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Deep Tissue
Issue #5, June, 2010
A deep piercing cut production

Cover Model is 42

In this issue:

Jimmy Ray Davis Amy Wood Rose Morales

Dan Kellett Evil Dick Mystic Lady

David McLean Babs Martin James Crafford

Kat Solomon Glen Still Suria Kassimi

Lee Kwo Chris Stravener Michael Grover

A.D. Hitchin Newamba Tarringo T. Vaughan

Jack Henry
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On the Edge of the Salton Sea

By Jack Henry

a Shepherd's lament
he lay

torn and bleeding

fisted deep by frenzied lust

she never mentioned name

but left a single word

written across dust

in blood

devoid of meaning

transfixed by his own suffering

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laying in a manger of dirty clothes

and spoiled sundries

each cough produces

a chunk of lung

he hopes to be his last

and when the doorbell rings its one thousand cries

Cinderella arrives

in tornado silk stockings

a Pierre LaMont moustache

penciled to her lip

a twelve inch dildo rests in her pocket

her smile as tame as a shrew

she drops her works atop a cum stained bed-sheet

cooks it up

sucks it up

ties him off with a borrowed leather belt

rolls him to his stomach

arms splayed, legs split wide

nailed to the mahogany of a Victorian bedpost

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she fucks him until his cries become lullabies

and the lady upstairs stops pounding the floor

and cops lose interest from the start

and a priest crosses himself as he passes a ground floor window

and two hookers smile as they think about masturbation

and a young boy suddenly looks up as an albatross flies across Central Park

plainly spoken
a perfect Cheshire smile

lingers above trees

that no longer carry the weight of spring

yet shiver still through the lament of winter -

blankets of gray shroud mewling masses huddled deep in their collective sigh -

unconscious to breathing or justifiable light -

we kiss atop black satin sheets -

a tangle of limbs adrift in a moment where no other lives matter


thoughts do not gain favor -

it is but for the fucking we continue -

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(just below a pausing sun)

mockingbirds loiter on a wire -

somber attention to movement in tall grass -

gray and white gulls huddle in pods near overflowing trash dumpsters -

an old man

(shuffling stooped)

works a metal detector -

sifts out bottle caps and quarters from indifferent sand -

i light a cigarette as i step from your door -

sun full,

eager -

sparrows alight from a puddle as i pass by -

your taste sweet on my lips -

a door opens as i turn -

your smile offers greater revelation than those subtle moans still drifting past my eyes -
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is that voice your own

we sit in circles
await a final bang
a conclusion
an explosion of obvious expectations that voice

your own?

as we swim
in pools of decadent shit
search for rope
or stick
or grasping hand to pull us free
scratching notes on stall doors
even as shadows
a last nervous hair
on a dangling sack
suddenly I wonder... that voice

your own?

a high pitched cry

commands and defines
and sprays erratic commentaries
words cobbled together
sliced and spliced
fingers covered with paper cuts
linen stained with semen
cigarettes burned down to dust that voice

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your own?

every time you check a list

add my name
box me in
i load another shell
into a Mossberg 12 gauge
every time you whisper
ill defined rantings
unqualified warbles from an errant mind
i sharpen a blade

i don't have to answer the question that voice your own?
i don't have to pretend to know that voice your own?
i don't have to guess in response that voice your own?

shut up
stop talking
quit stealing my breath

mimicry is often mockery

at least from where my grave sits
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don't bury me before you

pronounce me dead
a man stands in a Barnes & Noble bookstore
reading Poetry Magazine
page after page after page of crap

erudite intellects and anemic academics gather in jerking circles

more of the same, they say
bring it! bring it!, they said

university machines churn out doormats

bobbleheads with their clean pristine lines
and stanzas
and sonnets
and mad praise for the dead

if they're dead leave 'em buried

move on
quit looking over the bones to see if fingers still twitch

Barnes & Noble does not carry books of poetry

obituaries line those shelves
why we continue to fill our pockets with that dirt
is a question not worth answering

the past is dead like my cock after a three day crunk

motorhead mayhem in a king-sized bed

five days to 46
i wonder how long i've been dead
every time i start over it's just another fist full of dirt
in the hands of time
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on the outside
on the outside i lay bleeding

(i'm sorry Mrs. Robinson he will not survive the procedure)

rolling laughter sounds

priests and poets and jackals of every shade

wander hallways brightly lit by antiseptic light

on the outside i lay bleeding

fuck you

nothing to say

fuck you

transitioned from dust to the stinking piss of monuments yet to fall

fuck you

no savior, no Christ - no horses at a St. Patrick's Day parade

fuck you

no breath

fuck you

no dope

fuck you

no speed in my veins

fuck you
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no cock for your cunt

fuck you

i must pause

perhaps slow



yes dream

of masturbation

and whores and a needle plunger press deep release

ah yes that's it

ah yes yes indeed

gimme gimme gimme

my dope

fuck you

my drugs

fuck you

i'll suck your cock for a taste

fuck you

just a hit a bump a short transition away from this radiator water acid flush reality

fuck you
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c'mon anything? anything at all? something to move forward? something to carry


fuck you

sometimes words

are just marbles inside chalk circles etched on black asphalt playgrounds

rearranged at will by the thumbs and big balls of willful boys

sometimes words

are lost in swirls of damp laundry spun careless in industrial washing machines

at corner Laundromats

sometimes words

are granules of illegal narcotics

weapons of freedom snorted or spiked or inhaled from the fringe of suburban bliss

sometimes words

clang when jail doors slide shut and the skin of humanity

every race boiled together, awaits a fuse to be lit

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sometimes words

are found beneath a short skirt in the backseat of a borrowed car

parked in an abandoned drive-in theatre just across the county line

Jack Henry lives in the high desert of South Eastern California in a single-wide trailer on
the edge of the Salton Sea. In his spare time Jack writes poetry and short stories about
the vagaries of normal life. His first book of words, "with the Patience of Monuments," is
available from NeoPoeisis Press ( A second book of words,
"Crunked," should be available sometime in 2010 from Epic Rites Press.
( He can be reached at
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Sex, Death, and Taxes

By A.D. Hitchin

Authors Note: In 2009, three chapbooks were planned for the 'Third Entity' cut-up series; 'The
Holy Hermaphrodite', 'Damp Tissue Angel' and 'Hive'. Of these, only the 'Holy Hermaphrodite'
was published as I aborted the trilogy. However, I have often had the niggling feeling that these
books should have appeared as I intended. With this in mind, I have decided to publish the
remaining two chapbooks exclusively in 'DTM'. These will be presented in parts over
consecutive issues. I am beginning with 'Damp Tissue Angel', probably the most sexually
provocative of the series. Next up will be 'Hive', focusing on social and control mechanisms.
So ... , here is what could have been then, here now.



Lizard Men
Duct Tape
Digital Death Killer
Art Murder
Colonels Attack on Neo-Matriarchal apocalyptic sex-cult
Damp Tissue Angel
Lazarus Rising
Madame Lithium
Pink Underground Planet
Abandoned Warehouse
Permutation: Control
A Greener Exit
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Pink Underground Planet

Charles Dickens sparkling
Buddha bass rumbles
Jelly Vaseline fingers imprinted on metal
Ky glistening wet kill
death sex cult latex gloves reflective orgies
kiss rubber
2012 boom! come
I’m straps erect swollen plasma neon pink underground planet X ’s pouring
down her milky way

murder witnesses perhaps pink crucifix?

vault underground scriptures read high literature

plates nuclear proof iron gates locked perhaps you appreciate?

Lazarus Rising
drain vixen vipers
power power and
I worship hawk headed God
raw voice
Lazarus rising of fire
praise Themis
sex power power and
mp3 audio frequency
degradation microchips implants
transmission emancipation
Lazarus rising mp3 audio frequency
cocaine brain transmission emancipation
destroy you all
praise Themis sex

hawk headed God in brain wall

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control panels ejaculate
erection tenting metallic tongue and fingers
index finger pumping star exploding
cock hard and sphincter grips him powder blue

pre-come her arse her lasers phasers pussy of sperm float gem on strawberry
burying digits ground alien entity

tastes finger warm and wet dripping in spacesuit

urgent pussy glistening replies to transmission in starlight
spray gluten ivory pearls being extraterrestrial globs
thighs tongue fucking in dual orbit
in zero gravity vision visor steam

clasped together floating in freefall.

You can find more Antony’s work at:
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Laughing at Funerals
By David McLean

eternity might be a child picking his thoughtful nose
where night smiles itself full of nascent memory
and the slightest hint of juvenile sexuality
though he is not a pervert yet -

he has the rest of his eternity to learn to forget

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the abject
abasement is an arrogance
the proud can never achieve
and abjection is a word
as empty as words are
a sword to wound water
that heals like an ego
or a vagina that dies
and curls up
like a forgotten insect
or a cracked bell
a destiny and a debt
the abject is lies
to scream at night
like a fetus feeling
nothing a lover
and a madman
a schizophrenic vampire
gnawing his arm
as he strolls and as MPD
is evidence of recent prosecution
for a serious crime the abject
is evidence of the process of flesh
and sex and life and time
a propitiatory appropriation
appropriately blind, only
approximately, never
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not distorted death

it is not distorted death growing
in mothers, but a homeless process
to establish a history
and be bleeding meat
until sun shines
so there is time.

it is children falling out of night

where danger is
but coming to be alright.
(if you cannot see that
you should maybe have stayed
inside, it's better than being

the trees
the trees sense electric spring and suns that smell wet
like old socks in heaven's cupboard, but suns that nourish
winter's emptiness with light and love,

that wash sterile night away like sweat and unsexy

death. so sap rises through them its anxious burden
and they mutter in the wind together

like skittish old women scenting bargains

and ready to run like a lynch mob
evading its conscience and the eyes of angels.

the trees will prostitute themselves soon, seed

pimped by birds. like the seed of sexless
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semantics pimped by words

the trees get to grow to be a forest, with time

we grow our nothing slightly deeper and more refined,
and we get to be absurd. like Lemmy says,

“what's words worth”

here comes memory

here comes memory
like the saxophone lies of love
and an unsubtle nostalgia
heavy on the tongue

where dead generations sing

about nothing. all the walls
are cracked and my dead generations
are degenerate dust,

and here comes memory again

where they are not featured
beyond their psychotic voices
i never really heard

i suppose. just wind flickering

in and out of consciousness
in an empty ward,
even real living voices

would just have said words,

not really been there
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David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a large
lake called Mälaren, very near to Stockholm, with cats, kittens, and a couple of dogs. He has a
BA in History from Balliol, Oxford, and an MA in philosophy, taken much later and much more
seriously studied for, from Stockholm. Up to date details of many zine publications and several
available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths, a few print chapbooks, and a
free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at The latest
full length laughing at funerals is available via Small Press Distribution
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Living in the Underground

By Glen Still

Living Hell
she rides on a half tone Chevy decrepit of old and forgotten
i think she thinks she's invisible with her shadow following
her and me into the universe of forgetfulness
i think she thinks she's nothing else but a cigarette burning in her own
living hell

i want to capture her gravity

take her to the moon as full as it can be

take her to the junction out in LA

a hit off the pipe that she says she's never experienced
i know when her knees hit the gravel
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she whines and shine like a demon inside an angel

the skin of a chameleon
come on baby stick those lips into some form of communication
'cause if i just wanted a blow job
i could walk out on the street
get one anytime i wanted

i want to know her beyond her pain

take her into a saving grace

but i know that won't be easy

i could give up naturally
that would be the best move forward
maybe i'm just deluded thinking that she thinks she loves me
when i know she really doesn't

i waste this time everyday of every week

going on a defunct calibration
of time
in living hell

Glen Still is a wandering poet who now resides in Oklahoma.

You can find more of Glen’s work at:
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Alligator Allegory
by Chris Stravener


You said to me

you want to be

in God‟s

divine fingers

if that‟s

the place

you find you‟re free

I sincerely

hope you‟re


I crashed
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a long time ago

in climatic sex

& alcohol.

fuelled, fucked-up, fascinated

a deeper life


I am animal


the shame

serves to

make me grow

the shame

is a two edged


the body


feeds soul

and God‟s divine fingers

meddle with your head

God‟s divine fingers

openly declare

your living death

in waking life
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this is

my shame

understand. Only


The Days of Human Being

In the days of human being

We reached light speed

Before decreeing

It‟s safer by a different route

When naked without a parachute

The very highs we once desired

Love life sex

Are not required

If by terror we achieve our goals

And smile at those we drop down holes

In the memoir of a charming man:

You were matchstick thin

Second hand

Pre-determined life by throwing coins

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And metaphors from ancient lines

So I affected vague alarm

A potential hint of

Grave self-harm

Pinning cavemen pictures to my wall

Is there any point at all?

When we‟d sharpened all our senses

The real agenda

Then commences

Idols from a silent age

In black and white films replayed

Your Garbo to my Buster Keaton

The Keystone Kops


Why I waved a torn white flag

And disappeared with half the swag

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Blue Pill Anxiety

i remember the day when the sky fell down
(fucking little chicken with its big mouth)
infinite aggregation of a seamless lie
till the thing with wings sings “I possess your eyes”
now we see through the weave of humanity‟s clothes
contemplate you naked and exactly what‟s supposed
that clarity is strength, penetration is desired
when the fail-safe mechanism‟s virtually hardwired
imagine how it feels with the soft tones all removed
the harsh white light of sight flooding every room

a creature in the corner is beckoning to me

to read a thesis once entitled „blue pill anxiety‟
worship of a medicine all the better to rescind
graveyard harpies‟ obsession with shadow kith and kin
skeletons in closets throw back their heads with joy
when the urchin child poet peddles packets on the sly
the cruel/duel nature of daddy‟s little bombardier
blurs the edges of the warzone till the war all disappears
and legions of angels dance upon the razor‟s edge
in remembrance of things that were better left unsaid

the reincarnation of jack the ripper‟s shade

(with a cinderella complex) is haunting the arcade
the sword swallower‟s advisors turn to face the east
intoning from the page different ways to kill the beast
they offer up conclusions that we barely comprehend
an exit strategy from hell for both family and friends
expelling confused ghosts (who are the charlatans of time)
floundering in terminal einsteinian decline
superhero fantasies phaseshifting a whole planet
to resuscitate the band playing tunes on the titanic

Chris Stravener is a songwriter living in London in the UK. He writes poems to explore
what he can't put into songs because of the closed format of the songwriting structure.
He has a new CD coming out in summer 2010 called 'Alligator Allegory'. He has pages
on MySpace & facebook if you're interested in listening to the songs or reading more
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Babs Rock-its
By Babs Martin

You can find more of Babs work at:

What do Rockers, S.A. Griffin, and Memphis have in common?

The Poetry Bomb at the Java Cabana!

MugTown Rockers, a fictitious place comprised of hooligans from around the world, ride Brit bikes and
Café Racers, traditionally wear leather, pudding bowl helmets, seaboot socks, long white scarves and
they are twisting throttle ready for a burn-up. Seven of us Rockers associated with the MTR gathered in
Memphis where we were greeted by members of the Memphis Mummies. These Tennessee sherpas
guided us on a complimentary tour of the legendary Sun Studios, held a mammoth crawfish boil, and
showed us the way to tear up Beale St, so I wanted to return the hospitality and introduce them to S.A.
Griffin and Elsie the Poetry Bomb.
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S.A. Griffin, award winning author,

American poet, and co-editor of the
1999 Outlaw Bible of American
Poetry is currently on tour toting Elsie
the bomb across the US. This once
ordinary military bomb has turned
into a beautiful work of blue art
complete with exquisite details
painted by the famous pinstripe
artist, Skratch. S.A. has filled Elsie
with poems and artwork contributed
by poets, poetry lovers, and people
who just have something to say and
share. We were fortunate enough to
track down S.A. on May 7, 2010 at the Java Cabana in Memphis, TN. We met the man behind the vision,
bought him a Guinness at the Celtic Crossing, and attended the Poetry Bomb show. Correction, I
attended the entire show. In typical hooligan style, the rest of the guys made a quick run around the
corner to another pub. More about the Rockers later, now onto Mr. Griffin’s show.

S.A. Griffin begins the show with the story of how Elsie came into being and the purpose behind his
vision for the Poetry Bomb tour. I won’t reveal too much, because you just have to hear it in his words
and experience the show for yourself. But, I will say the artistic bomb is not a symbol of peace. S.A.
explains it as a symbol of destruction – to destroy the status quo, an opportunity to speak out in truth
according to individual perceptions, to keep things heated and stirred up towards change. In essence,
the Poetry Bomb is an object of inspiration for everyone to actively explore a creative expression within
themselves. Once S.A. finished the introduction he opened up the time for attendees to read. No one
popped out of their seats, so S.A.
asked the lady who had been serving
delicious coffee blends to read poetic
sentiments written in a spiral on a
paper plate which S.A. had found on
a Java Cabana table earlier that
evening. Next, he turned it back to
the audience and this time I jumped
up to read a poem befitting of my trip
in Memphis with my motorbike
mates entitled, “Rocker Highway.”
One more Java regular attendee read
then S.A. began reading poems from
the bomb. This was just about the
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time nine Rockers dressed in full kit came swinging in, most buzzing on brown ale, and crashed the
coffee house serenity. S.A calls out, “It’s Brando from The Wild Ones! What are you rebelling against?”
Smashr smoothly answers, “Whatta ya got?” Classics never go out of style.

The joint was pretty lively after the Rocker entrance and S.A. Griffin continued his outstanding
performance reading some of his own work and ended with a poem he wrote inspired by Memphis
Rockabilly music which he sang acappella. I contributed my poem “Rocker Highway” and the Babs
Martin and The Trip Awake in Fog CD to Elsie’s cause. We hogged the stage taking various shots with
Elsie then some of the mates helped load Elsie back in the van so she could make her way to New

In all the action of the weekend, including the crawfish boil, me dancing center sidewalk to live down
and dirty Beale street Blues, and the midnight raid on Graceland’s gates, The Poetry Bomb remained a
highlight as we often found ourselves talking about S.A. Griffin’s outlaw Beat style poetry and his
inspiring message. Oh yes, and I did indeed act as the total fan. I strapped a satchel around my chest to
stash the 2 inch thick Outlaw Bible of American Poetry while I rode on the back of a vintage Norton
across town for the sole purpose of obtaining S.A. Griffin’s autograph. He graciously obliged.
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Rocker Highway

Trippin on a Triumph

lookin for a sunrise

plan for night

through a paler shade of gray

Ride slows down life

to engage fast fun

Psychedelic winds whip

poetic words across my tongue

Mindless words on billboards

litter my serenity

Concrete steeple claims


I dig destination nowhere

underground side

of storefront society

on abused alloy

grounded to positive earth

I meet my mates

at beat-up pub
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imbibe honey elixir’s

fuzzy illusions of

Whoop and holler shot

shakes off the cold

Silent shot for fallen


Road rolls on

divides horizon

between choices of east

and west

We’ll soon be back

on tar and won’t write

our decisions until we pull

off and hit the kill switch.

Rock-n-Word Trip "Awake in Fog" CD now available at

Poetry Cards available on Cartfly!

Buy the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry

Babs Martin was born in San Diego, CA, raised on Route 66, and currently resides in Oklahoma. She is a
creative expressionist in words and music. Babs written works have appeared in anthologies, on-line
publications and magazines. Her Rock-n-Word Trip recordings and CD singles have been featured on
several radio programs in the US and Canada. Babs collections and performances are designed to fly
you on a high and deliver you to the door steps of your own sensational journey.
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Covert Poetics
By Michael Grover

Religion & Politics

When I lived in the south I was always told, there are two sure ways to piss people off, that would be to

talk about politics or religion. Particularly with my views on either, I stayed in a lot and didn't talk to a lot

of people. This idea was re-enforced one night at a bar; a friend of mine got jumped by three redneck

locals for talking shit about the war with them. He ended up with cracked ribs & getting his face


My neighbor was a nice girl, & quite attractive if I may say so. She invited me over on the night of the

fourth of July to this party she was having. I figured it can't hurt right? Well as attractive women often

do she had some attractive friends. When I arrived one of her attractive friends instantly started flirting

with me. About an hour & a few beers later somehow we were talking about the war. The debate was

getting heated. I told her no matter what we have to remember that Hitler's soldiers were just following

orders too. With that she started saying she was gonna kick my ass. She was a little girl, but feisty. I had

to go back home to myself imposed exile, kicking myself in the ass that I could not keep my big mouth
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shut for just one night. Oh and the cute neighbor girl never wanted to talk to me anymore after that.

She treated me like a freak, & I guess I was around there. I had my own mind & my own ideas.

I guess I'm too much like my father who is a retired socialist union worker. After Vietnam he got his nose

broken by a returning soldier for asking him at a bar how many babies he had killed. So it runs in the

family. We Grover men have a problem keeping our mouths shut. And most of us live in the south which

doesn't help. Not me, I moved north to the Midwest, where I can speak my mind. Anyone can, as it

should be.

This brings me to that other subject that I wasn’t supposed to talk about, religion. I was raised in my

place in the south, conditioned as a Southern Baptist. I never had much of a choice. It was my mother’s

wishes. I remember I was about eight years old & Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park came on TV on a

Saturday night. The next day at Sunday school, we were all excited talking about it. The Sunday school

teacher came in and just listened to our conversation, heard enough, broke it up by shouting with fire &

brimstone, “Rock & roll is the music of the devil.” We all just froze, the room fell silent, & we went on

with our lesson.

Of course I went home from church to find my father in his normal Sabbath position. Sittin' on the couch

listening to rock & roll, it was probably too early for a beer at that point. Of course I had to ask him “Dad

why are you listening to the music of the devil?” He had been looking for a reason to pull us out of there

and here it was. He went into the bedroom with my mother, there was a lot of shouting involved, and I

and my kid sister were saved, really saved. He came out of that argument and announced there would

be no more church on Sundays. When the pastor came to the door to beg him to send us back, he told

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This brings us pretty much up to date. A couple of Sundays ago I got a call that a friend & fellow Poet

here in Toledo had passed. He had passed on Thursday; I checked the obituaries there was nothing.

There was no evidence of his passing. He was a very private person; they obviously wanted to keep this

secret. I made a few calls, talked to the right person. Told him as members of the Poetry community

John & I had to pay our respects, plus he was a friend, & John and I both agreed he was the best Poet in

Toledo. So they said we could come. But anyone that showed up from the English Department at the

university would be turned away. The irony was that he worked there as a professor. They were going so

far to make sure they would not find out, obviously this was the way he wanted it, that they would call

us on Friday with a time and location. All they can tell us now is it would be between one and five. He

mentioned it would be a Buddhist celebration. That's what they called it, a celebration, which is nicer

than a funeral. Funerals are just so depressing.

John & I got to talking about the secrecy of this, and how we had never been to a Buddhist “celebration”

before. We both agreed this would be like nothing we had ever seen before. We also both agreed we

had to respect his wishes & uphold the secrecy. We didn't even talk about his death, because if they

knew about the death, they would start asking about the service.

Low & behold on Tuesday night when church was in session, who should show up but the Poet Laurette

of the county, who also happens to be a professor at the university. He comes through sometimes, but

not much. I don't think he cared how the reading was going tonight. He made a b-line straight for John,

& I knew what this visit was about.

Everyone told me how nice it was of him to show up. I just watched him over in the corner working John

for information & said he wasn't here for the Poetry. John said yes, he was trying to figure out where the
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celebration was. John just told him yes I know more than you do about it, but I can't tell you. He didn't

even know where or when it is right now, so he could not tell him that. These were the lengths they

were going to make sure people like him did not show up.

He didn't even talk to me. So anyway we dodged that bullet. Wednesday night we went to a reading &

the host asked us to say a few words about him. We guessed we had to say something at that point so I

got up and spoke about him and read a Poem by him, but I kept it brief. Then John said his peace.

Friday when I woke up, I had an e-mail that told me the time and location of the celebration. I let John

know. We picked up our friend Luis who had broken the news to me in the first place, and we were off

to this adventure.

The celebration was at the yoga studio he went to. They had a huge back yard, so they set up a tent and

had it there. First things first, this was the first time I had ever seen a female monk. She had her head

shaved just like the male monks do. It was a magic day. It was spring and things were blooming and

flying through the air, blowing in the wind.

I have to say, this would be the ideal celebration for the Church Of Poetry, as the monk started if off

with a death Poem she had written for him that morning. At one part of the Poem she screamed very

loudly and all of the dogs in the neighborhood started to bark. We then did a chant as everyone there

walked up to the front by his picture, and lit a stick of incense and put it in the pot of sand next to the

picture. We were seated near the back so the pot was quite full. As I tried to put the incense in it the

other sticks kept burning me. I finally got it in. There were talks by his lover, friends, and students. He

was obviously very much loved & respected. It was a very peaceful celebration I have to say, non-violent

unlike the Christian funerals that I had gone to. I don't know what makes Christian funerals violent. I
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can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the overwhelming feeling of guilt that they always try to sap from


There was food, so we all ate. The three of us were starving artists after all. Luis started complaining

about needing some pot. I told him we could go get some after this, so he kept trying to rush it. We

finally stayed long enough that we felt we had paid our respects and we left. I called my friend to make

sure he was home, & we were doing business. When we got in the car, John and I both agreed how

pleasant it was. We both said not violent like Christian funerals. Luis chimed in from the back seat that it

was lame. That he was Puerto Rican and Puerto Rican's party when someone dies. John and Luis

instantly started debating about that. They kept on debating all the way across town to get the weed. I

went in and got it, came back & they were still debating, not the funeral anymore. At this point they

were debating if Crystal Bowersox from American Idol was really from Toledo. It's true she was from a

small farm town outside of Toledo. Anyway I had never watched American Idol in my life, & I wasn't

about to start so I didn't care.

As we made our way back downtown we noticed there were more people than usual on the streets. Luis

told us Crystal was in town today, they were having parades for her, and she was singing the national

anthem at the Mudhen's game. We didn't see any parades as we drove through downtown, but we did

pass by Fifth Third Field and there was a huge crowd outside, as she would sing the national anthem in

about an hour. It just reminded me of how shallow this city can be, but how it's like any other city in

America with a distorted view of heroes force fed by the media. So we drove Luis home as they

continued to debate about Crystal. We headed back to the Arts Center where John went to his place and

I went to mine. After a funeral it is always time for reflection and writing, and Poets all do this alone.
Deep Tissue 38

Michael D. Grover is a Florida born poet. As a wanderer he's traveled and lived all over the country. He

currently lives in Toledo, Ohio. His poetry has been published all over the literary underground. Michael

currently is a resident artist at the Collingwood Art Center in Toledo where he hosts the weekly reading

with John Dorsey. He hosts and co-edits CP Journal, and runs the Covert Press. His newest chapbook is

titled "Confessions Of An American Outlaw".

You can find more of Michael’s work at:
Deep Tissue 39

By Dan Kellett


i am in the incision
i must still be in this skin somewhere
i still feel that
ripping me from the pillow
pouring me into the day
to move amongst clay minds
in brick buildings
my temples pulsing
like a liars heart

grief clubs me like incest

keeping me simple
Deep Tissue 40

keeping me down round the drip

of my own slime
in the lurch
and defused
i must still be in this skin somewhere
or i could not
hoard this hate
enough to sickle the selfless
in mass
so that morning pours itself
for itself
and the crows
by flesh
red their black beaks

death is closer to me
in this minute
than it was
the minute before
but not closer to me
in this minute
than life

the clock becomes a smug bully

ruthless like gravity
matching the pulses of my heart
beat for beat
but only one of the two will stop
and I am left
with fistfuls of freedom
Deep Tissue 41

that i rip from the shallows of these days

till the last click
in my head

with symptomatic palms
guiding our animal hearts
to doom
in blind herds
chasing the seedy scent
of gain
carving checkbook scripture
peeled from egocentric visions
of The Profit

the inner walls

of purest fertility
seep mournfully
from a global womb
spawning sedition
an Apache resistance
between my temples

as she bleeds like a hemophiliac

lanced by an appetite
of unnatural hunger
known to no inborn belly
only to corrosive heads
with corrupt tendencies
who march
towards breaking their own backs

You can find more of Dan’s work at:
Deep Tissue 42

By Mark P. Paleologo
AKA Evil Dick

i was so young then


we were both

certain of the living

and a blue tempest

raging down highways

that one country road

summer nights

which simply

define so many others

who have splashed

Deep Tissue 43

in waves upon my shore

the tenderness the tiny


clear thru the noise

of leaving nyc on a bus

“then she said ‘i love you’ “

and going numb

hands so delicate

i must have crushed them

the rose painted cabinets

and the first second

we touched

i have seen the sun

rise and set

over oceans

calcium layers mark

passage of drop

by drop

no thing forgotten

no thing without a trace

new petals lay on the ground

Deep Tissue 44

become ash

become flowers

i have felt the cold wind come

from the north

the south

underwater mountains of life

built cell

by cell

cities surviving silently

as the moon passes

with all

her different faces

there is water and there is salt

none could tell me otherwise

having witnessed birth

her smile weighs at my shoulder


blossoms bountiful but


tossed in the breath of spring

exit ramp blue and white

pubescent display
Deep Tissue 45

height fertility promise

sinew and bone grasping earth

surviving year after year

as we turn

right on red

i remember the cold

biting hard and loveless

pressed against concrete

as though it might yield

become soft

wind falls thru jagged eyelids

everything hurts these sounds

these semi primal mutterings

these prismatic refractions

terrifying responsibility

in take out containers

strewn about partially crumpled

with a sense of order known

intrinsically eaten

segmented people

scurry six leggedly

provide next generational

Deep Tissue 46

motivation and media

the buzz the dross the drone

bliss in tight corners

coalescence epic

traffic once removed

really no relation

brick city
parts of a puzzle

on the floor

the sun appears

scrap book flashes

turning taring pages

mortar crumbles

the bricks remain

glass stained plywood windows

industrial cathedrals closed


every day

piled by the river

the wait for vesper’s solace

mechanized priestly words

melancholy mesmerized moths

eat holes in fabric

Deep Tissue 47

gnaw thru steel skeletons

past places

purveyance of hope

growing thru

cracks in the sidewalk

we hold our own

enter here
if there ever was a time

to sift flour

to walk among the ancient

to discard the finery

to drink ale

there is a table set

without consideration

for precious recordings

of sad songs that cause

a certain kind of joy

deep and sweet

minors transposed over

prominent emotion

angels who failed to shepherd

and flat bread with goat cheese

Deep Tissue 48

christ the sunlight

and the push of the crowd

let me fall

it isn’t so far

M.P.Paleologo (aka Evil Dick) was born and raised in Northern New Jersey where his

delicate sensibilities were distorted into the carnival mirror perspective represented in

his music, verse, and prose. Influenced by great artists such as Pablo Neruda, Emily

Dickinson, Andy Warhol, and David Lynch as well as many of the incredible indigenous

people which have crossed his path, his sharp edged writing style is laced with

surprising tenderness and wry humor. The author enjoys speaking of himself in the

third person, bourbon, and long walks in the park.

You can read more of Evil’s stuff here:
Deep Tissue 49

Down in the Hollow …

By Jimmy Ray Davis, the Wordmachinist

TEMPLE HOLLOW (present day)

For I created him,

but now he is loose
among us.

newspaper excerpt: (Pennsylvania) "...A series of screams was heard emanating from
Simm's Abattoir, a closed up relic of a slaughterhouse in the town of Temple Hollow. A
shadowy presence has been seen lurking in backyards, on hillsides and amid the husk
of the abattoir. Strange thing is that this town was not even known to exist before a
young girl phoned in the disturbances. Reports have not yet identified her but stated
that she referred to herself as 'Lenore'. We will keep you posted..."

There is an old mining town

in the darkest heart of Pennsylvania.
Bird skulls adorn porch ways
and there are very few children present.
A tune is hummed real low
by the older, longtime residents
and the church has long since
been burned to the ground.
Deep Tissue 50

There is a hint of madness

a wreckless, lawlessness that lingers
and the pungent, underlying scent
of the abandoned slaughterhouse
still drifts down, when the wind is right.
Cracker barrel storytellers
wary of a history of shame and misfortune
stand sentinel on bleak storefronts.

You won't find this town on any map

and the overlap of dirt thoroughfares
are a medusas hair entanglement
of failed escape routes.
Weather vanes all point towards a hill
where livestock met their demise
and a young girl was torn asunder
ripped from the face of a cruel world.

Old Bill was just a figment of ink

a product of an overworked mind.
and yet somehow he has transcended
from the plane of fantasy and lore
to that of history and fact.
Beware of his lies and deceptions
For he may not be evil incarnate
but he is cunning and cold as death.

. . .and he is loose.



As the beast in my heart softly rages.

We were placed like animals in cages...
and oh time is of the very essence.
To dance one more time in the rose bushes,
mindful of the thorns that stab ever deep.
But blood is real and it can seep...
Bright, vibrant, red and alive!
Still the myriad tears...that rent the night.
For we have yet to fight again.
And the new day appears as the old.
Deep Tissue 51

Stories are told and we are just...

animals in cages.
As the beast in my heart softly rages.

He told us to call him „Old Bill‟.

That he was just this side of evil,
yet not really a bad guy...
A watcher doomed to repeat history,
and the Listerine tastes bitter
as we spit the bad dreams into a sink.
Pink is good he says...for the blood is red.
And vibrant, bright and alive!
There is a machine shop just down the road.
We are forbidden from going there,
for we‟ve been told of an eccentric poet
who heals with his words...But,
Old Bill says he is not FDA approved.

His tongue experimental.

His rhymes ornamental.
Yet I have seen this „dark poet‟
in the recesses of his machine shop
in the bowels of midnight...
And he tossed a crumpled paper,
into our garden of woe.
Telling me that he would come
for me and the other girls.
And as we try on dresses and lipstick,
vibrant and bright and red as blood.

We pray for a miracle...

and the night gets colder indeed.
And I looked upon the face of death,
and behold a grizzled rider on a white horse.
With pen to paper almost as a sword.
Finding weapons in the words.
He shouted “Shangri-La”!
As Old Bill went to face his nemesis.
And the cyst of madness turned like a dagger.
Ragged and torn tooth blades.
The Word all of his glory.
Standing like a pauper from a prince.
We were ordered back into our cages,
but we clawed at Old Bill‟s eyes instead.
Until they bled, Red and vibrant with life.
Deep Tissue 52

Staggering back Old Bill screamed:

Do you not know? He is death.
For his pen can wipe you clean,
from your life‟s very slate...
The Wordmachinist, pen poised,
wrote in his pad...and Old Bill was chained.
Shackled to the very cages he imprisoned us.
Enough of this Bill! He intoned,
in a deep, gravelly voice.
I created you and I can take your blood.
Old Bill laughed the chuckle of demons
and are NOT the creator.
You were created by me!
And has been many days and nights,
since that fight. We are still in cages.
Every night Old Bill takes one of us to an alter,
Strips our clothes from our bodies,
Molding our flesh and killing our desires.
For it is not sex that he is after,
but the laughter of a child...the ONE...Lenore.
Killed and raped at the hands of madmen,
down in the Abattoir of Temple Hollow.
For she was but twelve years old, when Old Bill
led her to her innocent daughter,
of founding fathers and witch-like mothers.
He has found a the Wordmachinist.

The Wordmachinist came to me in my dream,

telling me that his blood was alive!
And bright and vibrant and red...
He told me a tale of being a poet in the future.
nd how he alone created these worlds.
Myself included...I did not believe him of course.
He would go to Temple Hollow to free Lenore,
breaking the curse and escaping the world of his words.
He kissed me tenderly...for there was no passion in it.
The kiss of an angel, fallen yet ready to arise,
to bust through the lies...and the sea of words.
He claimed to be a victim of his pen...
and he cried blood as he staggered towards Temple Hollow.
Deep Tissue 53

Hello my friends, I am Jimmy Ray known to many of you

as...Wordmachinist. I am a storyteller who writes poetry so many of
my poems are in fact, stories. Quite awhile back I crafted a
deliciously dark tale called "Abattoir" which introduced the fictional
town of Temple Hollow and the mysterious character known as Old Bill.
For some reason this poem stuck with me, sort of haunting me in a
way. Old Bill, Lenore, and the dark township of Temple Hollow became
recurring fixtures in many future writes. So much in fact that Old
Bill has become my "Dark Half" just as Alexis Machine was in Stephen
King's novel of the same name. Now I know that Old Bill is not me and
that he is not real, but let us ponder for a moment the true power of
words. If words indeed can move mountains and change entire
corporation's ways of thinking, could they not traverse time or make
life brim from the page? I know not the answers to these twisted
tidbits but I will tell you this. I FEEL the powerful enigma of Old
Bill, the wretched soul of Lenore and the ghostly small town madness
of Temple Hollow and I believe. I know that I will never find the
town of my poetic tales on any map. However, I also feel that if I
got into a beat up old black Chevelle and drove South I would
eventually find it. Passing the slaughterhouse I would look into the
rearview mirror and there as plain as day would be Old Bill lounging
in the backseat. He'd wink at me with that terrible wisdom and say,
"Welcome home, son...we've been expecting you".
Deep Tissue 54

Mystic Lady
Aka Meera Flame

Decomposure and daybreak

All thoughts collapse
Into life‟s crooked relapse,
Structures are defaced
In an abandoned place,

All time and space

Will become erased
Atoms and molecules,
Forming altered states,
Light beams fade,

Flora and fauna decays

Only the shadows
Of your face remain,
The night heaves her cloak
In melancholy disarray,

The Sun and moon disintegrate,

Silver stars they fade to grey,
Time and tide are washed away,
Sand and surf contaminates
Sins and hopes that desecrate,

Soft flesh will decompose away,

Bones and branches snap and break,
Tears sting and stain like acid rain,
Until daybreak creeps back in again...............
Deep Tissue 55

Invisible cloaks

Like Shadows wearing invisible cloaks,

Our Converse has fallen into the great beyond,

Things are left abandoned,

Friendship struck barren,

I‟m Embarrassed.

Shall I try to make amends, try to mend it ?

Make it neat, Discreet, sweet,

Not bleak or obsolete,

But you don‟t hear me now, you don‟t respond.............

Shall we lie heads down, upon the ground?

Start again in quiet childlike whispers, planting seeds,

then dig up the same old weeds,

But I fear it‟s too negate, negotiate

The time has lapsed,

In between the seconds have passed,

Laughter collapsed

Left rotten like a dying corpse........

Deep Tissue 56

Fallen into extinction, something

That beautiful that became futile and fell into the oblivion,

Now I am too ashamed

to even mention your name........

This thing it has slipped out of my hands

Like broken china

brittle shards have fallen out from my mouth,

misplaced they can‟t be replaced ,

Spiraling out of control from its usual abode,

left at the crossroads,

It‟s become

confused, Obtuse, a thing of little use.

Words have changed shape

Transformed into something

Distant, remote so faraway.

Intimacy can‟t be reclaimed, or faked,

It‟s tender to touch like an open wound,

Now I can‟t put it back, where it belongs

Or put a lid on it; place it up on the shelf,

Tried to throw it away, but in time I know

Deep Tissue 57

It‟s the way some things must inevitably grow,

Falling into the evening shadows,

Where departed things must go,

Wearing these invisible cloaks.................

I’m married, and have been married for many years (to the same man I
think!) with 3 gorgeous boys. I’ve been doing jewelry design for 17
years and have had my own workshop for 16 years which I help run with
my talented husband. I love art, abstract and surrealism, gothic
literature especially vampires! I love to write POETRY, I am a
*FEATURED 10K POET. I love to PAINT I also read, sew, cook, garden, I
love taking my boys out, I love talking , thinking, I don’t watch much
TV lets face it ,its crap!! ,anti war; I’m interested in all religions
,cultures and points of view, I am excited everyday when I learn or
hear or see something new, nature fascinates me
.............................I like drinking lots of TEA and talking
for England, On myspace to read and write poetry ,look at art, and
listen to new music!.

You can find more of Meera‟s work at:
Deep Tissue 58

Let it Rain …
By Amy Wood

Food versus Thought

Three inch long ash on a menthol whatever
eyes squinted from burning smoke
and I‟m trying to pound the ice from a frozen burrito
silence the phone
and shake off last night‟s hangover
still hanging on.

The ashes fall onto my white mules

that I just pulled from the dryer
smearing the toe with black
making my day officially perfect
as I throw the beef and bean glacier in the microwave
set the timer
and slam the door.

There‟s a Mormon ringing the bell

the floor needs vacuuming
the cat‟s under my feet
and the washer is unbalanced making a loud
„thunka, thunka, thunka‟ noise
Deep Tissue 59

competing with the pounding in my head.

But my head is still winning.

So I stop where I stand

catch my thoughts in my pocket
and try to remember how many days it‟s been since I heard from you.
Six. No….seven.
Today is seven days with no word
and the stark reality hits me like a sledgehammer
eliciting those short hiccupy breaths
panic on my lips
heart skipping two beats
as I ponder my next move.

I‟d like to fall into the floor

writhing and kicking
imagining the worst
crying tears that run into my hair
matting my bangs to my sweaty forehead.
I‟d like to answer the door
scream obscenities at the messenger of God who is incessantly ringing my doorbell
and in the same instant ask him to pray for you to come back to me.
I‟d like to feel slighted
and annoyed
and inconvenienced
and pained.
I‟d like to kick the washer
kick the cat
kick the bucket
and fantasize your face when you find me dead from heartbreak
covering your nose from the stench of mildewed clothes
from a broken washer
death in the walls
cat curled around me
on an unvacuumed floor
with ashes on my shoe
as you wail torture
and endless love
right on top of my lifeless corpse.
Deep Tissue 60

But my burrito is ready.

As I sleep I wander

Through cobbled cemeteries

with overgrown weeds brushing my legs
foggy images of tombstones turned acid green by too much rain
and too little care.
I make out hazy inscriptions of love
declarations of heartbreak and loss
peace and prayers.
I process it painfully
with stark familiarity
and I wander.

My feet sink into gentle soffits of dirt

toes touching bones of baby‟s hurt feelings
hopelessly awake
buried just below the surface
and I recoil in sorrow
then embarrassment
wondering how many of those
are mine.

Abandoned toys sit silent

pink handlebars rusty
streamers rotted with mold
amidst plastic dolls without bottles
or blankets
or eyes.

Little cardboard books with covers torn

and pages atrophied by lack of turning
with stories never finished
but begging to be read
filled with kisses by a prince
rescues from witches ovens
unicorns in flight
and golden eggs.
Deep Tissue 61

Dried finger-paints once vibrant

sit gray in lidless containers
with untouched brushes
and blank papers
desperately wishing for a toddlers dirty hands to breathe new life.

I sit where I stand reading elegies on every stone

exactly the same
word for word
pictures of angels with broken wings
date of birth
date of death
all unnamed.

I reach out to trace the words etched so carefully

but my fingers crack rock
and the epitaph is replaced
with the true identity of my death
as daughters cry for legacies
and yesterdays
that never came.

I could leave here

turn my back
walk away
cross my fingers
close my eyes
click my heels
wake up.
But this is my graveyard.

I will stay here and sing my children to sleep.

And I will wander.

Deep Tissue 62

Wh(Y) incision.....
*The first cut known as the 'Y' incision is made. The arms of the Y extend from the front of each shoulder
to the bottom end of the breastbone. The tail of the Y extends from the sternum to the pubic bone and
typically deviates to avoid the navel. The incision is very deep, extending to the rib cage on the chest,
and completely through the abdominal wall below that. The skin from this cut is peeled back, with the
top flap pulled over the face.

The patient was a 41 year old Caucasian female with significant past medical history of mental illness
who was found in her bed at her residence after neighbors reported crying. At the scene, EMS
administered breathing treatments and checked lung sounds that did not reveal any evidence of fluid in
the lung fields. EMS also reports patient was agitated upon their arrival at her residence. Two minutes
after arrival at 1500, the patient became unresponsive, apneic, and had oxygen saturations from 80-


EXTERNAL EXAMINATION: The body is that of a 41 year old well developed, well nourished female.
There is no peripheral edema of the extremities. There is an area of congestion/erythema on the upper
chest and anterior neck. There are multiple small areas of hemorrhage bilaterally in the conjunctiva. A
nasogastric tube and endotracheal tube are in place. There is an intravenous line in the right hand and
left femoral region. The patient has multiple lead pads on the thorax. The patient has multiple scars
both horizontal and vertical in the radial and antecubital areas of both arms. The patient has a 5 inch
scar on her right breast, a 3 inch scar that is not completely healed on her left kneecap which upon
examination reveals fracture of the patella. There is no evidence of other major surgical scars.

INTERNAL EXAMINATION (BODY CAVITIES): The right and left pleural cavity contains 10 ml of clear fluid
with no adhesions. The pericardial sac is yellow, glistening without adhesions or fibrosis and contains 30
ml of a straw colored fluid. There is minimal fluid in the peritoneal cavity.

HEART: None.

Examination is discontinued.

Time of Death: Body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, and absence of heart approximates the time of
death between 7:14 A.M. on October 13, 1968 and 9:20 P.M. on May 21, 2010.

Immediate Cause of Death: Unnatural.

Manner of Death: Unfortunate.

Deep Tissue 63

Ponder This (Tourettes Raises Its Ugly

By Rose Aiello Morales

Pulled from the fire,
stubbs still visible,
petri dish grown,
cloned, on rocky cliffs
far above this Hell on Earth.
Behold, a sinner, poised
to rival God, giant leap from Heaven
To rise, solar flare hair
a corona around flaming sky,
to find the color true blue,
a cooler, freeze frame hue,
antithesis of me, bad girl,
churlish girl; now shining woman
strolls the path of most resistance
and comes out flying.
Deep Tissue 64

Lucifer lives in the suburbs.
East of the Palmetto, south of 836,
close to the smells of Calle Ocho,
he cries fire tears for what he's lost,
Perdomo ashes on terrazzo floors.
Over caffeinated on black cocaine,
served in demi tasses, liberally sugared;
he babbles on about broken wings,
and the life the Commandant stripped
away, fighting Him in the Oriente Hills,
conquered, blackened, tossed in the straits
and told to swim.
Talk of revolucion outside cafes
where the governors rally
for former positions, currying favor
from the man with the horn, bullhorn,
bullshit, Armaggeddon never comes.
The Four Horsemen left with Teddy Roosevelt,
Marti fast on their heels, Jose, can you see,
we live in Hell, and it's best to keep Lucifer happy.
Because it's hot enough here already.

Tug Of War
Holding on for dear life.
Taking a stance, planting feet firmly;
though the sands are soft and we dredge
down deep, it falls away from us, inch
by inch, ground up glass and shells
slipping beneath our toes, and we're pulled
closer and closer to defeat, devoid
of purpose, unable to end this game.
Fibers form ridges in the soft skin of palms,
they are red and swollen, grip loosening
second by second, but we never let go,
never give in, stubbornness infuses our being,
and the rope becomes the only thing we live for.
There are lines drawn, boundaries we cannot cross,
and when, at last, we do, claxons chime, bells ring,
the clock switches back to twelve; we pull the rope
close in, slack now after infinite tautness, and find
Deep Tissue 65

There was never a soul at the other end.


Yesterday's Muse
Spent so many years shouting in the dark,
banners held high, slogans subject to change
without notice; notice the broken talons
on the white haired eagle? He fell from that
grassy knoll, head filled with revolution, rifle
held in opposable claws, blanks firing
every which way, hitting lightbulbs, casualties
of big ideas laying dead on the oil slick sands.
To come to this; days flying by, brain filled
with past visions, grey hairs growing inward,
fogging mind, flogging for past mistakes,
childish whims, soap boxes smashed to kindling,
and not enough flame to warm our hands
in this chilling time of vanquished dreams.
Our high ideals mumbled from the mouths
of homeless insanities, bouncing off alleyways
where no one notices, and no one cares.
Better now to do an interior cleanse, fix
what time has damaged, and cover what we cannot mend.
And see how far we've come, swimming upstream in polluted corners of the mind.

You told your friends,
laughing over longnecks.
My neck is long too, and full of scars
Like my wrists with their cross hatching,
lips raw and bleeding; I cannot stop picking,
nervous ticks to keep from remembering,
stronger than beer, the potions, pills, toxins
I take to induce forgetfulness, that glaze
of the undead in my eyes, and they clap
you on the back with knowing winks in places
I no longer go, streets I no longer walk;
preferring my own prison to the one
you chained me in, rough hands and thrusting
horror, where language is skewed, and "NO!"
Deep Tissue 66

is no longer no. And no one will believe the

torn clothes and bloodied sheets, because,
upstanding citizen that you are, I became the villian.

You can find more of Rose’s work at:
Deep Tissue 67

Firing Newborn Babies from a

Slingshot and Attacking Celebrities
with a Cattle Prod!
By Newamba Flamingo

Hassidic Rabbis jumping on a trampoline toilet papered my house.

So I put on a wedding gown and drove my moped

to the all-you-can-eat buffet in Boca Raton.

When I stepped into the restaurant, the host, who resembles a horse,

was doing a handstand and led me, walking on his hands, to my table.

I come here often because of the chef’s culinary expertise.

That chef’s name is Ivan.

and he’s an Elvis impersonator,

which hasn’t had a shower in seventeen years,

Deep Tissue 68

walks an assortment of leashed three legged cats,

and always wears assless black leather chaps.

You can frequently hear him in the kitchen

blaring out quadratic equations to his waiters,

as well as quoting David Foster Wallace incessantly.

Sometimes he’ll come out into the dining area holding a spatula,

get up about two inches from a random person’s face,

and start screaming in tongues.

Stuff like:

“0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89!!!!”

He’s kinda weird; however, his crepes are really good.

Once you get past the creepiness and bizarre outbursts,

you’ll like him.

Everyone here does.

As I sat down to eat,

a lazy-eyed Iranian man,

dressed in a dashiki,

bounced into the restaurant on a pogo stick and took a seat.

He was soon joined by the sweaty French guy, Pierre,

who appears in my shower occasionally

and does aerobics with me in there.

[Pierre doesn’t remove his beret at the table;

in fact, he never takes off his beret, not even in the shower.

He totally hates the smell of my shampoo but does like my soap.

His testicles and hydra-penises are neatly shaved as are the genitals of all French men.]
Deep Tissue 69

An elderly lady in a hockey mask

carrying a running chainsaw

stormed into the restaurant.

Both shrieking and laughing hysterically,

she danced like Elaine from “Seinfeld”

in a hexagonal pattern around the buffet table,

waving the chainsaw at everyone.

She then shredded apart an unoccupied table and walked out of the restaurant calmly,

like nothing happened, chainsaw still running and all.

[Since we are in Florida,

no one seemed to notice

or be perturbed by her actions

because this sort of thing happens all the time.]

I observed a bisexual hippopotamus performing trapeze tricks on some of the palm trees outside.

Unfortunately, it fell and landed on top of a deranged Jehovah’s Witness

who was doing push-ups in the middle of the sidewalk.

It turned out that Jehovah’s Witness was Pierre’s cousin,

and Pierre completely flipped out,

twirling around his arms like the Tasmanian Devil,

cursing in a mixture of English and French,

and whirling food from the buffet at Floridians inside and outside the restaurant.

I started chucking food back at him, the Iranian started heaving food at me, a kindergarten teacher jumped out from

under a table and began picking up and throwing five year-olds at the Iranian, a pregnant woman began giving birth

to babies and firing newborns at the kindergarten teacher from a slingshot, Ivan burst out of the kitchen speaking in

tongues and threw a cat at the woman firing babies, the host ran in on his hands, flinging dishes at Ivan with his feet,

and suddenly Michael Jordan and Lebron James showed up out of nowhere hurling basketballs at everyone.
Deep Tissue 70

I’d had too much, so I crawled on my hands and knees out of the restaurant into the street.

I saw an “Action News at 11” reporter moonwalking over to his helicopter

and attempted to inform him of the melee.

He told me to get lost because a bald-headed, intoxicated Britney Spears

was just seen flying around the Lake Okeechobee mall in a jetpack,

attacking headless obese people with a cattle prod.

Obviously this was a more important story.

Besides, he said food fights like this happen all the time in Florida.

[I still gave the reporter a handjob anyway.]

Then I hopped on my moped and drove as fast as I could

to see the bald-headed Britney Spears

and maybe get her autograph

or at least borrow some toilet paper from her.

You can find more of Newamba’s work at:
Deep Tissue 71

By Suria Kassimi
Deep Tissue 72



she! she!


me? he... he... she...


she ... she ... she ... she ....




rock the smelly dark




husky bark




riding to the hounds


sulfuric wounds
Deep Tissue 73


freaking out


glory ends




burning disquiet

nourish and sherish

mirrored darling

love runs riot


being spooked






the umbilical cord


hold on tight


don’t let go
Deep Tissue 74

my little


can’t help but




Suria’s art is built around the idea that as an artist she is a witness to the reality of the culture in which
she lives. She depicts the actuality of what the eyes can see. As a “Realist,” she renders everyday
characters, situations, dilemmas, and objects, all in their verisimilitude and utilizes an expressive manner
so that real objects signify a cyclical rather than linear time frame.

You can find more of Suria’s work at:
Deep Tissue 75

A Love Affair
By Tarringo T. Vaughan

The Ghost Of Margaret Walker

Her brown skin glowed against the glass shadows
of the late spring sunset
reflected from history’s window
near the M-Z section
of a local Barnes & Noble. Her smile stood still
between shelves of literary motion.

I never saw her there before.

She had on dust covered shoes

that walked the deep Mississippi blues
and eyes that spoke in a slight southern dialect
with a slight tone of a Chicago gal.
Her dress was short enough
to touch the ground as it sparkled the residue
of 1942;

a time that the words ‘for her people’

were written as the victory
against oppression and yielded a temporary
depression /
releasing a new confidence in the beauty
of Black souls rising through the struggles
and gaining new aspirations
Deep Tissue 76

of hope and pride.

She was Margaret Walker standing there

poised as prose,
a daughter who thrived when the Renaissance
arose; a woman who achieved
despite the disadvantages from which
she was conceived.
Her hands echoed the life lines
of a literary legacy as she studied me
studying her. I wondered if she was real
but her voice proved she was there
amongst the geniuses of expression
perfectly priced by their influence.
And before that day I didn’t believe in
Ghosts; but her presence
was so finely crafted
in poetic antique that it was hard
not to feel her in that moment; not to see her
in the inspiration of children in all shades
of humanity

because I had her life in my hands

and I purchased her heart
by inheriting her translations of life.

Tarringo T. Vaughan always believed he had a love affair with literature. One of the first
pictures he saw of himself was of him at maybe the age of three or four year’s old sitting with a
book in his hand. But for Tarringo, growing up in the depths of the inner city both in Boston,
MA and Springfield, MA made him believe that expression through the literary voice was un-
cool and unattainable. As a very quiet and shy child he learned it became very valuable in his
self expression. Born in 1976, Tarringo was the first child, grandchild and nephew in a family
that had grown accustomed to struggle. His mother was a teenager who quickly lost the support
of my father who today he knows very little of. These aspects of his life triggered the inspiration
of his pen.

Later in life his struggle with self confidence and homosexuality catapulted his desire to write.
He felt a need to educate and help others in his situation through words. It became Tarringo’s
ambition to be somebody and in 1995 he entered his freshmen year at the University of
Massachusetts at Amherst where he was still a very quiet individual and still refused to make a
career involving literature. But his English courses continued to intrigue him the most and
through those courses he became familiar and connected with African American writers such as
James Baldwin and Langston Hughes who taught him that it was cool to be whom he was.
James Baldwin was also gay and proudly exhibited his sense of self and Langston Hughes was a
Deep Tissue 77

genius in poetry whose suave lyrical delivery drew Tarringo into his expression. And as his
education furthered he found himself opening up more and taking on the role of a leader socially.

Tarringo T. Vaughan graduated in 2000 from the University Of Massachusetts - Amherst with a
Bachelors degree in English and Communications as a 2nd major. Tarringo currently works in
the healthcare field but working on his first poetry book for publication titled “A Different Kind
Of Blues” and is the founder of the Flexwriters Creative Network
( which currently features an online magazine, a
social site and two writing groups. Future plans include a publishing company as well as actual
an actual café for writers and spoken word nights. My writing consists of many styles as I do
like neglecting rules and going beyond the norm.

You can find more of Tarringo’s work at:
Deep Tissue 78

Living in the Hill Country

By Kat Solomon

Incomplete poem
various shades of gray
illuminating ominous shadows
distorted memory
transcending lies
sensory overload
inaccurate perception
built upon distortion
fragmented promises
whispered on a temperamental night
denial front and center
previous experience trumping the current
broken individualism
constantly resurrecting
hope smothered by regret
a broken poem
built upon me

Kat Solomon has been exploring her poetic voice for over a year
now and is enjoying it. She also writes a weekly column called
Adventures of a Midwestern Jewish Woman Living in the Hill
Country for the Blanco County (Texas) News.

You can find more of Kat’s work at:
Deep Tissue 79

Ghosts of the Pawtucketville Night

By James Crafford


He was born John Michael Pollard the son of “Red” Pollard the jockey who rode the racehorse Seabiscuit
to glory. His mother was a nurse and Shirley Temple played her in the first Hollywood movie about that
story. I remember her as a classy elegant woman who challenged me with interesting questions when I
came to visit.

My father hung out and worked at the track near our home—Narragansett—and told me who Red was.
I would see him walking back from the track on occasion although I have no memories of talking to him
or hearing him talk. I have since read that he went into a long depression after the halcyon days of
Seabiscut’s fame and rarely talked to anyone.

His son, Michael, was about twelve when we became friends. I was about nine. The three years
between us was an extraordinary gulf. Mike was perched on the edge of teenage sexuality at a time
when I was deep into my innocent boyhood.

I was the oldest of four children but my mother confessed to having a miscarriage in her first year of
marriage and I always felt like I had a missing big brother (or sister) and that my elder position among
the siblings was somehow by default. I thought of Michael Pollard as that missing link. I looked up to
him. I admired him. I learned from him and I respected him.
Deep Tissue 80

He had a goodness and an integrity mixed with a natural machismo. He knew and hung with a couple of
tough guys from the neighborhood but he wasn’t any sort of hoodlum himself. I was his skinny little
friend with the loud laugh who had a sense of adventure while hanging out with the older kids. I was
very used to be the littlest and the youngest wherever I happened to be.

I have a vivid memory of one particular snowball fight that occurred behind our elementary school in
Pawtucket. There was a large hill of sand covered with snow and ice that Mike and I were on as we
attacked our foes, below and at the other end. I remember that the snowballs were infused with ice
and sometimes stones as we charged them with armfuls of ammunition, eventually routing them and
sending them to their homes. While following him that day, I felt like I could have held off Santa Ana at
the Alamo or the Persians at Thermopylae.

In the coming years, as I acquired a taste for books, literature and art and went to college determined to
excel in my studies, I saw my friendship with Michael Pollard take a sad turn. I was a half million times
smarter and more sophisticated in the brainpower than him. He became a truck driver and soon
thereafter a druggie and alcoholic who as in and out of rehab for many years.

When his father’s fame became a part of the cultural landscape again with yet another version of
SEABISCUIT on the big screen, Mike deplored it. He had nothing to say about it, reminded people that
he was not close to his father and that his father hardly ever even mentioned those days.

I had more than one opportunity to re-meet him while he was in rehab during his final years on this
earth. I couldn’t do it.

My memories of him as a childhood hero were too pure to be diluted with the harsh reality of drug
addiction and a recovery that was not meant to be. I declined to see him.

Sometimes I regret this but most of the time I am glad I do not have those images to compare to the
ones I have of him leading the charge in Potter’s playground circa 1957.
Deep Tissue 81

James Crafford is a writer, actor, photographer who often blogs on MySpace. His award-winning indie
movie CHEPACHET is available at Netflix, Amazon and other internet venues. He lives upstate New York
with his wife Linda and their rottie, Tyson.

You can find more of Jim’s work at:
Deep Tissue 82


By Lee Kwo


“Excess thought is the antithesis of rational meaning and protects us from the horror of
reason/ What matters is not the enunciation of the word but the word “/ Georges

“If they knew they were thinking about nothing they would go mad…”/ Henry Miller/
Deep Tissue 83

Thought finds itself in the irrationality of meaning the solitude of literature/

Thought is a task for the poor in spirit/those who believe there is a sky above them/that
the world is round and that the sun echoes the stars/life is soon enough forgotten a
wretched revenge on the sad beings who make no effort and even dreaming eludes
them/They lack imagination and resort to recounting what they apprehend as the real
limited by the senses/When I am alone with others I do not think/I think only when
forced by the random moments on the page full of complexity and the paradox of
memory forgotten the empty voice the stringless Cello/the compulsion to be obsessive
in my personal hygiene deserts me and I have become a filthy wretch/the major
examination to prepare for on the subject of the Desire to know neither consents nor
refuses the space and time of understanding/Anonymity is the displacement of a
thought fallen outside of the mind of the other who no longer recognizes me dying
ceaselessly the words to which I must submit myself as I talk myself into

consciousness/all salaried work leads me to the thought/it is better to leave thought

alone out of the closeness of distance that is to say to making up my mind to delete
myself which is the same thing/There are few different ways of thinking such as the
heaviness of death lies in its inability to be understood or to communicate its methods
or motives/Life bleeds into the lacerations of writing creating the illusions of truth and
drama/to think is to reflect on death and arrive at a inconclusive decision/Otherwise I
sleep/I call thought disaster which does not have the ultimate for a limit/I excessively
think as I approach the night without sleep again and again/I do not know that I do not
know but merely think so/Praise be to sleep which inspires writing in search for absent
meaning in the obscurity of the margins the interim the intervals of thought/not only
the magnificent mystery of each night that endures everything including the
destruction of this day and tomorrow but also to its unpredictable torpor of thought

which is always more real than what it speaks about/My companions of sleep the rusty
door hinge the cracked pane of glass the empty bottle the dust of 3am the crushing
sheets which squeeze the life out of me/it is in yr company that I imagine a satisfactory
existence/We sleep behind the throb of technology of astrological movements the
volatile bodies in the upstairs of restless immobility/we sleep before the smoking
cities/in the blood of poets/above the Desert of Nagazaki/we sleep in the stomachs of
our women on the nipples of our mothers under the skirts of our Priests/we sleep in the
pursuit of Information that takes a circuitous pathway thru the dark forest of the
Deep Tissue 84

Equinox/the insomnia of dreams is exposed with percussive stillness/I shall be serious

as serious as sensuality as serious as a slashed throat/ Undesirable nocturnal intensity
the night begins without darkness/There are only sinister reasons for living but there
are no oppressive reasons for dying either/There are only irrational promises and
divergent possibilities of a life not to come having already become and left its key in the

door/The only means which is granted us to express our contempt for life is to avoid
it/to go into hiding/to keep to the mountain tops and the depths of the sea the vastness
of the Steppes/Avoid the closed window the speeding car the locked door the artificial
light which extends the day/Life is not worth the trouble of departing from its
suffering/Despair indifference betrayals lovers faithfulness solitude family liberty debt
weariness money poverty love honesty mediocrity intelligence none of these things are
worth a thought/it is not thought that the catastrophe causes to disappear but questions
and problems/ Isn’t it this revolver/this rope/this opium/this knife/these drugs this
revolver again the most efficient with which we shall do away with ourselves tonight if
we have half a mind/that postures and pretends with its loaded insolence which
liberates us and removes any possibility of suffering thru another night/I am
comfortable in the presence of nothing at all the place of being hollowed out by fatigue

of constant brilliance and divinity/I have no threats to utter no morality to defend no

catastrophe to avoid I am all death/I remain largely unexploited as a nomadic
potential/The paranoid man mistrusts his phallus which tells him severely that he has
lost his virility/the vertical trajectory geometrically speaking is now barely
horizontal/Again not so much can you trust yr imagination but can you trust what it
reveals of the self at its extremity its murderous liability to extend itself beyond the
fantasy/of coldness and cruelty/can an ear be less than open or closed and could it be
filled with noise to the point of being unable to hear/I go beyond I shift I do not know I
am no longer passing the time but a passing of time/I move from the fantasy to the
delirium to the delusion/Nothing stops but rests in the temporary autonomous zone of
occupation/Avoid the symbolic at all costs the symptom of the psychic wound that
never heals/the waste of the foreskin cut off the phallus is our memory of castration/re-
sensitize thought to have it throb more than reason to outstrip the pace of logic/As

usual it is 3am and after three nights of stifling humidity a storm has blown in from the
West filling the horizon with black bruise of jagged swollen clouds heavy and
oppressive flushed and stretching across the Unknown City with white and grey claws
Deep Tissue 85

/there is a stillness that distracts before the first flash of lightening which illuminates the
row of cypress trees black now a rancour of deep green as gust of wind driven by
thunder unloads torrential downpour/The bricks give off their suction of heat and turn
from red to a deeper cadmium an unconsciousness stone damp sleep of uncertainty/The
weight of this rush of moisture flattens bougainvillea and jasmine tendrils edging up
the slate wall that encompasses the garden whipping the foliage into aerial acrobatics
storm raining down its desolation the air chills and I open out the windows of the
Apartment a rush of cool air fills the room/the smell of heat recedes/the dust is
pressured into submission/the streets below are flooded and the Tram of strangers

sluices water from the shiny tracks the sound of rubber tyres aquaplane thru the
deluge/I turn out the lights and take pleasure in the flashes of light that outline the
furniture in my room a objective physiology of rare electrified shapes and forms that
fascinates the eye but remains indescribable/in the end all roads lead to the extremities
of the Universe which ever we choose/I am forced to think vicariously as I rarely leave
my room/a certain fascination with necrophilia in the pursuit of the body of
knowledge/permanently attached to my inevitable desk a consciousness of being
conscious/of reassurance that I exist is demonstrated in the consumption of everyday
necessities/I empty my packet of cigarettes/There is no coffee to grind/the bread has a
purple green mould growing on its crusts/ there is no more mineral water/the milk has
curdled in the heat/All these observations bring with them an awareness of the
definitive “to be” as in I am this thought that needs an extensive support network that

attaches me to the social that I find so absurd and it is the boredom of co habituating
with this anonymous throng that keeps me alive out of pure conceit in my superiority/
to exhume the residue of traces of my life imprinted on the imagination/What directs
my thoughts to where they end?/the muted felt of a piano key a door slams on what
intent the silence of an anonymous noise dissipating/I think of how to eliminate
memories of my past selves of the things I seek to forget the humiliations the failure the
inevitable loss of many objects I might have loved or desired to love/How I miss yr
voice C /I want to hear you speak before the end passes but I know you will remain
inaccessible at least in the manner I would want you to approach my desires/hidden
speculations of perverse sexual travesties we shared are no longer as memories enough
to satisfy my urgency for sensation/ hoping to arrive at a conclusion of passion like that
expressed on the deserted beach where we walked overwhelmed by the mystery of
Deep Tissue 86

love/as if we might self combust elope into another dimension or Galaxy/touching

hands in public risking both our lives with all their comforts and stability/there is more
pain in not reasserting that closeness than you can imagine/and even if you could sense
my anguish it might be out of pity that you respond to my desires/and to see thru this
gesture would be more than I could bear/So leave me with my imagining/this conscious
pursuit of thought is ineffectual and notoriously equivocal/but without difficulty I find
these existential provocations that escape my conscious thought that deviant longing to
understand with determinism/I find these enigmas in sleep in the exotic lethal
companions of my unconscious dreams/Thought is the place of the obsessed the
impulsive the one who lacks imagination the space of erasure and speculation of
addition and subtraction of the alter ego/the one who insists on being noticed speaks of
his knowledge with surreptitious abandon/he attempts to pass the limits of his

ignorance by repetition and insistence/the unfortunate writer is not thinking about his
text as much as he is thinking about himself/His words remind him of yrs and in this he
thinks he has his finger on the pulse of humanity the psychology of the subject the
psycho pathology of the hidden secrets of the other/In this he sounds like everybody
else and his work lacks heterogeneity/For the self is not unique but ubiquitous and
overruns the planet like vermin/The mind with its spherical borders of repetition is
unbearable in its banality/the intrusion of meaning/ Vertigo is the natural habitat of the
thinker/The divine is the territory of the dreamer the one who easily slips into the state
of fugue/ reverie/the reluctant inner embodiment of the eloquent vision/The sign the
signifying signifier the realm of semiotics what intoxication/ such delusion/it is
probable that one can deceive the self without much effort/Memory is easily forgotten
and the recall of speech turned into the counterfeit of persistence in denying the
convulsion of being revealed as a liar/A rare pleasure of agony born with the utterance
of every word which must compound the resonance of such dead places/We must stick

to the story the body of evidence will not be buried trust has been excised and suspicion
aroused/Why are you telling me these ephemeral truths?/extracted from despised
substances of abuse/For this reason I have changed my name so as to throw the hounds
off the sense of scent/How our urine stinks/The DogMan hunts the scent of the ambition
and vanity with which the subject is diseased a surrogate of unreason and
irrationality/all the more fascinating for it/The genius is the echo of the disposed of
divine and worshipped accordingly under the mistaken belief that therein lies eternal
Deep Tissue 87

life/The subject is afraid to speak unless it is of himself/ He wants to display his

penetrating eyes his internal gaze but only reveals his irreverence fear and shame at
being so transparent and mediocre/He struggles to make us feel what he feels with
symphonic hysteria/But the syntax is faulty and the metaphors indignant with self
pleasure /He has failed to make his abstractions indelible and his intuition is dead and
enclosed in solipsism/Impatience can define symbols under pressure of the ugly
business of learning from the other who we resentfully admit knows as much as we
do/The frustrated ambition to fail to recognize that the world is meaningless/This is the

source of our neuralgia our cancers and tumours our agoraphobia/The solitude of
thinking only ourselves gives us the impression that we float in a clear blue sky in the
celestrial gap between heaven and earth/other wise with the help of drugs I sleep a
desperate insomnia/a wakefulness that is not unlike a coma in which I can hear but not
move or speak/The deserted streets in which he sacrifices himself to the dark shadows
of the derelict incarnation of his own selves his SKz manifests he sweats his legs
collapse under the weight of his shuffling bodily fluids/What cant be explained or
understood must be forgotten to leave more neural space for invisible objects of
conjecture/This subject is always avoiding infinity but dreams of eternal
life/Information oppresses fails to liberate sets free but fails also to instruct/it is dark in
here without shadow and you will never see what lies above you/it becomes too
complicated and I don’t know how to explain its qualitative limit as an horizon under
scrupulous concentration of the instinct to define its temporality or spatial
dimensions/it is compressed by my insolence/Life is dying no matter how short it is/this
absurd nothing replete none the less with planning and appointments as if there were a

surfeit of tomorrows to look forward to or to regret/In the Equinox Forest the wind
gains momentum and black rain pours from the sky/Veydra hesitates at this break in
consciousness fascinated by the lacerated forms of the steel sheets of foliage/Dying is
life no matter how long it takes it arrives and you will always be caught unawares/ you
must dream yr death with moderate ambition/She thought about such impossible
things aroused by the Forest of rusting perfection of the night come to an end in the
coldness of men’s hands clasping her breasts with contempt and indifference to their
uterine origins/This is their resentment and they wish to maul and tear the breasts as
does the whole of the abscess of man/Obscene with the dead remnants of mutilated
Deep Tissue 88

vision of nourishment and sexuality/They drown in the eventual surrounding error

thoughts adept at handling the paradox of infidelity/Their proclivity for self deception
was infinite and deterministic/ drives against instincts/Extreme situations of
disinterested fascination with the contradiction of intension at the point of initial
seduction/To extract and live out what illusions?/I know everything he is going to tell
you/I have heard it all before/He will insist that only his point of view is the right one
and the rest of us are deluded by the primal scene with its catastrophic automatic
neural reactions/Set deep in the cortex the body and the mind are showing signs of

wear the short term memory is unreliable and often constructs its own state of
recall/Recall adapted to the present/Insertions of the intervals of the NOW/This is its
phallic inheritance/any false image rather than failure to perform the act of recall/what
did the myth of the Oedipal translate the innocence of violence into?/there was nothing
else at the time to account for the objects of sadistic thoughts/they had to be externalised
for the damage they did to the interior the guilt the self perverse aesthetics of lust
unsatisfied poisons the flesh/Or so it seems perhaps not without a doubt/Life is the
proscribed object of desire the iconography of the cult of the immaculate masculine fear

of impotence drives him to any length of pain or pornography to effect an

orgasm/visibly interrupted in the glare of the bloodshot eyes/Love demands such a
departure from the norm/To be alone is to arouse suspicion/To be alone is to express the
anguish of the misanthrope who distrusts the motives of the herd/How to negate
phallic virtue?/this anatomical protrusion will not sacrifice its tumescence for the sake
of a misplaced morality based on experimental conclusions of thought/Death as an
unbearable personal vision that haunts the night and subverts the repressive narrative
of the day with its descending curvatures of light and shadow/Obscured elevated body

full of insolence towards the understanding that to speak is to reveal more than enough
of the probability of frightening material dimensions apart from cut off from the
dream/Drugs manifest our dreams but disrupt our sleep arouse our understanding that
it is loves margins that are worth seeking out/Death can only be presumed even at the
last minute it is as alive as the dream which life forgets as the suns arises with its
intolerant rays of light particles irritating the eyes/What has happened to the impulse to
have faith?/Faith is a reckless abandon to a presumption that we will be released from
our inability to survive to act to take control to admit that yr life is nothing but an
Deep Tissue 89

epilogue to the future which will never arrive intact but is fragmented by the imperfect
work of living/It is in the nature of the signifier to signify despite the cold nature of the
language it is forced to function in/

So let us renounce all faith and beliefs in consequences and ambitions and any hope of
influencing others other than ourselves/Let us be disappointed and anxious and full of
dread for these are our birth signs the keys to our nervous system/To write oneself out
of the prison of self doubt/the geometry of the abyss where we have already seen what
we have to see/Let us pick up our trail and avoid our vanities and routines our agony

and sense of disrepute/Let us be the King and Queen of indulgence in reckless

welcoming of the black Sun of self induced madness and abjection that anagram of
negative physics the other side of the void what you call anti matter/Take our drugs
bear our infirmities as they grow each day more insidious and wearing/Let the words
go where they will let them hollow us out let them bury us/it is not our place to align
them with a biography of ideas and situations that amount to an authentic event called
a literary life but we live a relatively hidden life and much of it will go unspoken of/an
anonymous life ignored by ethnography/ this never happened while I lived and she

never existed except under the weight of heavy eyes of insolence/I to am weary of
everything including understanding/I search for the improbable by way of the pointless
the useless the lack of a destiny is my real fate and the thing that is deep inside me
which I avoid all night long the voice in my heads a gust of wind thru a dead interior of
corpses escapulated from the indignant demand for the fearsome laziness of relief
behind lowered blinds and windows nailed shut with paranoia/Calls out what is
always written is worth nothing/Less than a bad memory retains of its didactic
futility/And this is a great relief to finally have no expectations other than to think and
dream when the thought fails and the dream is mostly forgotten the residue is this life a
vague sensation that there was something yesterday and nothing different today and

more of the same tomorrow/ Exhuming the Interior Monologue only stirs up the
anxiety and sense of being chained to words that speak of brutality and horror/this
cannot and must not be avoided/we are not here to please or be pleased/I am detached
from everything except my body and its pain I am detached from myself except for my
pain the thought feels no pain but pains the body in its constant contempt of thinking/I
am thinking of life the scattered remnants of better times and worse times and this
Deep Tissue 90

transfers to my nervous system which aches with the understanding that I thought I
believed in art as some believe in god and this is what I cannot accept this is the bad
memory I refuse to recall knowing this all the time obsessed with the word as if one
word could answer/And can a sense of hopelessness and hope coexist in the same
moment?/All philosophers mess with the shit of their words compounding a sense of

the senseless/The Academic stinks and it is with this stench that it marks out its
territory/I have thought for an eternity and at the end expected to be rid of dread to
have understood and relieved my self of the hope of being able to accept not finding a
conclusion other than laughter or tears/some searing emotion of recognition that would
relieve me of the need to have theories about life to stop me from continuing with this
obsession to know when I already knew/ have lost knowledge not gained it/I have
confused my mind not clarified it/I have read comic books under the guise of novels
and works of fiction purporting to be metaphysical or worse still to claim to be able to
exorcise the metaphysical to replace the divine with what?/nothing/the world can never
be for us anything other than what it is and this borders on the unbearable/I understand

this paradox even if I don’t accept it/For those who think there seems an endless cycle of
living our near dead sensibility/But we must awaken it and put it too work as if we are
writing machines transfiguring the voice from the dream to the awakening/I will
always be in verse and prose a labourer and a working class intellect for these were my
formative years and these experiences gave me the bitterness and anger that goes with
living at the bottom of the food chain/I was born in convulsions and I still lack any
peace of mind/I hoard my penury as if it were a special gift or talent/There is glamour
in this depression and mania that I am burdened with for it gives me my edge and my
vision/I see thru the transparency of the cleverness of the written language in its
manipulation of ideas and words which claim the right not to have to come to any

conclusions but remain open in their ignorance/ Their fear of a resolution which would
put an end to the industry of their production/The existence of the intellect is one thing
but the use and reason for that intellect is another issue/The intellect has all the
dangerous attributes of the atomic bomb and can do as much damage if not more/I am a
child playing at what others will see as a serious game/There must be a reason for
words/they demand/there cannot simply be a flow of codes which are as pleasant as a
good fuk/People should read the way they fuk some with their eyes closed others
thinking of a lover some with a video camera documenting the action some with cruelty
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and violence/some to relieve the boredom of the day to fall asleep with that gross
human emotion of satisfaction/We are faced with the very impossibility of
communication and will be confronted with the need to communicate that information
in a language I no longer believe in/sounds dis-articulated in an absurd nasal
manner/All is rhetoric and opinion/A man with time on his hands is a dangerous
weapon/A bored writer is a natural born criminal if not a killer with out
conscience/What a sense of restlessness and uncertainty/nothing is more distracting

than the attention of others/always wanting to know why and what?/sceptical to the
point of forgetting the pathway out of the Forest or failing to trust the path that he is on
and where it might lead if anywhere/Fails to control his emotions or his feelings/His
prose is the detritus of his poems his poems the exaggeration of his thoughts/Feeling
everything he aspired to not in the body which becomes fatigued but in the mind of the
imagination never realising the dream but continuously extending its expectations/For
the end of the dream always leaves the dreamer disappointed as does the orgasm//to
live and to dream and to have faith in the dream is to make no distinction between the
two states of two different conditions of labour/To wait anxiously for sleep to pursue
the dream and hence to live again the ongoing state of being in a state of fundamental
cohesion/To maintain the disparate fragments of his aristocratic legend which only his
most intimate acquaintance recognised/ Attend to yr legend for this is all you have that
remains beyond the closure of death/what jagged inconsistencies inhabit the mind with
it synaptic implosions/These confessions are in fact the clarified recognitions of the
absurdity of thought/The return of something once known but long since repressed
appears/The intellect and madness of the corpse lingers in the imagination long after
internment/There is no tomb labyrinthine enough to incarcerate the melting fluids of
the body which leak into the outbreaks of passion of specific moments of self
abuse/Sinister in its expectations of posthumous obedience/we cannot leave life before it
ends can we?/We must write our way thru what remains no matter how miserable and
weary it seems/

“And anything that falls short of this frightening spectacle that is …less intoxicating less
mad/less contaminating is not art/The rest is counterfeit/The rest is human/The rest
belongs to life and lifelessness”/ [Henry Miller TC P 256]

You can find more of Lee’s work at:
Deep Tissue 92

A Pentacle for Blue Boy

By Glen Lantz

Chapter Three

Quick and Painless

Lucy tells me that she forgot to tell me a small detail about the kidnapping. She said that Blue

Boy wrote something in his blood. He used his finger to scrawl a word into the pool of blood on the

floor. “What did he write,” I ask? “I don’t know,” Lucy says, “I couldn’t make out the word.”

Later, I turn on the television and Stephanie Powers the President of the Blue Boy Cain Fan Club

is on network television. I walk over to a desk and write her name down on a piece of paper with a note

to interview her for the book. She’s on the television asking all of Blue Boy’s fans around the world to

pray that he is returned safely. I snicker at the thought of a bunch of brain dead idiots on their knees

praying for Blue Boy. Lucy asks me what is so funny. I tell her that he is probably dead by now. “It has

almost been 48 hours since he was kidnapped. If they don’t find the victim within 48 hours, the odds are

likely that the victim is dead.” She tells me that she doesn’t want to think about that.
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The president of Blue Boy’s fan club says on the television, “His captors will be hunted down and

beaten within inches of their lives if a single hair on his head is harmed. If anyone knows who has taken

Blue Boy and where he is, post the information on Blue Boy’s official website. We must unite together to

be strong in this dark, dark hour.” I laugh once more and shut the television off.

The next day Tantalus Omnibus holds a press conference denying everything. I stay at home and

record the press conference off of the television news coverage. Kilgore goes to the press conference in

my place instead. Tantalus Omnibus is the leader of Arcanum Magnum. He is dressed in a blue suit and

has on black loafers and a gold Rolex watch. He walks up to the bank of microphones and flashes a

million dollar smile as the cameras roll and photographers snap pictures. He tells the group of reporters

that Arcanum Magnum is an international organization that is dedicated to bringing peace to the world.

He states that Arcanum Magnum is not involved in any way, shape, or form, with the kidnapping of Blue

Boy Cain or any of the other celebrities who have recently been kidnapped. After he had finished

reading his prepared speech, he thanked everyone for coming and abruptly left.

After several days have passed and there is no request for a ransom, the law officials begin to

fear that maybe the kidnappers have killed Blue Boy and dumped his body somewhere in a field or

maybe the woods. Agent Kirkland announces that search parties are being organized in order to search

wooded areas, fields, and abandoned buildings in the surrounding areas. He asks people to volunteer to

help search for Blue Boy. Thousands of people come out to help search for Blue Boy. They search for

several days and they find nothing.

Lucy and I meet Bobby Slade for lunch. Bobby Slade was dressed in a baby blue running suit with

a matching ball cap and a huge gold cross around his neck. He looks like a very serious and intense

person. Bobby gives Lucy a kiss on her check and tells her he is happy to see her. He tells us that he is a

born again Christian. His words sort of burst out of him rapidly like a machinegun. He looks like he has
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been waiting for a long time to share this message with somebody. He tells us that he has thrown away

his sinful nature of the past and replaced it with a more Godly nature.

I shake Bobby’s hand and tell him I am happy to meet him. I tell him that I’m interested in

writing a book about Blue Boy Cain. When I mention Blue Boy’s name, Bobby’s eyes light up. I tell Bobby

that I would like to get a different perspective on Blue Boy and that is why I wanted to talk with him.

Bobby laughs and then sits back quietly thinking. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out. I

nervously drink my water and wait for him to say something.

“There was something strange about Blue Boy,” he finally says, “there was something not right

about him.” “Blue Boy is a no talent so-and-so. He can’t sing and he can’t act. If it wasn’t for his

mommy’s money, no one would know who Blue Boy is. He said it made him sick how much attention

Blue Boy got. He said that it never failed that Blue Boy would do some stupid little thing and the whole

world got excited. I think his exact words were “everybody would piss their pants.” He said it was like

the world depended on every little move that he made. Bobby didn’t see why everyone thought Blue

Boy was so hot. He said that there was nothing special about him. He was just a punk that was riding his

15 minute wave of fame. The hand of the Lord works in mysterious ways.

When the food came, he made us bow our heads in prayer, as he blessed the meal. As I eat my

pasta and chicken, Bobby tells us about how he has turned his life around, that he now has his priorities

in their proper order. He said that God was now first in his life. Before being born again, he only lived to

satisfy the desires of the flesh. Now his desires are to only serve God.

We talk about Blue Boy some more and then I ask him if he knows anything about Arcanum

Magnum. He says that he doesn’t really know much about them, but that the Reverend Brown from the

Church of the Redeemed Angels does. Bobby says that he will set up a meeting with me and the

reverend sometime next week. He said that the Reverend is a very busy man, but he will convince him
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to take time to talk to me. “The Reverend is busy saving souls, very important work.” Bobby tells me

that he likes me and wants to help me out. He also said that he would pray for me and Lucy. We both

thank him and then leave.

After meeting with Bobby Slade, Lucy and I meet Kilgore at a bar downtown. The bar is one of

Kilgore’s favorites, an Irish pub. The three of us sit at a table in the back of the pub. I ask Kilgore if has

learned anything new about Blue Boy. He smiles at Lucy and tells us that he has been a busy beaver. He

completed four interviews with people who were close to Blue Boy. He said that he had interviewed

Blue Boy’s mother, agent, girlfriend, and a high school class mate.

I tell Kilgore that Lucy saw Blue Boy write something in the pool of blood on the floor of the

bank. “No shit,” responds Kilgore. “What did he write?” “She doesn’t know,” I respond. “I will have to

ask some of my friends on the police force what Blue Boy wrote in his blood,” says Kilgore.

Kilgore says that he doubts there will ever be anybody like Blue Boy ever again. He said that for

many people, Blue Boy had attained celebrity status without any discernible talent, education, scruples,

manners, or modesty. “But, after interviewing these people, I have come to realize what an

extraordinary person he was.” I look at Kilgore for any signs that he is bullshitting us, but he looks

sincere. “He was basically an expert showman and salesman. The product that he sold was himself, his

image of celebrity and success. I think all that talk about him being stupid was just a con job. With the

help of a plastic surgeon, a hair stylist, tinted contact lenses, and a high dollar publicist, he turned

himself into a prince. More importantly, he had crafted himself into a product that was marketable,

something that could be sold and the people bought it. He was a consummate salesman.”

“Blue Boy’s lifestyle of moneyed entitlement was his most defining characteristic. His job was to

party and then market the publicity from his drunken acts of stupidity. The socialite bad boy was

constantly getting in trouble with the law. Tales of his exploits stoked the world’s insatiable appetite for
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celebrity gossip. People couldn’t wait to hear the latest gossip. They wanted to know what he was doing

and who he has doing it with. It seemed like everyone was his fan; it seemed that the whole world loved

him. People wanted more and more of what he had to offer.

Kilgore tells us that he first interviewed Blue Boy’s mom. She is kind of a strange old bird. For an

old lady, she still has retained some of her former beauty though. I bet she can still turn the old guys’

heads. Blue Boy’s mother said the kidnapping happened so fast that she didn’t know what to do; how to

respond to the situation. She said there is nothing in life that prepares a person for such a thing. “There

was this great emptiness that weighs down on me like a heavy stone. The greatest fear was not knowing

if he is ok or not. I worry constantly about his safety and wellbeing. Every day it burns a little hole in my

heart deeper and deeper. I am constantly wondering if he is eating right, is he sleeping, is he being

treated well. I try to push from my mind any bad thoughts. I can’t live with any bad thoughts.”

Blue Boy’s mother said that as a child, he was always attracted to the media. She remembers

him sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper. She said that he would read the whole paper from

the front page to the back page. He also religiously watched the evening news. She said that he always

wanted to know what was going on in the world around him. She remembers him making a game out of

knowing the names of famous people. She said that he would quiz her about famous people all of the

time. She said that she didn’t know half the people he would ask her about. Knowing famous people was

very important to him.

She said that people would ask him all of the time if he always wanted to be famous. His answer

was always a resounding yes. As a young boy, he told his mother that he would be famous some day. He

said that the stars revealed that he would be famous some day. She said that he had learned to alter his

consciousness. Through the power of his mind, he was able to penetrate the secrets if nature. He made

good on his promise. He was one of the most famous people in the whole world.
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His mother said that Blue Boy was a strong willed child. She told him to discover his one true

will, be it for good or evil. His mother told him to find his one true purpose in life and pursue it to the

fullest. She instructed him to discover the path of action that is consistent with his nature. Know

yourself and be true to yourself is the whole of the law. She always told him to aim high. If he wanted to

be successful in this life, he had to set his goals high. He had to picture where he wanted to be in life.

The key is to envision what the goal is and then make it happen.

Blue Boy’s mother said that he trained his subconscious mind to believe that which he wanted it

to believe. With continual repetitive positive affirmations, he engaged in a self-induced form of

brainwashing. He would visualize that which he wanted to take place and it would happen. She said that

Blue Boy was always a very willful child and as he grew older his will to succeed and accomplish things

only grew stronger. Blue Boy had learned to replace the ordinary view of the world with a pure vision.

He had learned to redirect the energy of his desire.

It is through the sharing of oneself with others that a person reaches the highest pinnacle of

success. The person of success is someone who not afraid to reveal his or her feelings, thoughts, and

emotions with others. She said that to perform your will on the three levels is the secret of the universe.

Your one true will determines your course in life. The true will does not rest until its desire is created.

Failure comes from ignorance of one’s true will. Your true will should spring forth from your soul like a

fountain of flame.

Blue Boy’s agent, Marty Greenbelt said that he was a wonderful, nice, and intelligent boy.

However, just about everything he said was banal or very mediocre. Marty said that Blue Boy really

didn’t have anything very profound to say. It’s not like he was going to amaze anyone with his mental

prowess. He was the stereotypical stupid rich kid that lives a life of debauchery and decadence. The

more that he can flaunt his privilege before your face, the happier he was. He was the kid let loose in
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the candy store. Blue Boy was reaching for everything he put his eyes on. There was no control to his


He focused his attention on his on his public persona. He knew how to seduce others into giving

him their attention. When he looked at the world, he only saw himself. His desire was to be cherished

and respected. Wherever he went, people loved him. He basked in the glow of the limelight. There was

nothing that he didn’t want. He wanted everything. If he had an impulse, he satisfied it. He was

concerned with gratifying his every impulse.

All that was important to him was the satisfaction of his immediate needs. He enjoyed the

rewards in life that money brings. He said that it was unnecessary to apologize for satisfying our needs.

He enjoyed sex without associating it with some kind of symbolic meaning. He said that sex was simply

two animals doing what animals do. There was nothing romantic or life affirming about the act.

Marty, Blue Boy’s agent said that Blue Boy didn’t understand why some of the things he did was

offensive to people. He was the poster child for what a lot of people think is wrong with Hollywood. He

did everything to excess; there was no middle ground for him. Marty suggested that Blue Boy needed to

find more balance in his life. He needed to develop his greater human potential. Marty said that

basically Blue Boy’s life was just a sham; he was not doing anything productive; nothing that had any

lasting value. This fact about his life bothered Blue Boy. He wanted his life to have more meaning to it.

Marty articulated that in this world, it is important to be authentic. Blue Boy worked hard at

being authentic. It is important to have a connection to the past. The past is what provides the artist

with their pedigree, with their seal of authenticity. You have to see that their ideas come from a

historical background. They stand upon the shoulders of those who came before them. That is exactly

what Blue Boy did, he stood on the shoulders of his mother’s past. If you don’t have that connection,
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then you won’t seem authentic. The people will be able to tell the difference. Without authenticity, you

just appear fake and unreal.

Kilgore also interviewed Blue Boy’s girlfriend Lisa Andrews. She said that when they first met, it

was one of those magical scenes like you see in the movies. They were with a mutual friend sitting at a

café drinking coffee. He had told a joke about the president and she remembers dancing in their shared

laughter. He seemed to be the spark of life that animated their conversations. She said this was true of

all their conversations. She knew that she was mesmerized by him from the beginning. She was like a

moth caught in his flame. Life seemed more rich and complete when she was around him. She realizes

that it was charisma that he had. There was just something special about him. Everyone around him

could recognize it.

Lisa said that many people are attracted to the rich and famous; this is a well known fact.

However, many people differ in their reaction to the display of his eccentric behavior. She said that

sometimes he could appear to be a little strange to others. Some people were fascinated by his antics

and others were disgusted. Many people in general, were enthralled by every little detail of his

outrageous and extravagant lifestyle.

Glen Lantz is the editor in chief of Deep Tissue Magazine. He has several pieces of work published in
many small online journals. Glen spends most of his time reading, writing, and painting.
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