

Wives

Published in Occulum

Who could keep a home of habits? Who could keep a home of normalcy? Who could mend the tension? Who could tend to the angle of tendencies?

O’ Children sayeth, “Papa’s in the yard, crying in the grass. Why do his tears stain on the ground?”

Responding with tact, the Papa sayeth, “Mum has gone off to war, that foot soldier smile. Her eyes of valor, her teeth of battle. Bore us a family, loyal wolves who drive the evening, riding Steedus with golden saddles.”

O’ Men of Ankar, remove your headwear. Let the sun bleach the blackest hearts. What say ye?! What oath did ye take?!

“Goddess bless the wives, the central hearts, holders of the bloodstained swords. Lady of Ankar bless the wives, warriors to the bitter end, their victories conquer said words.”

All the glory of the screams, an absentee husband strolls to bed. Half of his love, away, it flew… to face the carnage, kiss freedom, and damn the dead.

O’ Children sayeth, “Papa’s under the sheets, crying in his pillow. Why does the water flow from the eyes?”

Responding with truth, the Papa sayeth, “Mum has taken enemies head on, that determination roar. Her eyes of glass, her tongue of promise. She commanded us to stay put until the fires died. I was her hero and she was mine, a vow signed and sealed in a faithful kiss.”

O’ Men of Ankar, repeat from the rooftops and mean it! Let the skies look you over and judge you blue! What say ye?! What oath did ye take?!

“Goddess bless the wives, the Angelic Signals, miracles beyond divinity. Lady of Ankar bless the wives, true fighters to the core, the ones who preserve the keys to infinity.”

May 5, 2016

Copyright © Z.M. Wise 2016

[zmwisethepoet]

Tribute to the Prophetics

Published in Occulum

They are silent as they are an unanswered series of screams. They are the soothsayers who reply to the purest prayers. They are the miracles, the joy believers, the hooded robe wearers.

Neither genuine nor synthetic, neither false nor authentic. Euthanizing those deemed pathetic, castle walls, hallowed for the Prophetics.

The Prophetics speak with their skeletal hands. The Prophetics make prophecy mandalas in the sand. The Prophetics hold no grudge against Ankar’s demands. The Prophetics are silent, though Tun completely understands.

They are indifferent to confrontation, but will end one as quickly as it started. They are the source of providence and the catalyst for reason. They are the immortals, the pathfinders, and individual zeniths.

Firm believers in modern aesthetics, changes bring on anxiety’s ticks. No illusions or sorcery tricks, they stand before you, the humble Prophetics.

The Prophetics practice preserving natural conservation. The Prophetics thrive in a balanced, equalized nation. The Prophetics need neither voices nor dialects to conduct a conversation. The Prophetics vanish out of mind with fair salutations.

April 19, 2016

Copyright © Z.M. Wise 2016

[zmwisethepoet]

Early published poem

[zmwisethepoet]

Great news, peeps! My newest chapbook of poetry will be released on December 17 by @weaselpress !! POETRY LIVES!! LONG LIVE ZE ARTS!!

[zmwisethepoet]

Question of the Green Light Infidelity

Published in Feminine Collective

Dear Slightly Self-Conscious Self,

            I am about to present you with a tale of juvenile hilarity and intrigue. Feel free to read this whenever your life’s sunlight begins to dim a few shades darker than usual. Although this is your first attempt at an epistolary essay, it is not your first attempt at amateur journalism. If anything, it is a documentation of the senses when caught in a state of mind that is much too peculiar to describe, let alone pinpoint it on parchment. It is a brief, but detailed recollection of a series of moments witnessed by your pair of curious eyes, as well as numerous others surrounding you. It is an icebreaker that can lead to multiple possibilities, as well as multiple outcomes. Decide for yourself, Dearest Reader.

           A relationship ended on the road this evening. In the plainest and simplest terms, that is what I saw through my seventeen-year-old windshield. Let me premise this with the following: I despise automotive vehicles with a passion. I loathe driving as equally as I loathe assuming the role of a passenger in one. I often reminisce about my preferences in public transportation, i.e. a train and, hypocritically speaking, a bus. 

           On this slightly drizzling Wednesday night, I was driving from a work-related meeting to meet my father for an early dinner. Since my favorite half of the year began with Daylight Savings Time last Saturday night, I have been basking in the joyous wonderment of darkness welcoming the night an hour earlier. Darkness feels more peaceful to me. The goths of the world will know exactly what I am referring to. I did not have a clear mind when this unexpected cinematic encounter occurred. I already had a menagerie of thoughts swimming in the torrential water beneath my chaotic motel mind, for I seldom (let alone never) think about one solitary thought. It is during this event that reaffirmed my automotive vendetta. It is not so much the contraptions themselves, but rather, the people inside them. Certain individuals still have yet to realize that vehicles are two-eight-ton death machines. My misanthropy flared a tad at the mere pondering of this. Though it is wasted energy, one cannot help but feel disgusted when a reckless driver treats the various roads like they are his or her own personal video game, minus beating prostitutes to death with a splintered baseball bat. Thank you very much, creators of Grand Theft Auto, for influencing the easily swayed and impressionable.

           At a particularly busy intersection where the light is green for eight nanoseconds and the light is red for eight years, the unthinkable happened to me and the surrounding rush hour drivers who were anxious to arrive at their abodes. An ivory van that sat diagonal to the left from me opened its passenger door. An emotionally disturbed couple was having a heated and non-domestic squabble that was obviously going nowhere. The couple consisted of two disheveled miscreants: the passenger, a man who looks like he recently exited the four-year prison sentence that is high school, and in the driver’s seat, a woman who looked five to ten years older than him. Let us call the woman ‘Jive Turkey #1’ and the man ‘Jive Turkey #2’. I would have called them ‘Guilty Party Victim’ and ‘Guilty Party Perpetrator’, but let us avoid the perplexed philosophy. I am sure they both have splendid names, but who in the blazes cares at this point? On the road, an individual is nothing but a schmuck to me. Harsh? Oh, yes. Still, one cannot help but wonder. I entered this situation unbiased and unless I had the opportunity to obtain any information, that is how I was going to exit it. Jive Turkey #2 was quite thin, so thin that the faceless Slender Man would take one look at him and feel extremely self-conscious about himself.

            Aside from listening to fragments of the argument, which was possibly their last, I needed no conclusive evidence to prove that this relationship was about to come to a screeching halt…in a multitude of ways. As tragic as the entirety of this calamity was, the rapid minutes that followed contained the finest quality of amusement, though ‘amusement’ might be an understatement. I began to speculate that there might have been infidelity afoot, judging by the actions taken. Jive Turkey #1 pushed Jive Turkey #2 out of the vehicle, though he tried with all his might to stay inside, what with the current weather conditions and the ever-growing congested line of rush hour drivers. This predicament was obviously too much for him to handle. Just then, something happened that put the odds against him more so than ever: the stoplight turned green. The look on his face switched from annoyed to sheer terror. The lovely and radiant Ms. Jive Turkey #1 took the action that any rational human being would take in this situation: she began to drive…slowly, at first, but picked up speed within seconds.

          The army of moronic drivers behind her honked their horns with fury. Blast loudly, O’ Automobile Trumpets! I wanted to join in the merriment and be horny (pun most definitely intended), but because my vehicle is in a constant state of deterioration and the horn does not function, that was not possible. As she drove with this blank stone face, he held on to the door handle for dear life, with his seemingly lower half of the body dragging itself on the uneven pavement. Picture, if you will, someone flying like Superman, but everything below the waist is moving like rubber. Finally, he let himself go, whether he was fully aware of his fate or not. To reach the other side of the road to salvation, he was now required to deal with one too many pairs of evil eyes glowing in the dusk-to-night setting, mine included. It was nothing personal against him or his former significant other, for I was nothing but a fascinated and increasingly amused and entertained social observer. My dislike for people in vehicles rose that evening, considering I disliked this couple no more than I disliked virtually every other driver. Cynical and misanthropic, you might think? Absolutely. However, it has kept me alive and well for just over a decade. I encourage this public mantra to every person out there: trust no driver but yourself. It has worked for me quite well.

           Anyhow, from my rearview mirror, I saw the deeply disturbed Jive Turkey #2 cross the street with a surprisingly minimal amount of trouble. Jive Turkey #1, on the other hand, sped away into the ether of madness. She left him stranded. For his sake, I sincerely hope he knows the area well, with or without nocturnal vision. As I pulled in to my destination, I hypothesized about three possible distinct scenarios. First, Jive Turkey #2, a man of very little brains, committed the inhuman act of infidelity or an equally greater action. Everyone has different circumstances when it comes to infidelity, but it is still inhuman. Secondly, Jive Turkey #1 was absolutely psychotic. Finally, the relationship was entirely too toxic and that was the way to sever all ties between them. I thought of so many more, but why go through each detail on paper when the rawness in the mind is bittersweet on its own? Perhaps they were not in a relationship at all and they were related in some twisted and demented way. I have made my opinionated conclusion on the matter. Feel free to manifest your own. A minuscule part of me thought of pulling over to the side to assist Jive Turkey #2 in some way, but while I do not have the gift of precise intuition, I sensed that it would not be wise of me to be involved in the fresh aftermath of this rigmarole.

           So, there you have it, Slightly Self-Conscious Self. When you feel that your life has burdened you with misfortune and turmoil, read this and may your troubles instantly dissipate.

 Most Sincerely,

 Your Insignificant Holder of the Pen

November 8, 2017