Adam Levon Brown is an internationally published poet and author in 14 countries. He has had his work translated in Spanish, Albanian and Afrikaans. Boasting upwards of 300 published pieces, you can find his writing at such publications as Burningword Literary Journal, Angel City Review, Firefly Magazine, Epigraph, and Burning House Press. Brown is founder, owner and editor-in-chief of Madness Muse Press LLC as well as assistant editor at Caravel Literary Arts Journal. GOD'S SINSare wounds which harbor infection Spread amongst the children of trepidation and fear There are no cures Only miles of unsearched consciousness rife with demon-scarred stone 9 PMWoke up around 9 pm The coffee was still warm, signs of a struggle Took a hard look at my carpel tunnel syndrome and decided to keep writing Flipped through Youtube past the political nonsense Now I'm settled down listening to Tom Waits telling me to hold on. Bipolar BlitzIt’s four o’ clock in the morning. I haven’t slept or eaten in three days. My brain is telling me to complete 1,345 tasks at once Shoulders are hunched and I’m cradled in a fetal position in my bed I am shaking and I am thinking that someone will burst through my door at any second to accuse or abuse me. I didn’t ask for this I didn’t ask for any of this Multiple suicide attempts in the past keep me paralyzed Tomorrow will be better… I have to believe that. The Day I avoided a Huge Ass Whoopin'Cruised around Mohawk Boulevard on a sunny low-swale day I walked into a Charity run thrift shop and found a baseball cap I ran it up to the cashier who happened to be a woman She smiled at me and let me keep it for free I bought a chicken burger at a Carls Jr. I cruised back and saw a lone bum down on his luck He was just staring into nothing, the look of total despair I sat the burger down next to him and continued back to the charity Store I saw the woman there who had given me my hat I figured I'd try and talk to her That was my biggest mistake of the day She had a wedding ring and her husband showed up none too happy about me hanging around He was a steaming engine of fury and promised pain He told me to get lost I ran with my dog tail legs and walked home. That was the day I avoided a huge ass whoopin' Hell is a Bell Which Screams My NameThe alarm clock
is bellowing at me from the night-stand Forcing me to awake from what seemed like a dream I survived the night. I feel distraught over it. Differentiating whispers and voices of hatred assail the inner-workings I pound my head with my fist and explode into a waterfall of tears Outside is the enemy Outside is where they are at. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t trust anything. Should I end it? I’d better not. Should I end it? I don’t want to. Should I end it? Shhh, be quiet. Should I end it? The answer is always no. But the question remains glued to my ribcage in a sing-song version of “This is Hell” and everyone is humming along except for me.
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David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN. His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher. He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia. His literary publications total more than two hundred. David Flynn’s web site is at http://www.davidflynnbooks.com . He currently lives in Nashville, TN, where he is director of the Musicians Reunion, an annual blues festival now in its 35th year. Martial Arts in the Age of Automatic Rifles Martial arts in the age of automatic rifles
seems sad, seems like surrender. Hands and feet and hips and leverage evaporate when bullets fly, hundreds per minute. But why be military? Why eat your hamburger at a fast food booth with a Glock strapped to your belt? Martial arts are arts are arts are arts. A human faces another human, not a drone raining fire from the sky. They move, revealing their strategies. They react, the smarter, in the arts, manipulating the opponent’s arms, the neck with its vein, the legs, sliding, pivoting, stepping in a dance until one is on the floor, pinned not potent. Painting, an art. Writing, an art. Why, because they are ways of being human, with an infinity of variations. The artist chooses, uses, expresses what is inside in one or more of the five senses, brain transfer. There are many martial arts, judo, karate, kung fu, aikido. The movements are infinite, the results a transference: stop! An expression: stop! A result: this transgression is over. In aikido we fight with wooden swords. There are Japanese names for everything, Shoshin, Nagare Uke, Ukemi. If I would fight a hater with fantasies of killing a hundred infidels, blacks, police, women in shorts, federal employees, drinkers in a bar, and that hater held an AR-15, twenty clips of bullets in his belt, his pockets, his person, he might break into laughter. Then I could use Tenkan, swirl him around and around, head lower; use my other arm to push his throat backward until he is flat on the floor. Pin him at the elbow and shoulder, knee against his ribs; it is done. Fall for advantage; he wouldn’t know that. I would. Martial arts. Active shooter, Active artist. Make your parallels with fighting and writing, fighting and painting, fighting and dancing, fighting and office work. fighting and carpentry, fighting and sales All the five senses. We are all artists. We are all fighters. |
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