The Sunday Dispatch 4.30.23

[tricking fate]

subtlety betrayed
by the transparency 
of desperation

for too long now
this heart has beaten alone

while the night has the day
and the winter has the spring

what else must i do
for my whole self to rise 
from this hole of self

and become one
with the beauty that 
loves me not.   
*
[lost at sea]

the waves awaken
to the breath of storm

burning beyond the sun
a darkness awaits

a chasm to be crossed

a wound over which
to heal and hope

before sailing on
toward certain death.
*
[thunder across the silence]

cutting the light from 
the corners of blinded eyes

truth unmoored from the weight 
of responsibility and consequence

no filter for the filth 
of lies and oppression

deeper down
further gone

closer to catastrophe 
than communion

the burning pendulum swings. 
*
[this is where it gets good]

play the long game
let things come and go

work your job 
and live your life

learn the places of your peace
whether in strange winds or among 
dead flowers

it takes a while to understand
that nothing is under control

and even longer 
to finally be ok with it

but, hopefully, by then 
you’ll have realized

that it doesn’t matter.   
*
[feel it over]

enough from the mind

give the gut 
and the heart 
their time

sense the pulse
and the pull of vibration

thoughts and bones 
will both be dust

what matters is passion
what matters is right fucking now

so turn your soul inside out
and burn wild

for the only thing 
that ever remains

is all the light 
we give away.   
***
“You don’t lead by pointing
and telling people some place to go.
You lead by going to that place
and making a case.”
-	Ken Kesey  

The Sunday Dispatch 4.23.23

[brighter than this]

down before
never any better

but whether sickness 
or sadness be upon us

it is always 
just passing thru

and our only recourse 
is to let it.
*
[distance and disclosure]

tethered remains
float about the ether

pieces of all
whole of nothing

deficiency exposed
entrance declined

an outpost 
of consolation

amidst the dimming 
constellations

of a million wishes 
come undone.
*
[chemistry of need]

intrinsic by design
the clench of muscle 
to the husk of leaving time

the pull of a deeper void 
than the mind can allow

a gone-ness sought 
by the bones of never;

my love is a leper
fallen too much apart
to be repaired

so thin
the blood that dries
upon the stones of my indifference.
* 
[shine and shadow]

passing thru
gone awry

prices paid
along the wounding way

savagely scraped 
by the wilderness within

seeds planted from youth
almost grown towards the sky

before the twisting begins

branches bending 
in detrimental directions

notions preconceived 
pounded to dust by the 
blunt trauma of truth

until such a time
new pieces fall into 
waiting places

to finally be seen
in a better light.
*   
[ending up]

when tearing from the inside

the briars and shards left behind
from the mental brambles the heart 
has been dragged thru

it is far better 
for your disposition 
in the long run

to fashion them 
into flowers rather 
than fists.
***
“We must not wish for the
disappearance of our troubles
but for the grace to transform them.”
-	Simone Weil 

The Sunday Dispatch 4.16.23

[all the gray]

wishing the sun away
to be beneath the ease 
of low rolling clouds

awash in the dark comfort 
of mist and ominousness

awaiting another night’s 
longing embrace.   
*
[live your way out]

if you need 
to kill yourself 
every night

do it gently 
and lovingly and 
on your own terms

because the world 
is all too eager
to do it for you 
every day

in the exact 
opposite way.   
*
[between the nail and the cross]

like pulling teeth 
from dead dogs

what is the point anymore

we search and spin out
angry at the world for not 
being as promised

never realizing 
nothing was ever 
promised

we just assumed 
because we were here 
we deserved something other 
than the everything we’ve already 
been given

breath in our lungs
clean air, clear water,
and a bountiful land

but year after year 
decade after decade

we paved, pounded, burned,
plundered, and trampled eden

and even now
many of those left standing
still have the gall
to expect even 
more

having not learned
a goddamned thing.   
*
[blunderbuss]

unlocked step
forward fallen

unbraced for impact
with a blind bat stare

precision unlikely
a stark contrast to class

all hair and belly 
and crooked smile

an acquired taste
for only those who 
tend to eat the rich.   
*
[in with the out]

jewels from ruins
sparks from darkness

there is nothing to hate
and all but all to love

so step lightly
and let this land breathe 
a bit easier

so that anything 
once shunned can 
learn to shine. 
***
“All the gods
All the heavens
All the hells
Are within you.”
-	Joseph Campbell

The Sunday Dispatch 4.9.23

[still remains]

unearthed 
from the sky inside

the divine roots 
of a greater peace
are found

unaffected 
by pressure 
and atmosphere

a sacred place 
of awayness

that can only be found 
here and now.   
*
[drawn to scale]

mumblings in the ether
beneath the crackle of transmission

secrets stalk shadows 
to reveal the lie of memory

the sacred belief 
of a profane existence 
poisoning the well

nothing is further 
from the truth
 
but plain sight blinded 
by a lesser evil.   
*
[pried open]

from caressed 
to cracked

aware that the breaking 
sometimes does one good

but this is getting ridiculous

biding time 
in the loneliest loneliness
since the last one

while the clock gets smaller 
and the calendar grows thin

begging twilight not 
fall upon these bones

until one last 
strike of lightning.   
*
[sleight return]

pending reentry

smoking pipedreams 
in the dead of night

who knows 
where we go

when the doors close 
and the mind opens

maybe destiny waits 
somewhere down the line

maybe nothing

as the heart beats on regardless
hoping against all hope

to find one more reason
to still believe in love.   
*
[unfixable]

torture need not 
be the price of reward

once realized 
the struggle 
is enough

we move onward 
from oblivion and demolition

to a greater space 
of admission and acceptance

for though we are still 
what we were at any given moment

we need keep hope 
our experience can be used 
to move forward

and help us continue 
becoming who we are.
***
“I’ve had so many knives stuck into me,
when they hand me a flower I can’t quite
make out what it is. It takes time.”
-	Charles Bukowski

Social Yet Distanced

Today, we are proud to present Ed Canavan , a poet, overthinker, ex-drinker, and lone wolf who currently resides in North Hollywood, California, but originally hails from the deBronx.

Edward’s work has been featured in several publications, including The Opiate, Scarlet Leaf Review, North of Oxford, and Taj Mahal Review, and he has served as the former assistant editor for The Ibis Head Review. Join us as we explore Edward’s unique perspective on life, love, and the human experience.
Check out the link in the description to learn more about Edward and his work.

The Sunday Dispatch 4.2.23

[skull crossed and flag flown]

from the risen roses 
of the sacred day

we become our death 
from the moment of birth

soul set in motion 
to return to the abyss

inhabiting this skeletal 
scaffold of conveyance

simply to transfer us 
from one unknown river 
to the next.   
*
[always a wound to lick]

trending down 
in the heart

has a way of comforting 
those of us used to the turn

a familiar lovelessness 
cradles the dark nights

as a certain 
contented blues 
set in

and aloneness becomes 
its own reward.
*
[illusion, affliction, and liberation]

dig the reasons
bury the doubt

so much easier things 
are said than done

by hatchet blade 
or tendrils’ touch

change comes both swiftly 
and not at all

sometimes, just to spite expectation
one must constantly learn new ways

to trick 
the trapping mind 
into believing

that everything we need 
is already here. 
*
[here, there, nowhere]

leaving the past 
to bleed itself out

a shed husk 
of antiquated 
and juvenile means

shattered frames of reference 
glimmer in the coming twilight

splinters of thought abandoned
for the full clip of sacred solace

chance does not wait in the wings
or amidst the shadows of yesterday

but in the brightest flowers 
of secret gardens

between presence 
and nothingness.    
*
[pushing past]

ways undetermined
now dictates the next

no return 
to memories exhumed

a breath
a sigh
another mile

both sides changed
slight remnants remain

with the better parts 
of a brighter burning

to light the way forward.   
***
“Moment after moment everything
comes out of nothingness. This is
the true joy of life.”
-	Shunryu Suzuki