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Deep Tissue Magazine
Issue #5, June, 2010
A deep piercing cut production
Cover Model is 42 http://www.myspace.com/sexybitchiswatchingyou In this issue: Jimmy Ray Davis Dan Kellett David McLean Kat Solomon Lee Kwo A.D. Hitchin Jack Henry Amy Wood Evil Dick Babs Martin Glen Still Chris Stravener Newamba Rose Morales Mystic Lady James Crafford Suria Kassimi Michael Grover Tarringo T. Vaughan
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
Deep Tissue 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
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
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 and thoughts do not gain favor it is but for the fucking we continue -
outside (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 -
is that voice your own
we sit in circles jerking await a final bang a conclusion an explosion of obvious expectations ..is 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 grip a last nervous hair on a dangling sack suddenly I wonder... ...is 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 ...is that voice
Deep Tissue 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 ...is that voice your own? i don't have to pretend to know ...is that voice your own? i don't have to guess in response ...is that voice your own? shut up stop talking quit stealing my breath mimicry is often mockery at least from where my grave sits
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 and 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
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
Deep Tissue no cock for your cunt fuck you
i must pause perhaps slow perhaps dream 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
Deep Tissue c'mon anything? anything at all? something to move forward? something to carry on?
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
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 (www.neopoiesispress.com). A second book of words, "Crunked," should be available sometime in 2010 from Epic Rites Press. (www.epicrites.org) He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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. DAMP TISUE ANGEL Contents On/Off Lizard Men Duct Tape Freefall Digital Death Killer Art Murder Colonels Attack on Neo-Matriarchal apocalyptic sex-cult Damp Tissue Angel Lazarus Rising Womb-Man Madame Lithium Pink Underground Planet Abandoned Warehouse Permutation: Control A Greener Exit
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 I murder witnesses perhaps pink crucifix? vault underground scriptures read high literature plates nuclear proof iron gates locked perhaps you appreciate?
drain vixen vipers power power and magick 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
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: http://www.myspace.com/antonyhitchin
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
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 mine
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 alive)
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
Deep Tissue 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
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 http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. The latest full length laughing at funerals is available via Small Press Distribution http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/9780981184456/laughing-at-funerals.aspx?rf=1
Living in the Underground
By Glen Still
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
Deep Tissue 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: http://blogs.myspace.com/glencstill
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 happy
Deep Tissue a long time ago in climatic sex & alcohol. fuelled, fucked-up, fascinated a deeper life unseperated
I am animal ANIMAL the shame serves to make me grow the shame is a two edged Sword the body fucks:
and God‟s divine fingers meddle with your head God‟s divine fingers openly declare your living death in waking life
and this is my shame
understand. Only this.
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
Deep Tissue 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 Investigating Why I waved a torn white flag And disappeared with half the swag
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 poems".
By Babs Martin
You can find more of Babs work at: http://www.myspace.com/babsmartin
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.
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
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 Orleans.
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.
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 TRUTH
I dig destination nowhere underground side of storefront society on abused alloy grounded to positive earth
I meet my mates at beat-up pub
Deep Tissue imbibe honey elixir’s fuzzy illusions of immortality Whoop and holler shot shakes off the cold Silent shot for fallen brothers
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 http://www.myspace.com/babsmartin Poetry Cards available on Cartfly! https://babsmartin.cartfly.com/babsmartin Buy the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry http://www.amazon.com/Outlaw-Bible-American-Poetry/dp/1560252278
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.
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 smashed.
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
Deep Tissue 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 him.
Deep Tissue 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
Deep Tissue 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
Deep Tissue can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the overwhelming feeling of guilt that they always try to sap from you.
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.
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: http://www.myspace.com/poetxl
By Dan Kellett
i am in the incision i must still be in this skin somewhere i still feel that plundering back sprung rage 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
keeping me down round the drip of my own slime in the lurch and defused but 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
that i rip from the shallows of these days till the last click echoes 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 alive 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 steadfastly towards breaking their own backs
You can find more of Dan’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/dk_d
By Mark P. Paleologo AKA Evil Dick
i was so young then hell 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
in waves upon my shore the tenderness the tiny voice 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 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 small tossed in the breath of spring exit ramp blue and white pubescent display
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
motivation and media the buzz the dross the drone bliss in tight corners coalescence epic traffic once removed really no relation
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 sunday every day piled by the river the wait for vesper’s solace mechanized priestly words melancholy mesmerized moths eat holes in fabric
gnaw thru steel skeletons past places purveyance of hope growing thru cracks in the sidewalk we hold our own
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
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: http://evildick13.wordpress.com/
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 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.
WORDMACHINIST vs. OLD BILL
Unleashed. 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 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 machinist...in 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 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 said...my friend...you are NOT the creator. You were created by me! And so....it 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 slaughter...an innocent daughter, of founding fathers and witch-like mothers. He has found a fool...in 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.
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".
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...............
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 late....to negate, negotiate The time has lapsed, In between the seconds have passed, Laughter collapsed Left rotten like a dying corpse........
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
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: http://www.myspace.com/juniswan
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 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 loss and endless love expiring right on top of my lifeless corpse.
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.
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 identical 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.
*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 8090%.
DESCRIPTION OF GROSS LESIONS: 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.
Ponder This (Tourettes Raises Its Ugly Head)
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. ----------------------------------------------------------
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
There was never a soul at the other end. ------------------------------------------------------
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!"
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: http://www.myspace.com/kinderkitty
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,
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.]
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.
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: http://www.myspace.com/newamba
By Suria Kassimi
he! she! she! Me! !
me? he... he... she... WHY? she ... she ... she ... she .... CRY CRY CRY rock the smelly dark push-up resounding hallows husky bark encode ablation branding riding to the hounds fiendish sulfuric wounds
Deep Tissue leaking freaking out these glory ends friends.
unfailling burning disquiet nourish and sherish mirrored darling love runs riot & being spooked symbiotically hooked piercing & cutting the umbilical cord coevally hold on tight and don’t let go
Deep Tissue my little girl can’t help but love you so
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: http://www.myspace.com/sourisrojakassimi
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
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 uncool 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
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 (http://www.flexwriterscreativenetwork.net) 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: http://www.myspace.com/tarringo.vaughan
Living in the Hill Country
By Kat Solomon
Darkness 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.
http://www.blancocountynews.com/news/article/19989 You can find more of Kat’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/katscolorfullife
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.
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.
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: http://www.myspace.com/jamescrafford
EXHUMATION OF THE POST VERBAL GAP
By Lee Kwo
DESIRE AND ANNIHILATION OF THE WORD/ “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 Bataille “If they knew they were thinking about nothing they would go mad…”/ Henry Miller/
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
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/resensitize 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
/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
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
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
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
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
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
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: http://www.myspace.com/bizarredevice
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.
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
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
Deep Tissue 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
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.
Deep Tissue 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
Deep Tissue the candy store. Blue Boy was reaching for everything he put his eyes on. There was no control to his behavior.
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,
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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