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Deep Tissue Magazine

Issue 14 Poetry for the Unwashed Masses

Message from the Editor:

This is issue number 14 of Deep Tissue Magazine. I am always amazed at the talent of poets that are actively writing and pursuing their craft. This magazine has been an avenue for struggling artists to get their work before an audience. It has been a joy putting this issue together and I am sure you find this issue will intrigue, entertain, and challenge you to think in new and different ways.

Thanks for reading Deep Tissue! Glen Lantz

Paula D. Lietz
Rivers Womb wake trails silent I draw the paddle deep canoe thrusts forward current and I strong stronger than we look I trust her infinite wisdom and let go of the control yellow warblers in the willows keep me company how shy we both are suspicious turtle pretends it's not there and slips into the water quieter than thought itself I lay down upon the canoe ribs lulled by the gentle lapping of water clouds slip by in three d effect oh god listen the geese are going home too who tells them South they must go its awhile since I have known such peace cradled in water ~ perhaps before my birth

Sunlight Wanes tired leaves twist seeking the splendour of the soil within a tree's core a physical process beyond our ken upon weathered body carved crevices sustain living realms of which we will never travel limbs unburdened by foliage delight in their freedom ready now to support each snowflake layer by layer nature leaves nothing to circumstance

Paula D. Lietz ( pd lietz ) Published Poet, Artist and Photographer is featured in many on- line articles around the world as well as in print and covers of International magazines, the latest being Naugatuck River Review. Paula resides in rural Manitoba Canada.

JD Glasscock
New Age Desolation Intent, regret, i am spent on a letter of remorse, a memorandom of understanding. Narcisistic, nepatistic self immolated absorption seems to be the diadem, the isometric of the dawning age. Let us dime drop respect and courtesy into a pit of irrelevance more important to skull fuck what we want out of the dribbling corpses of inconsequentials......step upon the flesh of humanistic limbs and spirits to garner accolades in the shortest, quickest no merit no work route our inept non existent attention span can skip slip us to. It is a patriotic slam bam thank you mam schitzophrenic hodge podge of dodge the onus to choices, blame the voices on some other throat issuing warbling miscontent to the faults of others in their inconspicuous game of someone else's name to gather responsibility of actions shooting off your hip shakes.....everyone else's fault in this ass backwards gestault of make and break, take all you see with no consequence to the roads rambling and hammer fisting over other's dreams.....cause what does it matter if we get what we need.....fuck everyone else's hopes and heartaches as long as in the end our bank accounts rise on tides as high as red rope hollywood carpet rides....Hell if our leader's are showing on CNN backwash reports that greed is the seed we should all dream then why not gather our sheep sleep mental run in place epilepsy and join the revolution.....the deevolution of who has the biggest sword makes the rules......shin digs what's cool, bump grinds the criteria of the school....but even as my tongue edge crumbles these cranium dissertations there are a few who hold true to the cavern cave crawls of a good heart bruiser brawl into the do what's right, toil in the hard sweat work of a hard day's night and be a light to the shades we made in this mud spit pit we create.....but they are ostracized for such outlooks, made the but end of a joker's joke in the broken spokes of today's age, everyone with a word about how outdated such honor is in the corner lit lip of rage that carves tomorrow's stage play......but in the end of this grave paved catalyst of inevitable change, we must all see, our choices, actions, avenues we trail blaze through have a fulcrum of temptous back lash, karmic cause and effect hand in hand cosmic clash and that all that we put out, double fold returns in cat o nine tail magnifold

long ago told upheaval of never ending come uppance of crack the world immoralistic riven of misery and emptied out shells of our own artistically autisically self regurgitated hells of hollow smiles and cavernous deflated caterwhauls labeled laughs with no real humour in their grasp....and it is our own future we canibilistic carnivore down our gullets as we think to jump hump accolades and who's who in the game.....while the concrete of our stepping feet is the disolution of all we reap and roll out the costume parodies of mirror cracked reflective creeps deep in our rotting meat.......so as i speak, listen.....for the days dwindle, the chances to find kind reservoirs of saliable solutions to the future cobblestone's of our creation are now few and far between and soon to be gone and just a toothpick in death's teeth.........so as we fall and our wings spread to catch it all be sure they are not just cracked and hollow bones broken on the road........for when next you hit the lick of the trip it could be your own blood you slip upon...could be the roundtable return as we watch the world burn.....

The Parchment of a lost memory Ticking silence in the moans of destiny's arthritic hand cusped on the lip of a promise -- her curves were a river I tossed upon a dream.....and i wake upon a broken stream with the taste of a kiss wounding the last panting breath of my lips....so long ago the churning pitfall of my past....so many days dwindling back into the unmemorable shade carved in the pain I lashed upon the scars already imprinted within the wrinkles I have Rip Van Winkled upon the precipice of losing chest heaves....and she hid smiles in the lies that fell as jewels upon my perforated ears......hearing what i want to hear.....always the trip to tip a kick to the reverberating truth bouncing echoes within skulls thickened in the heartache of want...and this jaunt many slipping days behind the curtain of promotional campaigns has lost all amusement in its stumbling passage....has been striven of meaning or vision in the unbalanced jig it attempts to step through....and i rue and hold to bitter chords of moon lit lute strummed caterwauls -- to all the people who have ridden me wrong, screeched a mournful off tone song, strung me a long......to you and you and you and you......who low throated blues in the merry mad dance I had started upon weaving a lunatic's loom into the threads that stitch me to forever snake bit tails in the kaleidoscope of my no tread in place running of lonely haunts

upon a skein of time, an ink blot in the fabric of neverending epiphony in the choke hold of screams.....and her curves that were a river I tossed upon a dream seems as empty as the people I see beggin upon the city streets....love - a wish i wish I would've never wished.....

Triumphant glory in the trumpet blows of falling winter ( A new poem 8-1911) We tarry through this bricked cordon of limited cognizance and wish to dream a dream that will pass our sleep into waking world.....to carve our own dew drops of dementia and reality broken upon our shores.....who am I?....just a poet from the streets....too many days under belt with back cupboard cardboard to eat....nothing in the eyes of hollywood till hollywood says otherwise....we have sunk into the withers of mortal conundrum....we are parasitical leeches chewing our own flesh and tossing our integrity as paper bills to swill the loss of honor upon our feet...I slide surcease boredom into the slot of infinity and hope death soon claims me...the brush has stroked too ugly a landscape for a bard to strum a chord to the puisant solstice of truism in resolve....too long the night ...too dim the day....too few the people with something important to say...all dribble painting chins and tongue in symphonic malfeasence of off tonal dischord and dietific blathering in promotional campaigns with nothing to gain except more gold bricks with a lick of veneer and a trick of mirrors based on nothing absolvable....nothing of weight.....we break against the crested waves with too many to save and pave beautiful roads to the lip of our own freshly pitted graves...we spout words as empty as the coffers we bounce checks upon....we make choices based upon whose thighs we choose to spread.....where art is the last credential on the sheet......as the heavy drums of defining march howl from the storm that etches it's name across our flesh....across our insomniatic rest.....a test some ruminate to appease their long forgotten conscience......to tally the lucidity of our crumbling diadem....our rickety often shaking foundation.......a silver glint of metal flips off my fingertips into the never never.....heads or tails.....it's never a sure shot....Winter has come....breathe

Porcelin Divinity a girl raised on gypsy dreams -- in the shadows of make believe.....where everything is a fulcrum of need....and in her youth she traipsed upon could bes and hope bottled in oval glass spreading it's possibilities in grains of sand....and years etched themselves upon bones of pervasive time and little girl skirt moments of innocent frivolity drifting into slow hip dances in the proclivity of provocative aspirants of love's doting rememberence....oh yes -- she started noticing the eyes of boys flirting with the curves expounding upon the growth of her road.... She was taught in ingrained spins of loom by a mom who found wisdom in the bottom of bottles and tv's streaming poster boards of want and picture perfect spreading of limbs....in the fervant inhaling of chained smokes upon the creasing of wrinkles....in the absent silhouettes where fathers should of placed the love of daddy beliefs in the strength of promise.... "Find solidity and knowledge and security of tomorrow's cobbled steps in the lust draped upon our hips" her momma droned out with head suspended over sweet toilet regurgitations of late night revelry....".take all you can from their limp dicked stroking of ego" --- she spit upon cracked marble....taking breaths between vomit to pull trails off stubbed ciggs......."it is not intellect that will garner you upper swings in your avenues of gyspy dreams but beauty and a certain amount of cleverness"...... The girl smiled the sweet smile of burgeoning youth as she nodded to the matron of her everything --practicing the swaying of hips and the pursing of lips in the mirror purching a drop step above her momma's sprawled remaniscance... Her youth spun itself to club days and mastered sways of long legs.....her voluptios pirrouettes of long flowing skirts now tempered by clever coin spins of tilled out furrows in lessons carved upon her thighs....upon her heaving sighs and the now gone shade of her momma's loving ways --- parked in a road side grave...... She had jewels tittering foul humour upon the back step of her sliding tongue -men in lines wrapping corners in the batting of her eyes to their ardent

want.......clever is the lever in which she lifted green bills and aspirations from their bucking need......promotional campaigns now replacing the fabric of her philisophical seeds......breasts slick with the sweat of accomplishment -- eyes now the glazed daze of empty promises and daddy blues and an aversion of truth.....but she had everything -- wanted for nothing -- red carpets the streets her feet left imprints upon -- flashing lights all bright upon the pursing of her practiced lips....upon the dip of her cleavage just so.....upon all the grades she made upon the dropping jaws left in her wake......fancy cars and upscale bars and the dizzying heights of stars braiding their limp dick egos into the length of her moon spun hair.....she had everything --- everything and nothing.....somewhere between something and the nuetral tones of anything....but hope and smiles pitted with the depth of ages were bargaining chips she had long ago pawned.......oval glass now shattered into sand flakes she flipped at homeless progenies of failed tv flicks of lessons wasted.... And yet as time is wont to do it flipped pages faster then the drifting of sleep upon heady brows and she found her hand tilting more and more...bottles empty against the fabric of belief....found scorched flames in the inhaling of tombs in the characature of tobacco rolled in visionary copulation...noticed her cleavage dipping lower then it used to-- wrinkles where was once smooth skin......skirts tighter over bulging waist....less want and more desperation....... Then her belly swelled after long nights of lingering sweat and fading misplaced faces......and a blur of limbs and memory........found empty sillouettes where daddys should be paying rent......and she as clocks wound the passing of moments looked upon the eyes of a girl holding innocence and hope and the wanting of more.. She spat upon the floor at her daughter's knees between slugs of liquor and drags of smoke......."let me tell you about gypsy dreams and make believe and flowing skirts and the way the wind blows and promotional campaigns......(a long hard look)...."let me tell you about everything"......she paused as her blood and bone in a little girl's adoration blinked with haunted gaze counting breaths between death waiting for her to throw up over porcelin divinity.....

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Silver saddled symmetry

Sometimes in moments between slips of breath drifting lips.....I miss the lumines of an answer shuffling thru the edges of cards -- runed paradoxical tales to tell a truth -- a glimpse into the underneath --- interlude to belief -- her eyes are as deep as ocean blue --- the rust of side holstered dream is turning flesh lean -- too much hunger not enough meat -- treat your trick to a lick of paradiscial illussion -- Eden has a certain appeal with the back tails of snakes rattling bones to the tone of reflective promise -- time to put up or shut up --- my grin is a loop I tool to swoop into the teeth carving the avarice of dualistic coin tosses into a pool radiant with redundancy and wishes too fragile to become anything other then the cusp of a maybe.......her womb calls to me in late night whispers --- home -- an interchangeable puzzle piece to the tick of a second hand coupling with turtle shelled misery in a memory --limbs too doggerel carnivourous in the apple pie and kiss the sky deliverance of hard street in the broken down gutter wails of a once upon a time chest swells of too much ego and not enough honesty -- slap a head into a wake me up lollipop of thighs and sweet pounds of flesh --- love is a hat whose rabbit i havent coaxed into high end hip popping dance floor jazz jigs --take a swig and polly want a cracker dip into the labrynth of life in repose --- slip of luck -- should long ago known the bitter cup that was served straight up and realized the chain heavy weight of choices chosen in the rosy tap of youthful stutter steps holds gravity's center in it's fulcrum --- I toast spider cracked glass to the what ifs and could of beens of a lonely night howling to a moon wrapped in leather creases and lopsided smirks -- twinkling mirth in the not so graceful fall down the slope skid a knee lope of a dope in a poet's step........though I do imagine a promise in the eyes --- a kiss -- expected --- healing --- waiting --- my fingers flick a wish to the tip of hat and I match the moon's sardonic whimsy as i stroll into the deep burgeoning glimpse of luminess skimming the horizon.....my tongue lilts silver off a tonal note perfect in it's symmetry.... Note -- all these poems are in JDs self published books on lulu.com

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Felino A. Soriano
Analyzed Depictions 7

It bugs me when people try to analyze jazz as an intellectual theorem. Its not. Its feeling. Bill Evans (while listening to Evans Peace Piece) progressive reliant architecture (contributory fata morgana thus, sans scent) created catapult upon these moments of bouquet-emotion

extractions highest collocation

trust|extracted trust

birth then death of births opening slogan:

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scent of the airs arid naturalized composition within walls their whitest appeasing calm (con?)

entrapping emotional disturbance to push of loves strongest skeletal momentum

Analyzed Depictions 8

We do not die because we have to die; we die because one day, and not so long ago, our consciousness was forced to deem it necessary. Antonin Artaud

The death of my most remembrance (not the iced angle of a cubes pardoned clarity) comatose the eyes and shredded weeds amid wave of emotional unintentional patterns woven silken proverbs of protecting spatial celadon (disparate memory: opening wedge of the mouths coherent articulation)

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curating hanker or relevant mirage weve stored into crated diameters of iron cros sing recondite physiognomy mercy granted subsequent gifted by death of altered corporeal interpretations.

Analyzed Depictions 23

I try to listen attentively to musical sounds around me. You can think of the sounds of daily life as being musical. So I try to absorb the intricacies of the sounds as I would if I were listening to a piece of music. I try to see the beauty in everything. Tom Harrell

(Amid interaction with Tom Harrell Quintet's The Time of the Sun)

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lapse

lapse

certain reconnection with

multiple aggregates the canvas combines

collaborative rejuvenation paralleled silence syncopated seriousness built-in horizonal marquee functional margin the eye collapses and sends with

a universal (or, near certainty: melancholy as woven verbs proclaim inactive listeners thus broken communication involves syllables of screaming collaborations temporal ascertained)

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Analyzed Depictions 24

"Sometimes I wish I could walk up to my music as if for the first time, as if I had never heard it before." John Coltrane (Amid listening to Coltranes Spiritual)

An archaic formulation Listening

architectural preparation, extravagant.

to the various angled harmonies of rains mobile cylinders

clasp of asymmetrical claps Ive wandered into hall of darkened proximity: wound around spontaneous versions of harmonized functionality. Worriers facilitate superfluous examination, bargain among left|right activity of the minds cultural sensitivities, expressive fog though clarity the upright manifest welcoming as does sound from womb of births subsequent spasms, recalling or reliving anecdotal processes of unearthing my imaginations. voice I

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Analyzed Depictions 25

I don't know what other people are doing - I just know about me. Thelonious Monk (after Monks Rhythm-A-Ning)

As an eloping memory broadcasts fault of the launchers misused focal contemplation buried within the borrowed silence youve upheld as if illegal to lights examined ascendance, curtain of womb-walls readjusts amid cultural fascination with elongated struggles of personal alteration. Burdened un-mother now or un-mother of infantile disposition her fervent systematic foundation of innate realms of the

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no-longer needed catapults regurgitated emblems into self of denying others self alone by the curated fathoms of herded laceration.

Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. Recent poetry collections include Pathos etched, recalled: (white sky books, 2011), Divaricated, Spatial Aggregates (limit cycle press, 2011), and Identities Upon Variations (Moria, 2011). For information regarding his published works, editorships, and interviews, please visit: www.felinoasoriano.info.

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Alan Britt
WORLD OF DREAMS

I exchange the earth for a world of dreams.

Although fragments of dreams exist apart from earth, some dreams still contain dinosaurs of snow.

Sleet hisses from sulfur clouds.

Only the crunch of tiny crystals beneath my coconut head bobbing in the black surf tells me Im awake.

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HYMN FOR THE CLOCK WINDER

The clock winder pulls on his tobacco-colored trousers, slides hot coffee from his table.

It seems hes been asleep.

Some clocks run slowly while others have stopped altogether.

The clock winders eyes two drachmas, and his hands unlike any hands Ive seen before.

I swear he has a thousand fingers.

Westminster chimes wander his house

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on a regular basis.

Sadly, disguised in bath robes, these chimes roam the hallways incognito.

AFTERNOON CHARDONNAY

(For Scarlet Rivera)

Violin carved from the hollow bones of finches, parrots, red-shouldered hawks.

Violins silk roots.

Blood roams Scarlets waist, swims below her navel, condensing

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her stained glass hips.

Each droplet of blood, a leopard rubbing oak shadows against the crystal leg of my afternoon chardonnay.

EMBRACING THE SOLITARY LIFE

No clouds today.

Soft, grey flesh everywhere.

A crow shoulders his way beneath thick sky, tilts then disappears through ether.

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A hailstorm moves north of here, across Pennsylvania and New Jersey, perhaps as far as Paul in Fayetteville.

We'll chat later, Paul and I, about hail the size of gall stones, or poems like tiny blue fish flashing the arteries of Peru.

Imagine poems entering arteries of consciousness! Perus rural capillaries, of course, might disperse our poems into neon-lit kitchens nestled along the shores of the Amazon

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or perhaps to dissidents huddled beneath the fluorescent lights of a Lima newspaper office.

Meantime my neighbors mower vomits thick, wet grass.

I often wonder why my neighbor wont embrace the solitary life, abandon his utilitarian clothes, and enjoy the mother-of-pearl skin of solitude?

There must be something more compelling than manicuring his soggy lawn, watching an Orioles game, or reading the Sunday Sun!

Maybe its just me with my silly desire to drink black wine

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and graft my lazy body to the soft grey flesh of afternoon.

Perhaps the crow I saw earlier and not my poems will swim the dark arteries of Peru, will enter the wild hips of the Amazon and notice an incredible resemblance between todays furious hailstones and the striped eyes of existential caimans.

In any event, solitude, with its fistfuls of coal, arrives none too soon.

The wind picks up slightly,

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whips my soul lovingly as though it were my dead grandfathers faded T-shirt flapping a Tampa clothesline stretched between two tangerine trees.

In September 2011 Alan Britt read his poems at New Jersey City University's Ten Year 9/11 Commemoration in Jersey City, NJ. His poem, "September 11, 2001," appeared in International Gallerie: Poetry in Art/Art in Poetry Issue, v13 No.2 (India): 2010. ABC Radio National (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) in July, 2008 broadcasted a straight read, plus live stream on their Web site of Alan Britts poem, "After Spending All Day at the National Museum of Art," as part of their Poets on Painters series. ABC credited New Letters as original publisher..The Poetry Library (www.poetrymagazines.org.uk) providing free access digital library of 20th & 21st century English poetry magazines with the aim of reaching new audiences and preserving the magazines for the future included Alan Britts work published in Fire (UK) in their project. The Poetry Projects sole patronage by Her Majesty The Queen, Elizabeth II..PCA/ACA Conference 2007 (Boston) Panel Chair for Poetry Studies & Creative Poetry. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize many times, most recently 2008, 2009 & 2011.

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Glen Still
War 101

I dream about you in noonday As the tide sinks in the bay And the voyagers come calling from distant lands With stories of salvation In the hope of all united under one name Under one god Under one flag We can be at peace if we can control the world and anyone that gets in our way is bound to get tortured even if we have to change the constitution and we will we are beautiful we are Dick Cheney we are G-Dubba we are Obama

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we are a legacy of war criminals and we will keep on nation building even if it means we have to change the story from time to time you know history is in our favor as we hold the pens and make the ink to write it

I think I like my mother I think I relate with Barney The blue blood keeps me entwined Its not a question of who my father is He is nothing Just a blanket Covering the cold soldiers That forgot to go in and finish the job The ones coming home now Tempered beyond individuality

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Kiss me Henry Kissinger On the jaw with a rock solid punch With my own boxer glove Tied on and ready to strike Like Mike in Japan again That hit from left side of mental And here we go again A wanna be warrior Who has no strategy We came for the oil We came for the gold We left in disgrace We are Americans Remember now Vietnam! How we left you Yet youre kinda alright today With Corporate Hilton Hotels replacing The Hanoi Hilton

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peak of the day

glide over the hot coals there is a constant burning located in my solar plexus nerves of dripping glow cresting out roaring like a mountain formed into the peak of the day

i use to think it was my spirit but now i know its just who i am its just me nothing hallow skin and bones and flesh with eyes that penetrate reality

its not the same for everyone to some it will be a return to some lost city another will sail into mexico as the sun goes down

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nautical west without the use of a compass take refuge in a villa overlooking a quiet town

a tired mother will pay with coupons thank god for showing her how to be so thrifty as her baby teeths on a rotten apple and a father driving home from a desk and computer screen will languish at a red light wishing it would never change

waitng for an amendment that he know will never really make a difference because the boss that he reports to reports to someone else higher up the ladder its just the way it is its his peak of the day its the hello and goodbye that he tells his wife as he walks out the door its the grind that he cant work through

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physic blow job

The fork can only bend so far The levitation can only go so high The cards up the sleeves are enough to piss me off

Astral highways to the other side of the world Remote eyelids reveal even more Connected to the true perfection Even if it looks like hell

All the things they dont want us looking at Forewarned to never beyond Or consider the shadow in the closet

I just go to sleep now Oh so protected Lay my soul down to rest As I get a physic blow job

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The wet dream of disinformation

occupy the world

my veins are red flowing blood i will die here tonight waiting for your downfall there are no leaders where I congregate we stand arm in arm we are all shades of color unprivilaged white we gather close there are no gods there is only apathy for you and your dollar for you ... and your law

we are here to make damn sure that you never climb the ladder success has just ended we are here standing

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occupying your very existence

you occupy a penthouse with stolen money we will stand at your door occupy the entrance this shit is gonna end we are gonna bring you down the politician the religion the seven headed medusa if i have my way we will never be hungry again my brother and sister will annihilate every dividend that you expect to gain

the war is on the fight is on collected on the street

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take your bullet we will make damn sure that you dont make it out alive down with the elite down with your idealogy we're here to slit your throat take the knife

we've come to make damn sure that we take everything we're here to take it all back we're here to make damn sure that you don't occupy the world

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Neil Ellman

The Irony of Size The smallest of the small the littlest mouse of a mouse sometimes has generous genitals huge like whales

awesome miscreation preening//growing//breeching

hear them scream cry//squeal

more

in heat

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the irony of size.

Where the Rainbow Ends i know what I know the earth is flat elephants gather on the head of a pin to dance michael jackson walked on the moon I loved you once but I dont know the weight of the moon or where the rainbow ends.

Duck-billed Wonder E pluribus platypus from me the sum of my cells

duck-billed wonder I am

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the end of creation venomous recreation

I am what I am and have become.

I live and write in New Jersey, and my poetry, many of them ekphrastic, has been published in numerous print and online journals throughout the world. My ekphrastic poetry appears in Alba, Anastomoo, Counterexample Poetics, Dead Snakes, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising and Otoliths, among others.

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Mark Paleolgo
Battery Park

Philly came by the brownstone in Hoboken the second Saturday of every month to drop off groceries and to take Jimmy out for the day. This had been going on since the kid's father was shot in front of their apartment by a woman in a yellow sundress as they were returning from seeing Star Wars for the third time. He was eight years old, and well within his right to be wielding his imaginary light saber while his father chuckled and acted scared. Neither one of them noticed the woman walking toward them until the gun was in his father's face and 5 shots had been fired. Seemingly out of nowhere, Uncle Philly was standing there, gun drawn and firing at the woman as she ran away into the early autumn night. He scooped Jimmy up in his powerful arms and carried him up the steps to the third floor apartment. His mother opened the door and he pushed passed her and took the boy to his bed room and laid him down. "Call the police, Lou got shot. Jimmy's OK. I have to go, I took a couple shots at her and I can't get mixed up in this. I saw nothing, was waiting in the car, listening to the ballgame and heard shots. When I got out of the car all I saw was this broad in a yellow dress running down the street and Lou on the ground. I'll call you in a couple of days." As he stood up the woman hugged him and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. "OK. You go. Thank you for watching out for Jimmy. I'll call you." Philly walked to the bedroom door and turned to face the silently weeping young man, suddenly so much older than his tiny frame could stand. "I'll always have your back, kid. Always." And Philly was true to his word. He sat with Jimmy and his mother at the funeral, helped make the arrangements at Scarpetta's, and even took the kid to the Bronx Zoo the first Saturday after his father died. It was the second Saturday of the month. And every one since. They sat on a bench in front of the rhinoceros habitat and ate hot peanuts in the shell and drank RC cola out of wax paper cups. They sat for a while without talking until Philly turned to the young man and said, "You know why I like 'em so much? Rhinos?" Jimmy shrugged as he split open a mutant shell with three nuts in it. Smiling up at Philly, he shrugged again and held out his hand for Philly to take them.

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The man smiled and took only two, popped one in his mouth and said, "Look at 'em. They're hard as fuck. They are so hard, they don't snarl, roar, or even let on how hard they are. They just hang, bein' king shit. That's why I like 'em." The years passed. Philly never missed a Saturday, except for when his elderly mother died. He lived with her in Philadelphia, and was just not going to be able to pull off the trip to North Jersey. He called boy and let him know, and Jimmy said that he was sorry for him, that he knew how he felt. It was four years later and Jimmy and Philly were enjoying a gorgeous spring day in New York City. As the boy grew and matured, Philly stopped taking him to movies and the circus and other such amusements. He would take him places like the MET, or MOMA, or the Museum Of Natural Jistory. The planetarium was his favorite. Wherever they would go they would be able to talk. Jimmy would talk to him about boy stuff, things he was uncomfortable talking about with his mom. Philly would listen and give advice, tell him the stories his Father had told him, and sometimes he would just make up stories to prove a point. All with the best intentions, the friendship and love between the two grew with each passing season. Today it is Battery Park, walking along the sea wall. Jimmy was eating a waffle cone filled with cherry vanilla ice cream and taking an odd gait, a strange heel/toe, stiff kneed waddle of sorts. Philly smiled and rubbed the boy's head. He knew that Jimmy's days of being young were numbered, and he was delighted to extend the boundaries of childish behavior to wrap around it all. They leaned against the rail, staring into the expanse of New York Harbor, the large container port in the distance, the Statue of Liberty ever more dominant. Jimmy had worked his cone down to the point where it was even all around and the ice cream was licked into a perfect little convex depression beneath the edge. He began carefully nibbling around the edge, exposing exactly a half an inch of ice cream before touching the ice cream again. The man watched and smiled. 'He is smarter and more orderly than his old man. It must be his mother.' Philly let the thought float off into the wind which had started to come in off of the water. "Let's sit down, kid." Philly turned and moved toward a bench a good twenty feet back from the wall and sat down. Jimmy followed and sat down right next to the man and leaned against him. Philly put his arm around the boy's shoulder and gave him a little shake. The boy looked up and grinned and returned his focus toward his ice cream cone, now all but gone. "Let's go over this again." Philly leaned his head toward the boy and spoke a deeply and softly as he could. "What are you going to do when you get there?" "I'm going to sit on the second bench closest to the Amtrak Window, put my back pack on the bench next to me, and play with my Etch-a-Sketch." The boy was enthusiastic and confident and smiled when he was done speaking. "Right," the man was happy. This was going to be just fine. "Then what is going to

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happen?" "An Asian kid is going to come and sit next to me, put his back pack on the floor near my feet, and start playing with his Etch-a-Sketch." "Exactly. What color is his thingy?" "The Etch-a-Sketch? Blue. Mine is red." "Wow. You are a smart kid. OK. Now what?" "They will announce the Broadway Express to Chicago, and the kid will get up and leave with my back pack." "Exactly. Then what do you do?" "I wait for a minute until the passengers are rushing for the gate and I slip around the side and meet you at the Eighth Avenue entrance." Philly drew the kid closer and kissed him on the top of the head. "You are a good fella, ya know that?" Jimmy grinned from ear to ear and stood with his friend to walk back to the car. It was getting chilly so he slipped his hand into the man's jacket pocket and walked closely with him. It wasn't much shelter from the cold wind but it was enough, and the boy had learned to allow what he possessed to be enough in the past couple of years. "Can we get chili dogs Uncle Philly?" "Sure kid. Sure." You can contact Mark at: Http://www.evildick13.wprdpress.com

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