POEM: COLLEEN A Irish Tale

Rushed in wet wool, mad mud underfoot... Left the house at three, it was dark and I was heart-dipped in honey Courage and other belongings stuffed in an old pillowcase, my mother's swollen eyes and her smothered kisses It is the sickness that is the worse for me, moving always moving I drown in this smell, of vomit and the urine. I am so afraid...I have never been this afraid I tremble and am banged about the broken world outside of me It is always the same

CONSPIRACY THEORIST

There is, a specific type of smugness when someone within a group of like minds calls out the heretic. When group thought has totally permeated the platform, as a bastion of central opposition and knowledge to a world that is seemingly going insane -- a world is unknowable in the end. Too many possibilities. Can I prove that? Without falling into skeptical thought, not really.  Nothing can be proved without a doubt, it is a matter of the evidence collected in favour of what one believes -- or the group believes. We are all capable of that confirmation bias, even those who point out the heretic. Doubt can always be generated, with enough intelligent thought. And so as long as that persists, truth in the fact can never be absolute. And must always remain in doubt, a sort of plastic thing...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 2

... I have reached a measure of greater understanding of who I am, and am proud of my abilities, the skills and talents I have had to achieve just to remain off the street and not a homeless man. To have taken advantage fully of the many gifts personally, but have not achieved the success in those that I should have had, all those that were given, along with the emotional baggage and emotional immaturity and insecurity and weirdness sometimes that I can be. I am a greater artist even though, condition stopped me from painting. I have made many inroads into music and my guitar and carpentry and working with my hands; my writing of poetry and storytelling which has helped me to develop a way into my own mind and find out where I falter with language. I am an obsessive dictionary reader, always unsure of my use of the language...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 3

Autism has left me in ruins sometimes emotionally -- many times socially, and yet as the artist, I have soared to the highest ground it has shown me I feel. The risk-taker, the expanded vision, the imagination journey as visuals are my chosen language. The ability to see something so very complex and decipher it and und4erstanding its meaning. Collaboration with other artists has produced works by me but not me solely.  Objets d'art I would not have been able to accomplish alone. I am a gifted painter in my own right, and I say that without any false modesty. Autism has made me quite visual in my learning and expression of myself...

Poem: BREAKER BOY

by Michael Burns The newsies and the match girls, and the breakerboys in back. They toiled away their little lives to keep their mamma's happy. Six days a week they left their youth inside the warmth you purchased, and easy reads from newsie feeds that salted your accounts...

ANGELA LOIJ: The Selk’nam Genocide

Today my mind is occupied with strange thoughts, they don't seem to be my own...I have written this tale before only to delete it. Out of some sense of shock or disbelief. Shame. Maybe pain at how outrageous we are as a species. Maybe because I didn't want to remember something like this...or possibly it stimulates my imagination to wonder how many times this has happened, in the past; long forgotten tribes of people wiped out in genocides for the sake of progress and the industrialization of the world. And will it continue to happen. In my lifetime there have been the genocides by forced drought on African people, and so they die of starvation. There have been illegal wars like that of Iraq which has killed a million of the citizens of that country, and the purposeful brutal and bloody genocide in Rwanda in the mid nineties....