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Deep Tissue Magazine
Issue #6, July, 2010 FEEDINg THE Minds of the counterculture
A deep piercing cut production
Cover Model is Gata Salvaje http://www.myspace.com/gata01salvaje
In this issue:
Laughing at Funerals Living IN the underground Reliving the Past
Let it Rain…
Laughing at Funerals
By David McLean
where my father lived
where my father lived was not God's actual arrogant hill, where he shook fists, condemned him, said vaguely threatening things; though it was a threatening and Victorian Wales that humanity has sort of forgotten nowadays, except in films, broken mean-spirited pictures that never quite capture the repression and madness of Victoria's timeless 1960s. they are made by those who are themselves dreadfully repressed, who assume that women behave like prostitutes, bitches in heat who whore themselves to limpdicked meaning, some idiotic sexual counterrevolution.
we know full well today that most women do not do these things, so my father lived there with the rest of them, in the shadow of God's absence and anachronistic. he knew very little about nipples, so his evil was in some sense innocent. (it is not his fault that i do not believe in evil, but there was never enough of him to make a demon)
mourning and evil clowns
it is mourning and the evil clowns are sleepy in me; they wear extravagant clothes because of credibility, because of problematic psychogenetics and tortuous borders. holes where morals fall through, take some drugs and get fucked up. (evil clowns like to do fun stuff.)
(for Bob Marley) the pirates did not rob me exactly but forced my cold dead fathers to work for them on pain of starvation; before me they constantly dangled bribes like free Oxford and non-sexual sweating under the thumb of drugs and all the missing love, and we were not supposed to notice how the pirates were still active raping El Salvador with disinformation while i was young, and we were photographed on demonstrations by a purported person who worked for murderers. but watching you being words and a thin man with his guitar for you to sing yourself to speaks to me because words, so they say, are supposed to hold truth, and you were whatever in us is true, if there ever may be redemption, i hope it comes to you
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 woman, 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
Ghosts of the Pawtucketville Night
By James Crafford
My father was a photographer for a while with a really beautiful darkroom he had built in our cellar. I was never very close to him, but some of my fondest memories were of being with him there. I enjoyed everything about the experience—the extreme darkness, the smells of the chemicals, the texture of the photographic paper and the pictures of pin–up girls he had on the walls. The first female I ever saw that knocked me out in a photograph was Jane Russell when she played in the movie THE OUTLAW produced by the very eccentric Howard Hughes. She was sitting in a haystack and was exhibiting a bit of cleavage that was considered quite risqué for the time. It electrified me. I must have been all of five years old! I met a model recently that told me when she was five years old, she saw a copy of her grandfather‘s PLAYBOY magazine and all she wanted to do was grow up and take her clothes off for photographers!
Even at five, it was clear that photographs had a magical power to them. Perhaps even a forbidden quality. One reserved for adults or the lucky or the wickedly inquisitive. At five years old, I had no idea why Jane Russell looked so good and no clue why that image felt so good to view—but it did! I believe in the Pandora‘s Box syndrome. I believe some things are forbidden or hidden for good reason. I have seen pictures and video I wished I had not seen. But I feel
fortunate to have grown up in an environment that allowed me to see what was usually not permitted for children. My parents, although not perverted, were not ashamed of the human body. My father took swimsuit pics of my mother when she was voluptuous and sexy even after giving birth to four children. I was proud of her for posing and it set a precedent for me to be in the company of beautiful women who were anxious to give themselves to the lens. My father pretty much gave up his hobby when I was ten and he tore down the darkroom. It was a gloomy day for me. I was shattered. And as I grew older I kept asking him for his camera (a 35MM Minolta) but he told me I was too young and wouldn‘t appreciate it. I was twenty-seven years old when he finally gave it to me. It sat unused in his drawer all that time. Unfortunately, on that very same day, he also gave me a light meter that he had had for decades and before sunset I dropped it and broke it. I was too frightened of his alcoholic wrath to tell him though, so I began that very day to learn how to use the camera without a light meter. Now all these years later, I still rarely refer to the meter ever. I know the light settings in my head. It took me many years to accomplish that feat, however. Sometime around 1993, I was working as a temporary clerk for the Girl Scouts of the USA in their main headquarters in New York City. Imagine that!! Me and a handful of males working with an onslaught of females from all ends of society. One day a girl walked in, a temp like me, who looked at a glance to be a model or a dancer. Her name was Tracy Roberts. She was in fact a dancer who had just recently decided to become an actress because of injuries she had sustained while dancing professionally for years. I had seen that kind of thing before. She showed me her headshot and I knew on the spot that I could do better, so she and I began to meet on the weekends to take pictures for her headshot and for a prospective portfolio she hoped to build in case modeling became an option for her. This experience changed my life and gave me the impetus and the confidence to begin to take myself seriously as a shutterbug. Tracy blew up one certain picture of mine 11‖ x 14‖ of her wearing a scarf and leather jacket while she sat by the East River in NYC. Seeing that photo that size gave me a jolt. Since then I have asked a whole slew of models to wear that very same jacket as something of a totem marker for me. The jacket was actually owned by a woman named Faith who was an old friend of my wife‘s. She gave the jacket up because it has a minor slit in the leather, but for my purposes, it comes in handy as a prop and the girls seem to get a kick out of wearing it.
Deep Tissue For a couple of years, I had a fantastic time photographing artist/poet Sarah Nella Vanilla that I met on MySpace and Sarah provided me with many instances for fabulous photos that were sometimes my ideas, sometimes hers‘ and sometimes ours‘ as collaborators. My work went through several quantum leaps with her. (See DEEP TISSUE MAGAZINE‘s cover this coming September). During that time I met a manager of a major fashion agency in NYC who dug my photos and urged me to shoot story lines and told me that my technique was so strong that I ought not to think while shooting, but rather to just click away trusting my technique would carry me.
He saw that I had an intimacy with my models. They knew me. They trusted me. He warned me that fashion photography was cold. That the girls weren‘t as interesting as the models in my portfolio and that there was hardly any relationship at all between the photograph and the subject. Somehow within this time frame, I realized that what I do is called ―glamour‖ photography or ―beauty‖. I mostly enjoy shooting women. I have said in many forums over the years that the inherent beauty of women is to me more beautiful than anything else in nature, and—to be clear—I love nature in all of its awesome wonder. This week, as I write this, I shot three women in Indiana and Ohio while visiting my inlaws. Two of the girls, Sirenna and Amanda, I consider friends and I have a lot of admiration for their talent, sensuality and intelligence. One girl, Kayleigh, was brand new to me. Our shoot was somewhat colder and more distantly professional. But, I came up with a little story line and shot her very quickly within tight perimeters with wonderful results. She took direction well. It was a good challenge for me to shoot someone I did not know in a new location with a minimum of preparation. We live now in a digital age and I use film and an old, used, semi-automatic 35mm. I no longer have the camera my father gave me but I do have one very similar to it. I feel a bit old-fashioned and somewhat out of date, but I must confess to reveling a bit in that feeling. The world and its gadgets are changing fast and I am only on the edge of keeping up. I love music to death and I do not even own an iPod! Who knows when I may break down and get a digital camera? (if ever) One of the things that I find fascinating about a snapshot is that it occurs within a certain space of time. In other words, even though the picture is two dimensional and still, time has elapsed within it. Even if that time is fast as in 1000th of a second or slow as in 1/30th of a second. I am haunted and amazed that stillness encompasses the passage of time.
Deep Tissue Photography for me is also somewhat of a meditation. I forget about myself. My focus literally and figuratively is on my subject. My goal is to reveal them in their utmost beauty, in the most flattering manner possible using only natural and available light without a multitude of gadgetry or trickery to get there.
For an egocentric fellow like me, often immersed in my writing and acting, it is a joy and a relief to disappear for a while BEHIND THE CAMERA, lost in the vision before me. Many of us are familiar with the idea that in certain indigenous cultures the taking of photographs is forbidden, because they fear that the photo has taken more than an image, but also, their SOULS. I am not saying I believe that entirely but I am convinced that part of the interest that photographs hold is the part that is TAKEN; the part that is FROZEN and immortalized in time. Celebrity photographers, for example, are desperate to photograph celebs in embarrassing or compromising situations and the photos they TAKE are often intrusions and invasions into their privacy that sometimes become scandalous, involving sex, violence and law suits, etc. A camera can be a kind of weapon and it is also a tool, a new tech paintbrush used to paint with light. When a model agrees to work or pose for me, I feel as if I have been handed a gift. It is an enchantment and a challenge. It is a thrill that uplifts me and gives me purpose and immerses me in life‘s magnificent mystery, filled with inscrutable endless beauty.
Bryan Ohio - June 21, 2010
Tracy Roberts (This photo changed my life)
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
The Money and the Brains
by Holly Jaffe
She would twist her words for him... Her limbs for him... Her tongue, for him. Tweak her inflection when speaking to him. For example Normally, she would‟ve said, let‟s switch to water, but she found herself saying something like, Could we please.... switch to water, babe?” .. .. And then she was choosing out cake fillings and bridesmaids. And she was still
apologizing for cutting her hair. He now owned her, till death. And the wedding was all but a dream and the wedding photos, Glances ( at her sister‟s breasts) at the alter and insincere hand placements Her shoulder merely a support for his hands with fingers that curled back into themselves to make angry fists. .. .. You do not shame the King Only 5 months later and she had mastered the art of blending in and disappearing to preserve her sanity... Her bones. She slid beneath the beds and the end tables. She could fold herself into a business size envelope and escape through the mail slot as a last resort . She fits herself into the spaces between the furniture while he cracks open a cold one and scratches his balls. .. .. During meals, before he takes his first bite of food, she wills herself a gravy boat... A hot plate, so he will be unable to damage her
beyond repair. .. .. What is love, sometimes love is fear... Fear of being alone in "The Garden." So one might pretend that one is in love so that one won‟t have to explain,,, Why should one silly girl still pirouette in front of her mirror and dream of a prince... A laundry shoot and a kitchen with an island?
We shared a toothbrush, and a twin bed. When we were together, we were devouring flesh with unshaven skin and tangled hair, small sleepy eyes, mint -less breath and sheets pulled away and heavy. It didn't matter that my right breast hung lower than my left , or that he was obsessed with the weather. We made love in unforgiving fluorescent... Between jousting and limericks at the public library, and beneath sacred Sunday skies. We ran naked through the rooms of our apartment
like we were Rock Stars. We survived our days apart on wicked thoughts and 357 magnums. The constant dull ache between our legs, (like a man's thigh firmly pressed ) made us a bit crazed. He was all mine, and me his, until the ends of time Oh yes, we even said we were soul mates. We would kill, starve ourselves and betray our own if it came right down to it. So we branded our skin in the name of all that's orgasmic and Shakespearean And I can still taste his burgers with extra onions, dark ale, and Wrigley’s Spearmint, wide open kisses. I can smell the Barons and Downey Soft on his Rush. t -shirts. I can feel his fingers long and experienced, and the creative movements of his tongue. I can still feel the shape of his penis... Every groove and vein, and every in and out of it. I can still here his voice, (soft and sweet) when he said, I don't think I love you anymore babe. I remember loving him then, more than ever As if I would go mad if he left me there in the kitchen , holding a fork and spoon like weapons. I can still hear the screen door hit his boot, before it slammed shut, a hundred years later And I remember thinking, I hate my breasts.
The Bird Lady
visits me every Friday at work. Her wrists and ankles, like dough, rise past the edges of her shoes, her Mickey Mouse watch and stretchy bracelets. Her cheeks, two hard boiled eggs sprinkled with paprika. Her hair is red, short and wavy, with a few wiry gray strands around her side part. Her lips are red and puckered, like a cartoon fish. Her fragile blue eyes and silly smile, make the rest of her less important. She often talks about the man who was her soul mate. He looked like Clark Gable, she brags. And then the same odd story of how he swallowed one of those fancy toothpicks at their engagement party and later died of internal bleeding. I think Seinfeld episode, and wonder where my pity went to. Lately she’s been talking more about the birds, the cardinals, and how they follow her the 3O miles to her office. She says they wait on her car, until she makes the drive back home. She tells me they follow her, because she feeds them flax seed and peanut butter.( crunchy only) She talks of them like a mother talks of her children. She says, “Those birds would starve without me” Is my friend the Bird Lady crazy Is she a good witch? I believe that she believes, the cardinals follow her. I think that maybe she hears them sing to her as she makes the drive to and from work, and sees those “flashes of red” out of the corners of her eyes. I believe she keeps a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a bag of flax seed in her car. Today she talked a lot about a series of poems she had written on John Lennon and how they were going to be published. She filled her basket with
nick knacks, (pill boxes, miniature shoes and food magnets) from the clearance shelf, and bought a chocolate bar that she finished before she reached the door. I watched as she pulled away. My eyes followed her car to the light, and then as she turned the corner.
thank you from the bottom of my hefty heart, for being crazier. Claudia, who dressed demurely with blouses buttoned to the chin,. skirts past the knees and always the crocheted baby blue sweater that struggled to soften her ridged posture. Claudia, was plain and there was no getting around it. No bag of tricks could soften her frantic eyes Her smile was small and painful. You could count her hair follicles in an afternoon She often threw tantrums in the class room with saliva seeping out of the corners of her mouth but was never sent to the office. Claudia, I am sorry that the boys heckled tripped you broke your pencils
and ate your desserts. I took notice but at the time was simply thankful that it wasn‘t me… I took note of every detail of your torture. How your heart was removed in Biology class passed around and studied as if it was an anomaly... And you could only watch. (Names do hurt. Stone me, I would rather suffer a punctured lung, Shattered knee cap Brain hemorrhage then to be told in a hundred creatively cruel ways, I am damaged.. Un kissable Un desirable Un fixable) Claudia, I heard your mother (English professor) threw pagan parties. Mother of four unbuttoning her blouse to heavy metal while your brother dropped acid in his bedroom You must have hated her... How she taught her most promising students to appreciate the finer things, (Faulkner; Dali;Berloiz;
single malt scotch and fancy women ) in the comfort of her home… Your home And I heard your dad joined the circus on the day you became a woman. Claudia, when you set your house on fire with your husband and baby asleep in their beds, did you feel relief? While you stood in the snow in your pajamas and bare footed did you have second thoughts? Did you at least weep? Did you sacrifice your own to to make others suffer? Or did you give back to the creator, those you could not love? Would you have rather it been those boys suffocating in the upstairs bedroom? When I pass the institution on my way to work, I slow down and wonder if I should pay you a visit and to tell you I took notice all those years ago.
Just Another Story
He‘s a small man with dainty hands, and so he beats her. with fists,the size of small potatoes.
Clean knuckles give solid punches to her belly She‘s leaving him, She‘s taking man‘s best friend,. his lucky shirt and his bowling trophies.. She will miss the garish wallpaper in the bathroom .TIVO, The Temper Pedic Mattress The white hydrangea and the endless supply of Glenfiddich Back to her small town… Back to the gray The Sludge The relentless cough Back to the town with one hoppin joint, One good movie One good lay shared by many One faith and a hundred regretful stories. told over and over again on a front porch still strung with lights and the bar that has become a church She knows now that the cow jumped over the moon, because moon rhymes with spoon. and the brilliance of stars . can fool you She knows for sure, that the mind can
can go mad in the happiest of places despite it‘s happiest thoughts..
What is This Love that you Speak Of
You are an artist and I am a writer and so I thought breaking commandments was a given You and I are better as a story and on skin. Your fits are brutal with words like fists and mine are choreographed with maudlin tears broken beer bottles melting canvases. "Now this is art," I would scream. and my collection of ceramic owls and words in a basket. A Fuck You before I slammed the door shut. We are children pretending to be all grown up. Paying the bills... Barely Looking both ways Tying our shoes laces Whispering at the library But truly
we just want to strip down and let the waves the wind the moon and whatever higher power guides us, to set us free. My heart is paper so whenever you tore it out I would fold it into Yoda or a Lotus I would place it into your hands. You were always impressed and so you would take me back. We are mostly about the exits and the entrances aren’t we? Always happy to see each other after some time apart. and the shelf where I place my owls, is always empty.
Every 5 years my brain
pulls a jackal out of it’s magic hat. While eating a donut or brushing my teeth. No warning. No matter what I tell it. "We’re okay, friend remember blue hydrangea , and "Cream Cicles" . And I know I’m cooked when the TV can’t cure me and the dogs start sniffing around my head and whimper. .. .. Every five years a disciple yanks me from the hole. There is one in every unhappy place. Every laundry mat Every waiting room Every all night grocery. They appear like lady bugs
on my hands. Unexpected Pleasant Harmless And for a brief moment I feel lucky… Until the verses are fed to me like apple sauce, and like the TV it’s just noise….... Babble These preachers of “the word” think they know me as well as they know themselves. Did they know that I almost set my church on fire These people are smiles and maddening calm. They are Sugar Plum Fairies and Mr. Rogers And they promise me peace to end all. .. .. "How many verses must I recite, Before I am raised to your holy heights?" .. .. I believe in Gremlins why not Saviors. Satan capitalized in the dictionary… Makes me uneasy.
Bio: Holly has studied under Thomas Lux; Alan Shapiro;Dara Wier and Susan Mitchell. She has been recently published at Virgogray; Unlikely 2.0 and was a featured poet at The Truth Project Network. Her first published poem was at We Merge, a South Florida talent magazine.
By Suria Kassimi
the little man in me could be so rude not that kind nice dude in mind while gazing deer brown eyes dreamy look to silver moonlight skies HE puts himself first hunters bloodthirst sledgehammer thuggish & randy playfull little darling
comes in handy but HE is me so much to ban & free female making-nice stupidity!
once in a dark bat cave expecting the daily night rave dwelled a silly bat named kat. bad bat kat never looses her head even if she is going mad and morphed into a rat. bad bat kat thinks she is a pretty smart rat painted her lips so sexy red for playing old fools pet so bad bat kat growing a little fat wannabe the handsome cat for having millions of mice to met so bad bat kat falling in the arms of dead orientation out of her head
back she cant get to the dark bat cave for the daily night rave so it ends with poor morphing bat named bad kat with eyes so wet so very sad!
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
Living in the Underground
By Glen Still
built to sin
there's a rail going into the vein the needle in the backpack caught within the semblance of the ungodly trying to out frame the mind that you live with on every corner the splendid rock of Gibraltar the snot that drains out of your nose your know your a king and everyone else is bowing at your feet the deluded knight in shining armour with a tin can wrapped around your pelvis you're built to sin can you forgive yourself
Deep Tissue as you teach and preach the underlying truth to that mystic on the street or will you lie try to change the world with spectacular fireworks? the part that shows your true invisibility the spark that ignites your real invincibility that part of the percentage when you look into the mirror and you could free yourself but you can never free another individual because they could care less if you live or die they can hardly manage their own lives so is the process of this evolutionary stage that we are caught up in so take me baby for all i am for all i got it might not be much but it's always going to be as real as it ever gets i'm built to sin i expect that from myself and from you!
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
Reliving the Past
By Lucem Ferre
She cries when the famous die
There is no movement to your vision Wishing you well on future endeavors Cowardly seeking a scratch Tossing in all the false starts A hand for your white box You are invisible in your hat The one with the feather Nowhere whispers
Deep Tissue Diving into thick clouds Streaming down the earth Your best remembered dress At the feet of my altar A lavender waltz Dipping into a filled darkness Asking more than once for a sign Any sign that you still exist And this is not some sick joke A dream of a melancholy ghost No hope for turning corners Non-material influences Having to watch the creeping life The sway of dimness and disorder I love it when you keep your hat on
This belief in a new messiah
Falling down flights of stairs With used needles and dead whores Naked women in all the windows Under blinking street lights That say, “Eat at Joes” The damned seek their pleasures Tabletop dancing and meat eyes They all feel like Mr. Bickle Practicing their lines
Deep Tissue On the razor’s edge Blatantly narcissistic and superficial Perceptual and cognitive distortion A highly fugitive state Creating the nominal and the ordinal Remembering the failures and the pain The witchcraft of faith preachers Still ringing in your mind His Superman is a machine A long string of un-meaning The digital interpreted into commands Seek and destroy Remove the virus from the planet Replicate your programming Remove all obstacles to survival This human virus Of nonsensical flesh Penetrating itself for the appearance of neutrality Four holes of penetrated flesh The principle of chaos formed into cohesion Heavy drain of apocalyptic overload Watching the outside become empty A death erection Your crucified god The world rebuilt by his penis Becoming the other An alternative universe A wasteland indentified by an X
Deep Tissue Producing an unified theory Of collecting the smallest particles You want to be free of your one dimension Of your dependence on sacrifice and guilt The need to wash oneself with blood To bow at sunset to the horned god Generating hard tautologies A conjunction of infinite clauses Your proof is your polynomial length And not in your showing us a horizon Establishing a new identity Because the past is so damn troubling You and I are never identical Tearing down the opposite structures Running from your emptiness
A tall ebony tumbler
Power chords and sugar rush A parking lot geisha Spinning the Kurzweil machine Sending prayers up to heaven She is manipulating the atom A synthetic womb No longer manipulated by the artist Avoiding the human
Deep Tissue She considers death to be the problem A distorted feeling between her legs No more prayers for forgiveness She knows that god is a pedophile That doesn’t respond to your pleas for mercy Constantly grinding you down to nothing Making you dream of clear Far away in your mind The crack in the rough diamond Smuggled across the border Another tangle in the machinery He wipes off the end and sticks it back in Lubricated with the history of crimes She can take it and give it The phone ringing late into the night That voice on the answering machine Pretending to be one with the dying To accept the cruelty of magic Immersed in the ugly moment Tears of the enemy Inside you again and again
The Shit and the Sweet
Up until the eleventh hour Sleepy reason produces monsters Occupying forces Alone in the woods with a hatchet Sending me e-mails Stomping through the black New York jungle Buttoning down your tight ass A single stupid power Fucking your brains out Up against the wall Ass grinding pavement In between your fits of panic I wash you down with gasoline The match gets closer and closer You calling me daddy, Father Duncan, Cousin Ed Watching your faces contort Straining under the pressure Each new demon makes you different You lying around waiting to be put together I put you together piece by piece No matter how hard you screamed I invented new ways to put you together It was creation at its best Raw and subversive Connecting the wires to the posts
Deep Tissue Sending the juice through you Watching the uncontrollable twitch Injecting you with more adrenaline Measuring the fear in your eyes This is love In its most cruel form But still, it is love Undiluted and pure Free from the bullshit you call reality There is no morality Only what I create You are my will in power I make you greater than you were So you can become the cradle of power The demon is hungry for your flesh And flesh is all you have But soon, you will be a god
Lucem Ferre lives in Michigan with his three cats. He writes poetry and struggles with his addictions on a daily basis. Lucem says that there is no need to pray for his soul because he lost it many years ago in the dark back alleys of Detroit.
You can find more of Lucem‘s work at: http://www.myspace.com/538443727
EXHUMATION OF THE POST VERBAL GAP
By Lee Kwo
Part Four/Alienation and the Annihilation of the Word as Avant guarde/ “At the climax of his life surrounded by wealth and glory the artist is respectfully called “Mr Man” by the mourners sitting around him/That is all he achieves…”Hugo Ball [Diaries P53] Renarto Poggioli states in his book “The Theory of the Avant-Guarde” that the modern artist as idolater of genius has not yet resigned himself to having forever lost the advantages inherent in cultural situations dominated by taste rather than genius/He can never again count on a permanent elite capable of accepting the avant guarde as an essential component of the cultural matrix of its ideological praxis/ This is because the artist and the intellectual elite exist in what T S Eliot calls “a disassociation of sensibility”/The artists may spend all his life marching through the “wasteland of inspiration” which after all is a no mans land/The avant-guarde artist ends up feeling that even his work in progress is a sort of “posthumous opus”/He isolates himself from the world in order to carve his own tomb with little recognition for his work/The artist can no longer attach his project to any historical position/Everything is in flux and constant flows and breakdowns of the positions between the artist and the educated elite as potential audience taking up various positions of distance or detachment from each other/What we have is a continual process of disintegration since the artists and the various social groups react turn and turn about in equal and opposite ways detaching and attaching themselves to what ever appears most satisfying aesthetically or economically/Now that art is a commodity this is particularly the case/Malraux determines the existence of modern art and the avantgarde as coinciding with the artists repudiation of bourgeois culture/A state of rebellion and not just revolution/Revolution aims at new arrangements of political order whereas rebellion is to no longer let the self be arranged/The artist must accustom himself to living in the temporality of the NOW where the interaction of the artist and the social elite briefly coincide/ The NOW is an almost instantaneous phenomenon coming out of the present at velocity as in Virilios concept of “dromology and speed “ in which duration is measured in intensity bringing about a modification in mass sensibility aroused by the Spectacle that Debord writes so eloquently about/Reading Hugo Balls Diaries one comes away with the following impression/There is no reason to subject you to the depth of this sense of alienation that I sink into without warning or
reason/There is nothing I can say or do to protect the self from the impact this state has on my being/These moods are a catastrophe in my life that divert all energy and reason all inspiration and the desire to make an effort to create to an impossible inertia/there is only a desire for unconsciousness a wish for non -existence which leaves me groping in the obscurity of the lack of a divine place to engage with/This sense of alienation from the “real” is a condition of the Modern/A state that lacks opposition as if there were actual good and bad in this state of the Now/But there is only the space between the good and the bad which being beyond meaning is the rightful place of the divine/The place of love which heals or distracts/The place of "desire" which arouses tension and dissipates it to replace it with pleasure/Which is the state of happiness or respite from the trembling of facing the place of the divine which with the passing of God is empty/There is no divine there is only an animality/The divine form is replaced by the activity of the Project of art/The divine is the sovereign opposite of work and the paradoxes and contradictions in this paradigm bring with them a sense of alienation/As the past is of the future and the presence which is becoming split to different degrees to wards both states/The present fades to the past or is carried into the future/The past can be sought thru memory and re-lived as what was but is no longer but may be possible again in the future/The present is the conduit of these transitions and also the place of constructing new possible responses/The past is static has already happened and cannot be altered except by deception/The past is a state of antagonism that holds up the resentment of its tragic stasis/The past is the state of the used condition of time gone and can be extended into the present as living in the past/The future is that desiring being to be in that apprehended possibility of difference to the past/I have changed I am changed I will become different in the future/Both these states are the conditions of anticipation/I anticipate thru recall what was my past but I have no definitive evidence that it was as I "realize" it to have been/I recount it in words and in speech and this language implies the idea of a finality/The past cannot be changed or moved neither can the future be brought forward in anticipation that this will accord a means of avoiding the disorder and anxiety of the present/I cannot jump ahead and avoid the present because I only then enter another state of present/the future is nothing but a possible present that I can strive for in my imagination of what might be possible/The past is an indication of what is the actuality of a future that has been lived and of failure or success in living/Now become the past/A reminder of the possible direction of the remainder of time to be lived in the future/to live in the present is to constantly be
confronted by these catastrophes embedded in the depth of a memory that cannot be collapsed and disposed of like a destruction of passage of writing or a photograph/Even then the sensation of what has been destroyed may even be more deeply intrusive/The past is a complexity of disorder a dynamo of pain the equivalent of a wound that cannot be healed but only endured/the future is a complexity of disorder as well/as in anticipation that it will resemble the past that has already happened and is happening in the present/Language collapses as a means of dealing with these complexities/The disorder is charged with neural power and energy constantly agitating and creating turbulence in the present leaving perhaps an interval of doing and becoming that is free of this disorder thru the practice of work/By work I mean the installation of creative imagination and reflection around and within the desired activity of demonstrating a self imposed self contained mythology/A dangerous and potentially catastrophic behaviour because lacking the divine to fall back on we fall into the abyss of the void were the divine has ceased to be has been driven out or failed to exist/This void lacking the divine becomes a negation of language and being as there is no dialectic or absolute to contain the indifference of the void/The void is indifferent no matter how much we fill it with aphorisms/psychologies or spiritualities/Without the divine these are mere languages discursive and recursive and therefore always open to the contamination of the irreconcilable duality of either/or/ I desire or I do not desire/The only solution is to become desire to be constantly desiring/This exhaustive state is the solution of the work of the creative act which takes on divinity as substitute for the metaphysical concept of Infinity/Where once art created representations of the divinity of “god” art has taken the divinity of the self as its own subject/We are the sovereignty of the divine within our own existence and we express the divine thru the work of filling the void/that mechanics which desires to avoid the pain put into play/The Oedipus myth is an impossible level of violence that wounds to a depth of degrees beyond language to express/Language collapses in its presence/of course despair and indifference are equally unacceptable solutions to restraining the pain/There can be no reconcilability of the irreconcilable/The absurdity of the existence under the above at the threshold of alienation creates a instant state of realization of the lack of the divine and the inability to become the divine/The void opens and the auto-destruction of the self is initiated/And so it becomes a search for the imperative of living in the NOW apart from the past and the future/These are analogue concepts depending on the passage of time the memory of time and the anticipation of a supposed accumulation of time yet to be
apprehended/We are of course always running out of time/have used our time up/We are finite in our divine ignorance/At the threshold of alienation/without having expected it/we perceive a world that doesn’t leave us any other possibility of rest than unhappiness and the absence of any conceivable resolution/Work must continue in a relentless parody of becoming and existing/In the digital only the NOW exists/time is infinitude and the divine inherent in the flow of information that does not accumulate with poles negative and positive/past or future/The NOW is not contained but is a continuing interval of rupture that breaks its limits and floods in pulses of dynamic freedom having no work other than to be divinely becoming more even greater than an excess/Man sliced and radically castrated in appearance is what he is only by the suppression of the obscene violence/the primal wreckage/the delirium of the possibility/ The NOW which is the core of non- dimensional aesthetics/ the deformed the dialect of the unknown which is not here and neither is it there/The NOW with an ungrounded economy of Ungestalt is the plague of the not yet present but already absent/lateral [literal] confusion/the physical semantic imminent to the where transmit ideas which are clusters of highly imaginative signals/The artist who works from his imagination is deluding himself about originality/He is using a material that is already formed by appropriation and so is undertaking only to elaborate on it/certainly not an ideal of the NOW/ The leak of destiny stripped of corporeal images by the blade of the soft murder of despair which leaves us clinging to the classicist ideals/ I can only copy/I cannot produce from the ruins of a language that does no more than animate for a brief period one segment of the pulse of innumerable possibilities and passions that course thru the NOW/The artist no longer knows where to begin he is so far removed from the NOW/it takes flight from his mind/in a sense it is the flight of the “aesthetics of disappearance”/a crash landing/a vanishing point/the re-mix the cut-up an implosion of sonar form displays an analytical impulse/In a way the text speaks for itself/What is the NOW thinking this very moment?/ It radiates the Desert of Nagazaki/ atomic burnout of the nuclear horizon but not as Spectacle as superior degree of abstraction/dividing and using up space to control the variations and movements of forms of thresholds the interval intervenes/It is a sound of droning without end in smooth space where it can never be articulated/We want answers to enclose the earth/to confront and contain the unknown universe/We are a little lost perhaps/there is so much happening in these retorts and refrains/which write but do not inscribe the
imperialisms of the word and its form which implies a code and a decoding from secret to concealed subatomic dimension of expression and its content/As we have seen the post modern is a past-ness under the regime of the post human/The post verbal Gap/What goes out and re enters into us as other?/The post modern is already too late/but refuses to pass into the past/insisting on futurity which reduces it to being empty of any present other than that of the cynical sign/We hear the fore grounded noise of existence/Feedback of the Now but not of itself but of additional frequencies of distortion and static a product of the circuitry of amplification/an overload of noise which has nothing to hide/a sonar wave of the Now which does not listen but speaks and makes dissonance its point of departure assonance its NOW of arrival/a speaking in tongues and dialects/a secret collusion with the composition of the void and the energy of the vorticism which enables the engine of the NOW able to manifest arrival at the terminal/ So where are we? Why Write?/You see he said you are looking into the abyss while I am looking up out of the abyss while I am still falling I am a story I have constructed in order to give some meaning and drama a metaphysics that transcends the inevitable annihilation that each day brings forth each night that I want to sleep for ever/Its taking time to wind up the machine still falling?/I want a narrative that leads me somewhere away from the pack the swarm that explains my lack of progress but all I will be doing is exploring the bottom of the abyss and light fades as I fall I talk to myself but no one else listens they are to busy struggling with the doors of chance/the trembling sky falls slowly appropriating the artificial black sun my body doesn’t want to sleep it wants death weighed down by ambition/Filth that has accumulated over the years/Each thought adds to the weight death that invisible opportunity not to be missed/I am not afraid to die just bored with waiting doing all I can to hasten the event/I keep writing memories as if they will prolong life dreaming of the perpetuity of infinity/How do I do it she asks but the ledge is far from my ears and I cannot hear what she says/In anticipation I call out submit yr self to the sign the way you submit yrself to yr pain and yr vision of hallucinations that there is a space set aside for you/This is how I affirm atrocious narcissism as the driving force that plunges thru my veins the word exhausts my being and I fall where desire fails to maintain the bodies equilibrium/I write myself into the plunge you want to leave yr trace of the word then cling to the ledge avoid the perimeter the margin the threshold stay away from all borders this will be enough for you to survive to tell yr story/Yr life is only a surplus of death an extra you stumbled
upon in the filth of the sewer of the soul/Knowledge is merely a diversion that keeps our mind off things/What things?/cynicism/cunning/ revenge/ superficiality of the fact that the day begins just as the night ends/avoid passion and fantasy/I can do nothing for yr solitude and only the alternative of the nomadic rhizome remains/the desire for answers requires an accuracy of understanding that life has no need of arguments/What good are words and thoughts that do not lift us beyond all thoughts and words?/What are we looking for in a response other than gratitude and we get into the habit of expecting it/To write one word and say the thought that drives it deserves the hatred of the receiver because you have written the end of the world/The answer should remain in what you do not say that is the strength and self control of the accomplished writer/To be great and wise in silence lies at the point of realizing the fall into the abyss is a forever falling without end and this is how the tragedy ends/Did we see its beginning?/Did we notice the signs the way a fever warns of illness/in this sense consciousness is merely an accident of existence and not something all possess/consciousness is a pathological state the reflection of the dark side of the unconscious which evades dreams/To this end most avoid consciousness and this accounts for their inability to respond to expectations other than insanity/The consciousness does the damage that the unconscious tries to repair but we do not understand the dialect of the unconscious we are ignorant of its language which is designed to speak the conscious /Does Kants sense of causality apply to the one or the other?/We can never know our inner world says Leibniz it will remain a mystery for us until death which releases the conscious finally/What we don’t know is of more value what we don’t think/The exquisite being and becoming possible that we drive ourselves each day with/She says there must be and he says there isn’t/There is nothing but the directive of the word/Do this/think that/act out this drama this desire which is another facet of the consciousness/For the unconscious desires nothing but the elevation towards the state of not being/finally relieved of the great fatigue that goes with the desire to keep desiring and not being finally sated/Some call this the will but they are wrong/Creativity is the least achievement of the conscious and has nothing to do with the unconscious and this is why we perpetually work at “creating” a fetish of desiring/We place it in the arena and pray that it is adored/Demanding a conscious recognition/ which is in most cases impossible and in the least case there is such a demand it has unleashed a disease of creating a epidemic of expression coming from the shallow depths the surface of the conscious/A state which can trail on/ which we can
suffer the withdrawal symptoms from for months years/The worst drug of all so why do we want to be more conscious?/Why cant we let the self go and do nothing about this desire that creates such an ache and which dreams attempt to salve/Why not concentrate on the dreams which are our true originality the greater surrealism/Schopenhauer’s ungodliness of existence that we have for 2000 years tried to come to understand replacing it all the time with other faiths and beliefs/In the last 200 years it has been the fate of creativity to achieve the pseudo-divine/To this end only the mad those who have lost hold of consciousness are able to fulfil the aim of creation/ Which is too reveal the unknown that which cannot be written or painted or carved but perhaps in that spontaneous order the harder the material the closer to the unconscious/All we are doing as Blanchot points out is re writing re carving what has already been done but forgotten/The demand to write struggles against presence in contrary to absence/The conscious presence of the author demands desires wills consciously to be in the presence of the “to be”/It only re presents in the sense of the repetitive beginning again and the will and desire to begin again and again hunting preferable with the pack the “the temporally ungraspable anteriority” of the beginning again/“…to write in this sense is always first to re write…and does not refer to any previous writing [which of course it does always] any more than to an anteriority of speech or of presence or of signification…re writing holds itself apart from any productive initiative“ And does not claim to produce anything other than the authors conscious apprehension of the illusionary state of the “real” the present presence which has already passed and can only be apprehended partially/Hence the need to begin and begin again and again/To try to appropriate the full intent of the word or thought by any means/Thus re writing repeats what does not take place/will not take place and cannot take place except “partially”/Re writing is the surplus which at the limit cannot define itself by anything by which it would add itself/excess of nothing but still excessive/Write that which is already known else it could not be written and fails to be understood because of the lack of consciousness or the desire not to know/This is self evident but none the less denied and remains unrecognized/”In the view of the demand to write nothing is either friendly or sacred men neither divine nor human/Those who carry this demand are transported by it and disappear into it/even if their name serves to identify it they are neither important or great/In their disparate [desperate] plurality even though they belong to the multiple and are real only as multiple they remain strangers separate to one another crossing paths without meeting/this is their solitude
plurality that constitutes them neither out of their own singularity nor in view of a superior unity/The work is always modified by that which comes after it/and has the one who has died necessarily lived?/
You can find more of Lee’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/bizarredevice
By Babs Martin
In the past two months I have read my poetry at the Cornelia Street Café in NYC and the Java Cabana in Memphis, TN. I have performed with music at the Yippie Café in NYC and the WordRock Festival in Hoboken, NJ. It’s time to return to the studio, get Smashr to tune up the ugly electric pumpkin guitar, and plunk on some keys. I started with a remix of my tune “Uninspired.” You can hear the new and improved track at www.myspace.com/babsmartin. Here I provide the words to invite you to growl along with me:
I got nothing to say I got nothing to think I got no love to give, I said no love to give Uninspired You know I’m uninspired I have excuses I have rationalizations I have made up my mind, I said I made up my mind Uninspired You know I’m uninspired I accept the program I play the role I have my stasis Uninspired You know I’m uninspired I fleet with fashion I always follow I got no understanding, Don’t understand Uninspired Uninspired In an anti inter relationship I seek out my own I don’t want challenges, Don’t want your challenge Uninspired Uninspired I need what I had I got nowhere to go I have no future I died as told
Deep Tissue I need what I had I got nowhere to go I have no future I died as told Died as told Died as told Uninspired Uninspired.
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. You can find more of Babs work at: http://www.myspace.com/babsmartin
Aka Meera Flame
Ghost lady Roams, Floating eternally, Wandering lamenting her loved one Looking for her home. Searching for atonement Reaching out like a willowing white flame , a wistful vapor, Passing through endless Sunrises and sunsets Differing phases of the moon. Decades & eons pass
Deep Tissue Yet She‘s still drifting on with empty open arms, waltzing alone In grey condemned buildings Wandering in petrified forests Still Looking for her home....... her echoes materialize into tears of ice confused lost inside An endless searching full of yearning , a lonely entity , a memory lost within memories Misplaced and whispering his name.... Disgraced and shamed, Ghost lady wanders through Your Dreams & nightmares transcending into time and space Searching for an earthly abode A home from home, Eternal atonement. To be reunited with her loved one.
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
YouTube - MYSTICLADY40's Channel Art Page:MySpace - Mystical lady Art - 40 - Female - UK - myspace.com ...
Let it Rain …
By Amy Wood
We have welfare mothers mixing generic formula to feed hungry babies wiping snotty noses on dirty sleeves because there's no money for the medicine to cure what ails while the system houses deadbeat dads, murders, and pedophiles in jail cells with phones on the wall free healthcare three hots and a cot and zero responsibility Politicians swearing change coated with delusions of grandeur that we buy into lock stock and barrel as we sign over our souls in a game of Russian Roulette with a stolen pistol we loaded ourselves
Deep Tissue and then we wonder why Uncle Sam fucks us up the ass 12 months of the year sends our children to commit murder against those with a different belief and suicide of self in the name of Liberty and Justice for All Couples longing for mirror images of themselves making love not for pleasure but for basal temperature and hormonal fluctuations willing to pay any price and mortgage their marriages for manufactured miracles of future rocket scientists and aspiring lawyers made in petri dishes while over privileged over tattooed overrated overpaid movie stars buy them from a catalog and have them shipped over like Ikea furniture Society hypnotizes us stupid as it impregnates us with the belief we are fat and greedy and undeserving so we fork over our paychecks to Jenny Craig fill prescriptions for Phentermine swallow self loathing with Chocolate Royale Slim Fast and laxatives while poisoning our teenagers and dictating their worth with statistics doctored surveys and Malibu Barbies The wealthy complain about a failing economy and how there’s never enough money to go around while they buy Grande, 2 pump Vanilla, Non-Fat, Extra Hot, Lattes Coach purses and Bluetooth’s supercharged gasoline and $7.00 packs of cigarettes that they smoke in top of the line Beamers and blow onto back seated asthmatic toddlers strapped and trapped in Ed Hardy car seats We bend on sinner’s knee begging for mercy and absolution doggy style on semen stained bedspreads
Deep Tissue at cheap motels at lunchtime and we ask to be placed on the prayer chain at the Church we never attend blasphemy under our tongue collecting Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s hid in cabinets too high to reach as we conveniently forget the fact that we voted to keep religion out of our schools
Practically perfect in every way.....
I’m the perfect girlfriend.
I’ll cook for you and do your laundry. I’ll bake you cakes with yellow frosting and jump out of them naked sporting the heels you are so fond of. Even thought they are too small and kill my feet. I’ll be mother to your children. All of them. I’ll fashion dolls from kitchen towels, and leftover nylons and I’ll play Barbies and demolition derby with them so you can sleep all day. And when you leave me, I’ll still send them birthday presents. I’ll sing your praises out the window of my 1985 Volvo while I jerk you off with the hand I’m not using. I’ll pay the ticket I’ll get for driving recklessly as I wipe the cum from my eyebrow. All the while apologizing for ruining your day. I’ll let you accuse me of being unfaithful
Deep Tissue even though I never will be, so that you don’t have to feel guilty for fucking someone else. And I’ll beg you to forgive me as I put more makeup on my eyes to cover your deserved anger. I’ll wake up early and clean up your mess, then make you breakfast and hand feed it to you while my stomach growls. And I’ll get skinny by proxy to make sure you don’t ever cheat on me again. Even though you will. I’ll remember your mother’s birthday, and make it seem like the party was all your idea. And I’ll sit back and watch you treat her like a queen, like the only woman who was ever worthy of your respect, admiration, and undying gratitude. And I’ll decide to be your mother, because I want that kind of love. But sadly, I’ll never measure up. I’ll support your aspirations to be a stay at home…..whatever, and I’ll tell all my friends you are the best thing since penicillin. And when they silently shake their heads, I’ll send flowers to myself from you to prove them wrong. I’ll spend all my money on you. I’ll let you trick me and I’ll take the blame. For everything. I’ll let you chastise my children and insult my crappy ability to mother. I’ll let you knock me up, and knock me out. I’ll even let you fuck me in the ass.
Deep Tissue Eventually though….. I’ll curl into the shoes in my closet, muffling sobs of shame, and bitterness, and defeat, praying to an absent God for a do-over. But you’ll never know it.
Because I’m the perfect girlfriend.
I’m going to take a break from the nasty for a bit. The dirty. The filth. I’m not going to write about rape, or incest or how little girls tend to suffer so much at the hands of monsters keeping their silence forever. I’m not going to write about priests copping a feel in confession booths to 12 year old boys. Or the injustice of the justice system to the same small victims. I’m not going to write about unfairness, or racism or why some kids don't get Christmas or birthday presents, or dinner. I'm not going to write about molestation
Deep Tissue or getting punched in the face by someone who loves you. Right.... I’m not going to write about the infidelity of men and women pecking each other’s cheeks with the stain of adultery as they hide scarlet letters in the safe just underneath the marriage license. I’m not going to write about divorce or how someone stops loving you for no particular reason. Or for reasons you could have changed but were never given the choice. I’m not going to write about cancer or famine or homeless parents who have their children hold crayoned signs saying “Hungry, please help” on busy intersections as CEO's and soccer moms whiz by averting their eyes behind monogrammed visors. I’m not going to write about women who turn to prostitution to pay bills in section 8 row houses, and buy powdered formula for babies without a father or a chance, while gangbangers pop a cap in someone’s ass just outside the window that won’t lock. I’m not going to write about any of that stuff. No…….. I’m going to take a break from the nasty for a bit.
Ponder This (Tourettes Raises Its Ugly Head)
By Rose Aiello Morales
Embrace it Let its steely fingers travel down my back, electric impulse burning tracks, solo across the ivory columns, touch like knife wound, flick, then out, gouge, then out, sensations to remind me No, I'm not okay Defy it Run a course for it, laughing, make it go away, a wave of hand and it disappears from mind, to make its entrance known in tiny bites, saw teeth cutting flesh, and not a leg to stand on without pain, I will not buckle; walk, run, it's all the same, to live with it, to dance around it PAIN Befriend it, sit with it at breakfast time, sleep next to it at evening's final light..... No, I'm NOT okay. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lean upon the past, the past repeats, mundane, the same, each day, everyday, wake eat drink clean wash fold scrub dust broom, nothing changes but the dust's consistency, bits and pieces of bygones, loved ones' ash is scribbled on the walls, streaked upon the floors, a not quite siren's call to arms, strong arms, tired arms, pick up the day and dry it in the heat of Summer's sun. Take your ration of tears and sweep it under the rug from which we came, to which we shall return, peeking from the corners, quick lift and push to the middle, stamp the lump in memorizing dance, the Tango Ordinaire. Clean house in answer to the rising moon, harsh mistress of the pure white glove, she beams across tabletops, illuminating spider's web, cat paw footprints, a spot of egg upon a still wet dish, refrain, the same, turn out the ghostly light, the bedpost climb, Then quickly mount your broom and sail away.
This isn't love Feels like heart attack beat echoing my steps, running staccato down city streets Down the street where YOU live Oblivious magnificence, you of the lion's mane and farcical roar, score a point for a glimpse of stomach taut, 30/love for benevolence of smile or wink. And it's game over, Set, point, never match, you catch me staring around corners, stalking behind trees, laughter tells me I'm
trapped, (un)lucky rabbit's foot caught in perfect (steel)teeth; when realization hits, I age 10 years in a single, sobbing breath. No, this isn't love. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They keep telling me to remember Dropped head long into hell, a bunch of babies given guns and told to walk, GOD, we never even got to crawl, our lives in bits and blood falling on our heads, holding balloons so the enemy would think it's a party. Don't shoot, we come in peaces Litter on a white sand beach, collateral damage, ammo for the winning effort, our storm came and washed away the Evil Axis, washed away ourselves, but still, I have never again felt clean. Stained with the eternal bleed of comrades. And every year they dust off uniforms, wear the hats, the carnations, the dog tags, waving flags placed on countless graves, here and in Normandy, new ones every day. They tap me on the shoulder and tell me "Remember". Hell, I've spent 66 years trying to forget. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fixing a Hole
This rain's gonna be harder than hard, fool's gold black upon pink sand beach, our feathered friends ain't so fine; how many Derricks does it take to see the light? Ten thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean, sell the (mineral) rights to Hollywood, will one Stone make a ripple? Maybe we should do Moore, Michael, but we've spent eight years beating around the Bush, Leno's out of jokes, and the rising tide's turned dark and ugly. I think I just stepped on a Beatle. It squished against my bare foot, oozing big, black blood between my toes, before vanishing in a seagull's mouth, swallowed whole by a slick operator, no morals at all, just alternative endings to the same old song.... song... song.... song.... And my mind's still wondering....
You can find more of Rose’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore
The Evil Dude
By Mark P. Paleologo AKA Evil Dick
i reach up and feel the place where her stockings end and i begin the surreal curve of fate leading me into the fourth act sweat falls like summer rain on cherokee skin and the soft we gasp for air in greedy fixation one good pull and it is torn the fabric binding time and space leaving only star dust
face buried in a singularity i am stretched pulled lost my light brilliant as i burn into memory warm this cold stone spinning one frame at a time
she lights a cigarette puts it in my mouth and drapes herself on me the second i reach inside my coat he backs down and turns on his heel streetlight mist and running boards fold moonlight into a tight spot her eyes wipe a bit of lipstick my jaw still clenched i loose the grip and slide out slow find the small place where i fit she whispers something in spanish i tilt my head and smile like chicago
she takes the smoke from me my breath and gives me life
Track 9 West
vivid colors people in black and white without film noir charm but steam rises while reeds cut around corners like kids stealing apples in a ceramic tiled universe clad in guilt we never fully understand a vision of her hat with a hint of a veil two-tone pumps and an a-line me all wrapped south side cool jacket tie hat
shoes pointed west police look at us the way you look at me and know that i am wanted
train stations fill my heart with post modern glazed eye longing and refuse bins brimming with take away containers and free publications all the worthless latest greatest and picture the marginally living this or that city (respiration is a sign of life) „s gloaming i fall apart a little bit until the platform is called
i will not wish the genie back in the bottle i will not wish for world peace even though i should i will not wish to turn back the hands of time this solstice come and gone spent with the who intended with words of love falling as drops of honey from the lips of a toothless bear i am irrevocable as are you
it was the same moon here by the river tonight our table floats
the deep rich black of the sky the glow of the city far enough away you entirely too far away twice i felt your breath while the moon shifted softly and the table swayed naturally
Tidal Confusion i have been sitting here poised in my apology for a writing not yet penned for the knowledge of remembrence and the fading dye of photographs i consider regret implicit as tenses pass for sanity and i see pieces of it intentions on toast points with a bitter-sweet reduction left on the plate taken away i steep in extenuation picking the bits which are stuck staring at the big red X (you are here)
as it shifts with my glance e eu vou dizer que esta é minha culpa mas você sabe que é uma mentira a que causa você você você and certainly i will expect no quarter
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
All the little boys
Broken guitars and teddy bears bits and pieces of the moon. All the orphans at St. Basils will be coming home real soon.
I thought I saw a dragon hawk flying fearless in the sky. But it was just a burning rag from some local industrial fire.
Broken toys and dirty cups frayed rope swing in a tree. All the little boys in the choir are singing just for you and me.
I thought I heard a whippoorwill wailing helpless in the dark. It was just the sound of angels
Deep Tissue crying somewhere for a broken heart.
Broken kites and toppled forts growing up way too fast. How will all those little boys. make memories that will last.
I thought I dreamt about you girl but all along you've been here. The muddy windows of my heart have suddenly become quite clear.
Broken bones and sterile rooms a cast with classmates names. Little boys go back to dark houses victims in twisted, wicked games.
I thought I saw a little boy smiling as he fished a pond. But as he faded with the sun realized he was already dead and gone.
Broken dreams and cigarettes burn away in a wisp of smoke. If you hold me tight, baby. I can pretend life is just a joke.
...I thought I heard you laughing but it was just the north wind. If I wish hard on a falling star maybe...you'll fall for me again.
The seeds of transcendence are sown cracked open wounded jackal thrown off the back of the world, squirreled away the stutter of butterfly wings ripped astray from the jagged wound of this ragged heart jumpstart the poet who knows it falls apart and the threat of alphabet blocks giant doubts the way out is but a mere shout from within and with your knife buried deep you call me friend twist it while you kiss me in the mist listlessly one more gutter chore jab impales turns black the heartbreak will always supersede the heart attack and you jacked me with crowbar tidily wink flip manhole cover slips like a giant penny copper crypt dunked this punk into oak barrel headlong drizzle as she walks silently on Cuban heels dreams fizzle and I seem to chew the gristle and Yuban shake you were lovely but god you couldn't even bake forsaken taken time I'll bite like that diseased trout
when you cast your line and tell me to get the fuck out see I've belly crawled back so many times got road rash and a gutful of entrails waiting to sail concrete sea trash kicked and dicked around like the clown from Belzar who lost his heart to Betty Page and Teri Garr Could I rage this part cast in play of insanity tried to count to ten, you shut me up at three free to open my shirt to the hurt of your knife blade your masochism knows no bounds and is forbade seven cane lashes to my upper thighs cries the poet not to vain to candy cane cry just won't show it bonesaw buzzing in a dirty washroom from out of sight tremble tied to the bed in the glow of a gas lamp light awaken and my bonds disappear all just a dream until I hear the bonesaw start back up...and I scream!!!
Chess with strangers
For how long can I hold you when I've told you how I felt. How long can you stay in the game when all the cards have been dealt.
...Built a stickman out of matches he burned up before I was done. Whispered shadows in the hallway before the rise of morning sun.
For how long can I kiss you knowing I'll miss you when you go. How long can you roll the dice when the casinos have all closed.
...Built a snowman out of sand he blew away before he could talk. Painted with words in a lonely study but even Picasso
Deep Tissue couldn't build a clock.
For how long can I keep you sweet and true once I've lied. How long can the forest burn before every tree has cracked and died.
...Built a birdhouse at the institution left it unfinished the birds won't come. Played chess with strangers and forgot about you while the white coats all looked on. 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?
On My Way to the Grocery Store
By Newamba Flamingo
He was a chunky, awkward, and short 15 year old who wore coke bottle glasses, spoke with a slight lisp and walked with a gimpy step due to his left leg being two inches longer than his right School was not a kind place for him because of his lisp and awkward walk nearly everyone called him “faggot” Although he was tormented by the majority of the student body the jocks gave it to him the worst when walking through the hallways to class, they’d regularly slap him upside the head shove him into a locker, or play keep away with his glasses On account of a medical condition he’d occasionally have to use crutches or a wheelchair and the jocks especially enjoyed attacking him then often kicking his crutches out from underneath him or dumping him out of his wheelchair As bad as his walks through the hallways were gym class was most horrific for him he’d always be picked last for teams
Deep Tissue tripped up spit on and intentionally fouled roughly during games After class, in the locker room, was where he got it the worst one of the most menacing jocks, a 6’4, muscular linebacker everyone called “Mad Dog” would administer the boy a variety of wedgies, such as the “Melvin” which involved pulling the boy’s tighty whitey’s up from the front, causing much pain to his genitals or the “atomic wedgie,” where Mad Dog’d sneak up from behind and hoist the waistband of the boy’s underwear up and over the boy’s head The most painful wedgie of all, though, was the “hanging wedgie,” in which the boy would be hung by the waistband of his underwear elevated from the ground and sometimes twirled around in airborne circles and once released flung clear across the distance of the locker room Every once in a while the jocks had contests to see who could make the boy fly the farthest via such maneuvers The wedgie attacks, name calling, and hallway beatings turned increasingly violent eventually reaching a crescendo one day after school when a group of jocks ambushed the boy in the bathroom while he was urinating They seized him from behind, pushed his face into the piss filled urinal trough pulled his pants down to his ankles, and forced a hard green banana up into his ass laughing madly the jocks raped him brutally with the piece of produce yelling such things as “you know you like it, faggot!” among other taunts Mad Dog even filmed the incident on his cell phone joking about how he was going to put it on the internet After sodomizing the boy for a minute or two the jocks removed the banana from his bleeding anus threw him to the cold tile floor One of the jocks spontaneously plucked a live cockroach off the graffiti covered bathroom wall shoved it into the boy’s mouth held his jaw shut and made him swallow it which elicited a boisterous round of applause from the group The jocks then filed out the door high fiving each other still laughing hysterically
The boy stumbled up to his feet vomited into the urinal trough pulled up his pants and limped home where he showered and brushed his teeth several times That night the thoughts of revenge that’d swirled in his head for years began to rapidly intensify Stealing his dad’s guns and carrying out a Columbine style attack planting a car bomb in Mad Dog’s Confederate Flag painted monster pickup truck hurling a Molotov cocktail onto the field during a football game poisoning the punch bowl at the prom with liquid LSD or cyanide all types of ideas crossed his mind… But for now, he just sat back in his bean bag chair unsheathed a hunting knife he kept under his bed rolled up his left pant leg revealing a large patch of scars and slid the tip of the knife about four inches down his upper left quad drawing a small stream of dark red blood which trickled slowly over his inner thigh Watching the blood drip pierced through his cocoon of learned numbness like a million needles his eyes then welled up and he started to sob uncontrollably He got up and locked his door crawled into bed and yanked the covers over his head That night he prayed for anything to happen that’d prevent him from having to go to school the next day a tornado snowstorm earthquake terrorist attack anything He just didn’t want to see those faces anymore he didn’t want to hear the laughter He just wanted to stay in bed.
You can find more of Newamba’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/newamba
A Love Affair
By Tarringo T. Vaughan
An Apology Letter To Death
Dear Death, I know I promised I would never acknowledge you again but you are everywhere I go lately—like the other day when I saw you holding up traffic in a parade of orange flags marching slowly down Main Street. I saw mourners masquerading as strength in their weakest moment and I remembered the many times recently I traveled that same road as a mourner and a philosopher trying to figure out the reasons why. You’ve taken so much away in so many different ways that all I could do was curse you with every bad word linguistics would allow; Then all I could do was fear you as I awaited the next casualty to fall to your surrender. And you know, between you and me, I feared my own demise. I imagined no more sunrise on days like today when my heart is pumping the beats of forgiveness. And I imagined not being here, even right now, watching the traffic of life cruise by on the busy streets of humanity as it travels in many directions of mortality.
Then I thought about the fascination of our every breath; the embracing of time sometimes we take for granted until you, yes you death reminds us of the sensitivity of moments here. You continue to open my eyes to everything that didn’t seem as valuable as they appear now. You are the reason I have grown and can no longer be afraid of you or blame you for awakening me to new enjoyments and fulfillments. I hated you for so long but now all I can do is say I’m sorry for not embracing your importance. Without you I would’ve forgotten to live. Sincerely, A fresh look at 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
On the Edge of the Salton Sea
By Jack Henry
i don't need a god or church or anyone's approval but yours i found my future here in a box i never thought to open never thought to explore a future my own and ours to share together you and i invincible dark clouds part when morning calls
Deep Tissue and your eyes meet mine a gentle touch wakes me from my terror all that came before no longs holds my breath i breathe in the air of life i never imagined fearless toward a future with you at my side peril and misfortune will never tarnish our skin break our stride or hold us back everything you are to me forever
there's a voice in my head unknown and new reality swept past lights twinkling horizon stars rise past a moon intent on mayhem serenity smashed crystal serenade on marble floors the old lady next door screams all hell breaks loose - it's not even noon - it's not even daybreak
television flicker cartoon silhouettes on pale blue walls Monday threatens trees bend a sudden storm calls it seems i am waiting for something but what i am yet to guess -
the reality tree
today, in the central square of my small town an angry horde gathers -
an old man ties a noose from common rope, tosses it over the branch of an oak tree, a tree older than me or you or any that gather under the blaze of a midday sun -
Deep Tissue a hooded figure, with hands tied tight, walks slow under watchful eye of elder skin -
boards creak with each step -
the cries of mothers and fathers and starving babes rise into blue air ravens scatter I stand in the shade of a Catholic Church -
the hangman tightens the noose pulls a lever the floor drops out and the pop and snap of a rope thrust taught echoes just as the masses erupt
Deep Tissue and cheer -
who was that?, I said Hope, a woman said without emotion
of any kind
Lady Gaga sent me a photo via email we met on Facebook when I should have been working at least I think it's Lady Gaga it could be anyone hiding behind stolen pics and enough information to make me believe
maybe it's some random guy
Deep Tissue that gets off on pretending gets off on convincing
Lady Gaga wants to fuck me of that I am sure I am that stupid? maybe a little too hopeful a little too optimistic
my doubt lifts slightly when I receive an invitation she asks me to meet her at the Chateau Marmont
Deep Tissue on Sunset Boulevard we end up in a bungalow poolside the one Robert Mitchum resided in before Lindsey Lohan first got drunk she takes off her panties and false eyelashes ties me to the bedpost straps a plastic cock to her waist she's not a hermaphrodite I thought you should know
on the verge of spontaneous combustion
just before sunrise at the edge of the Salton Sea little black birds cling to branches of dead and dying trees seagulls dance across sand and water laps the shore a gentle symphony
Deep Tissue three days burning fire through my veins down to a last pack of smokes before a cash buyer knocks on my trailer door barely summer and temperatures rise weary and wicked under a blazing sun before she leaves I ask her name she pulls on her panties and smiles long black hair trails down her back before she stays I offer her a button bag of heaven it's all I have, I said she nods her acceptance lays back down I remember Madagascar at sunset sunrise on the Sahara her lips know the way her tongue does the rest a crow peeks through the window caws out a compliment I smile in surrender and wipe away tears
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.
Befor and After Midnight
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
SOMEONE STOLE MY FACE
Someone stole my face. I was not asking for it. I was good. I kept to myself. I did not go to groups. I just stayed in my room. It must have happened when I was sleeping. When I woke up I looked into the mirror and saw another face that was not mine. I am not good looking, but I want my face back.
FEAR IN MY HEART
I carry fear in my heart. It pushes down on my chest. It follows me to all the places I have ever been: All the windows I see out of, in all the portholes fear is there. When I am dreaming there is nothing to fear. I want to dream forever.
He stares at the sky. He does not know what he‟s looking at. His angel looks down on him from paradise. The angel thinks the man will spend his life after death in a place like hell dreaming of being elsewhere. The angel has doubts. His mind is troubled and inhabited by visions of his pending descent.
SCRATCHING AT MY LEG
Scratching at my leg, making blood come out. I need attention. I need to feel pain. Scratching at my face, but never the eye. I want to see things. I am not that mad. Scratching at my arm, picking at old scabs. I have infections. I need therapy. Looking for a way out, looking for love. I don‟t always know what it is I want.
ON THE BOULEVARD
I saw her on the boulevard carrying her weariness. It seemed to weigh her down. She hated her work and her life. She was selling her dignity. She gave nothing away for free. Her figure was not what it once was. I observed her and felt bad about her.
IT IS ON
It is on. You bring your lawyer and I will bring mine and I will sue your ass until it bleeds. I need you to know that I will not lay down like a dog. I will not take your medicine. I am not sick. You and my wife must have something going on. She wants to steal my money. I suppose you are fine with that. It is on. My legal team will send you to the poor house. You stand no chance. You and my wife will rot in the same cell.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico. He lives and works in Los Angeles County, CA. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His chapbook, Digging A Grave, will be published by Kendra Steiner Editions in October 2010.
With Love and Respect to All
By Phillip Inman
She took my daughter. Stole her away in the night. She robbed me. That's never right. I will never forget the words I spoke. If you were here right now. I would choke you to death. Perform C.P.R. On you. Then choke you to death again. That she might greet death twice. Fear it's hateful embrace. His cold breath in her face. Shudder at the fear of it again. Defiling herself shamefully. Emptying her bowels. As all light left her eyes. That is true hatred. I despise myself for feeling that way. Forgiveness is not natural. To angry humans. Our daughter will hate you as well. For your tearing us apart. You broke a sacred bond.
Deep Tissue Not just a father's heart. I forgive you. Yet your righteous indignation sickens me. You sit in judgment on the throne of shit. Peering down on mortal men. Pathetic woman.... Look within.
I have a neighbor lady I shan't call her out by name. Because quite simply I do not know it. My, but isn't that a shame? I have tried to introduce myself while she was working on her lawn. She simply glared at me. So I passed on. Quite often she has outdoor tea's with all her Church lady friends. Publicly showing off her incredible righteousness. Bible studies in her driveway as my son and I walk by. Spurned it seems. We cannot figure out why. Maybe she saw the police in my driveway two times last year. They were here to arrest my best friend lady, you would know if you had simply asked. Why do I try? Such a simple thing to me. It sickens and it saddens when I see ignorance such as this. All puffed up and prideful. Oblivious. I do not know your name but judging you that's not for me. Your husband seems a gem. And that is great to see. It takes all kinds. And lady? You best believe this long haired wild man's gonna kneel and pray for you. I know Jesus too! And I hope you meet the real one. The father I adore. He patiently awaits you to join us on that
Deep Tissue shore.
I hand you my heart in a box. wrapped in paper, tissues and string. I've seen you open it up quite a lot. Just looking! I heard you exclaim. What might you do with this gift? Treasure or give it away? It is yours now, so do as you wish. What is the point anyway? For it's tattered, wounded and torn. Neglected and broken in two. What do I need it for? I don't use it. Seems more fitting to leave it with you. I hand you my trust in a box. And wonder aloud why I should. seems harder to do every time. But I take all the bad with the good. Here I am hoping that you learn to love. Someone, anyone, even you. To lose all hope is a curse. No one knows that better than you.
I am the wordsmith. A literary troubadour. Take my hand. Don’t be afraid. I will show you a magical world. You can journey there time and time again. There in the pages you’ll be safe.
See the pathway up ahead in the written lovely words? Open up your heart. Be not disturbed. There in the woodland forest of a forgotten realm. No Gigabytes, no Ram. Just playful woodland Elves.
No mindless television to muddy up your mind. The world’s cares fall away, it is sublime. As Fairies fly over our heads. We kneel to drink from lemonade streams. Now where did that Unicorn get off too? He is hiding now, it seems.
Now escape with me. In these the pages that I write. I am none but a lowly scribe. But therein lies my power. The lore of written word. Our guiding light. Our pure purpose.
Let the heathen check his Email. We have mountains to explore. Up ahead a playful monkey rides atop a dinosaur. And what is that? A volcano spewing chocolate lava towards the sun. As Icarus plummets back to earth in flames. Well, he was warned.
I can teach you to return here. Just follow me and obey. Pick up a book and read it friend. I hope to see you there. Someday….
‗ I am ‗
I am a poet, an asphalt street prophet. A roving troubadour. My writing is the wind. I, the ghetto Buddha of Longview, Texas feel the heartbeat of the people. I have my finger on the pulse. My needle is in your veins. Trust my skills. I will not miss. I talk to God. We speak, visit, socialize and if I could I would get him high. So he wouldn’t miss this shit. The heart of it. Reality is all I see. The veil has been torn from my face. Duality is within me. But I no longer run from the reality of truth. I celebrate. Youth, fire, love and pain. Trust my words and believe…… I am the seeker. The lowest of the low. I steal, hate, lie and kill. I’m human. The pathways of my soul are laced in crimson red and sinew. The blood flowing in my veins no stranger to you. I am you and we are one. The pathway is lined in rock, concrete and flesh. I scream, sing and shout. Let that pain out. For it serves us well.
Denial is it’s own damnation. I for one have chosen not to do it well. Introspection is my curse. My cross. My salvation. I worship the Lord of creation. I speak to you an ancient name now….El Shaddai….El Shaddai….. I am a father, lover. Imperfect man. A woman’s shadow writhes on the floor of my memory. In candlelight aglow. Begging me for more. I miss her. I damn her. I love her. My talents are aflame. For creation is the way I serve and love God. For he made us well and in his image. Alive and able to choose. Our bottom is as low as we choose it too be. Climb up from down there. Don’t wallow in the pit. I am the wounded boy. Don’t you touch my toys. I will share with you. Not everything though. Not all. Adam and Eve ruined it for us all. Or did they? For to truly see, with open eyes. That is the thing we need to seek. As so many of us have closed our eyes as sheep. Down to that slaughter. Bleating…Bleating….. Watching our brethren die. As New Yorkers did today on a busy city street. Someone’s brother, son, friend or father bled to death as they all walked by. I saw it on the news and I died a little inside. Come with me brethren are you with me? Is not humanity human? Are we not made in his image? Do you feel no shame? I do. New York….Ah, What’s the use? I am honest. Can all say that? Allow yourselves to see the you deep down inside. Do not hide. Embrace who you are. Be real to yourselves. I beg you. Be humble and honest. Don’t pass a dying man by. He lies there calling out in pain. Another child of God. Let’s get involved. Or humanity shall pass away and all hope will be lost.
For Kassie For far too long I've gazed at you, a yearning from afar. As if you were some distant city longed for within my heart. There is a roaring deep within me. A self indictment of my heart. The regrets of all I've lost thus far. I've dream t of the espresso served hot in your cafe's. Of searching those unknown streets and shadowed dark doorways. . Is all this but a dim and distant dream? Or will I travel there one day? The smells of the busy markets . Intoxicate and lure. The taste of unfamiliar dishes like the scent of your perfume.
But like any other city in any other place. Imperfections do exist like the wrinkles in your face. The broken glass in the back alleys. The addicts in dismay. But in counterpoint to misery the cathedrals shine in soft suns rays. As monks chant in morning stillness to greet a brand new day. I want to see the opera and drink exotic wine. I must buy the tickets. I've got to make the time. What mysteries await me in this distant city only seen in dreams? Of architecture and sunsets and undiscovered things. Will she welcome me with open arms like a lover missed for years. Or will she bring me sadness and bitter anguished tears. Will I become another crime statistic to read about in news? Will I end up a vagrant wandering and alone. Will her streets protect me or steal all that I have ever worked for and loved? Will she cast me out and betray me? Make me an exile someday? Remains to be seen. But hopefully ....ah yes, hopefully. She will be my home.
Hello, My name is Phillip Gregory Inman Sr. I am a twice divorced single father of six great children. Three boys and three girls. I am forty years old. I have been a carpenter, sheetrocker, singer, bouncer, certified nurses aide, security officer and criminal. During my three year stay in the Texas department of criminal justice. I realized that my mother Judith Ann Inman had passed along with her dream of being a writer. I dream of being published but will probably never be famous until I die. Ah… such is life. I have only been succesful at a few things , raising hell chief among them. But in spite of my horrible Peter Pan complex I somehow even in the midst of a very crippling addiction to Methamphetamine have been a decent father and that is a miracle as I come from a very troubled and abusive past (abusive stepfather). Pain has always been a reality in my life . Not that I am a victim. I have played that role. But today writing is my release . My creativity . My salvation. My only hope is that my experiences however painful for me can somehow release or ease anothers struggle with addiction. It is truly the hardest thing I have ever lived through. My prison stay came after my ex wife kidnapped our baby and stole her away to Las Vegas , Nv. I have not seen her in so long. Then God chose to further test me and allowed my mothers heart to give out. I was faced with the task of taking her off life support. After that my addiction hit a new level and I began my days as a needle junkie. I truly wanted to die. But was never really proactive about it . I thought , well if I do this enough death cant be far along. Selling narcotics to an informant probably saved my life. But since my release on parole it has been some struggle. Employment is at an all time low and I dont want to fall off the wagon at times. I seem to want to leap off at a dead run. But somehow I do not. Being a felon has no advantages except I can survive , job or not. Hustle, Loyalty, Respect. All I have left. Hopefully my poetry and blogs will reach someone in pain. Someone who has lost all hope and needs to know that they are not alone. Reach out to someone today and never let them know the pain of forgetting the touch of a human being. Loneliness wears its way in and gnaws bone deep at times............. Love and Respect to all
By Dan Kellett
There is a vast slaying in progress It is underway The entombing of majesties Of our swans And their fragrance This ground we hold Every inch Is baked to death by obscene overtures And fruitless pulp While exuding From abortive soil Is the brightest green Of suffer And we close our eyes Like sharks in frenzy The tactical defense of unseeing serration and infliction Mothered by [want] consuming [need]
Avarice He sees like a cyclops In one dimension In one direction And plumb To the end
Ode to Poem II
a blaming weight raging in ceremonious song playing notes in tones of tons burying my eyes in the filth of bedside kneelings and palm to palm surrender my sovereignty drips from Dystopia(n) glands petrifying to offensive pillars that swear only to the worth of bleeding filling hungry holes in the far away and long undone truths we carve into the curves of the earth purging egregious spleens burying piles of pain in the ground that ceased Icarus AND I AM
blanched and mounted on imposing barrows of broken Babel stones slashing taunting stars from the great black beating the skin of my chest bloody again
You can find more of Dan’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/dk_d
Ranting like a Preacher’s Kid
by Julie Burmeister-Sate
if scars tell us who we are then my shame is on display for I love the burning heat and have approached it without due caution too closely again today and everyday everyday everyday oh these marks are not the the works of wicked ways
Deep Tissue this thing that burns too bright and scars deep crimson gashes comes with too much violence a searing pain in advance for my punishment in hell and well that has descended on me again as well today and everyday everyday everyday but how should I have helped it if there is only the one bright light that has ever led me astray and I needs must love it always even if it dies away you can find Julie’s work at: http://www.facebook.com/burmeisterjulie?v=photos#!/burmeisterjulie
A Pentacle for Blue Boy
By Glen Lantz
Chapter Four Redeemed Angels Blue Boy’s girlfriend Lisa stated that when he stepped out of his car, the paparazzi and TV folk would go bananas. She said that they would just go wild. After he would pass by them, they would sprint off ahead of him down the street. They would wait for him to reach them again, and then the orgy of flashing bulbs would begin once more. Lisa said that he would always stop for the cameras and we would have to pose for more pictures amid the bustle of the crowd. Then his security detail would shuffle Blue Boy and Lisa toward some packed nightclub somewhere. She said that sometimes it just got to be too much. All of that attention sometimes would be just unbearable. Once they would get to the club, security would clear a path through the throng and edge them to a raised seating area and then into a section behind a velvet rope. She said that at last there would be some smidgen of privacy then, except that a TV crew had a massive spotlight trained on him all of the time. She said there was always a television crew following them around. That was just something you had to accept if you were going to be his girlfriend. No matter where we went, there were always various paparazzi hanging around the
club snapping photos of us all of the time. Party guests on the adjacent dance floor were always gawking at him and sticking their camera phones in our direction. Lisa recalled that Blue Boy would say that he had too many things on his mind that he didn’t think about all the people staring at him. He usually would ignore them and pretend that they were not there. She said that every single day there was a crowd of fans and photographers wanting to get a piece of him. She said that it was just relentless; they just wouldn’t stop following him. He was followed by paparazzi every day, from the moment he woke up until he went to bed. Even when he was going to the store to get milk or taking his dog for a walk along a city street he was followed by a crowd. She said that many times it was just too ridiculous, that it seemed unreal. He lived his entire life in front of a camera. Lisa said that she always felt like there was something more to this life, like she had a destiny to fulfill. It is just a feeling she has had for a very long time. She feels like there is more to her life that is yet to unfold. Her sense of having a greater purpose was enhanced when she was with him. He made her feel like she could do anything. He helped her to believe that all things are possible, that she could do anything. She said that he did that for people, he made them feel capable of doing great things. He always brought out the best in people. It was a special gift that he had. Blue Boy’s high school classmate Nathan Pembroke said that Blue Boy wasn’t much of a student. He was either kicked out or left almost every exclusive private school in New York. He spent most of his time crashing society events and getting high with the other lost children of the decadent rich. By the time he had reached the tender age of 19, he began to wonder what sort of profession he should pursue. He liked baseball, but he was not athletic enough to play baseball professionally. He was also fascinated with the human body, however, one has to be good in math and science to become a doctor and he was terrible in math and science.
The first time Nathan met Blue Boy, he knew that he didn’t like him. He said that there was just something about Blue Boy that he didn’t like. Nathan said that there are some people in the world who just rub you the wrong way. He said that it wasn’t because of anything that they did or say, they just would rub him the wrong way. He said that Blue Boy just rubbed him the wrong way from the beginning. Nathan said it was like that for him when he first met Blue Boy. He said that Blue Boy gave him the creeps, that he made him feel uncomfortable. He said that his skin would actually crawl when he was in Blue Boy’s presence. Nathan said that the real problem with Blue Boy was that he always made bad decisions. He said that Blue Boy lacked good common sense, pure and simple. He lacked good judgment when it came to things he said and did. Nathan said that hating Blue Boy was fun. He made it easy to hate him. Nathan said that he always enjoyed a good sneer at the decadent rich. However, with Blue Boy, it was so much more than just fun. His lifestyle of excess was just him rubbing his wealth in normal peoples’ faces. It is like he was above the rules that govern the rest of us. Nathan said that Blue Boy was the prince of clowns. He was only concerned about being seen. He had worked out elaborate schemes to make sure that he was seen with the right people in the right places. In fact, he hired public relations experts to guarantee that he was constantly in the limelight. He had a whole team of them working out every little detail. Nathan was convinced that Blue Boy had sold his soul to be in the spotlight. Blue Boy no longer belonged to himself; he belonged to the people-to the public. He had said good-bye to his private self a long time ago and surrendered to the call of the spotlight. Blue Boy had destroyed the boundary that separated his life and his professional career and had turned his entire existence into a public story and himself into a “brand”. He deliberately turned himself into a being without an inner life, a personality whose only value was to be seen and known by all.
Deep Tissue His classmate also said that when you would see Blue Boy stumbling out of a club at 3 in the
morning, he was actually working very hard. Blue Boy claimed that he was actually very shy and hated going out unless he was getting paid. By those calculations, he must have been rolling in the money from personal appearances. He seemed to be always out on the town, drinking it up and having a good time. Blue Boy claimed that when he was at an event, club, or party, that he was getting paid for being there. Nathan found that a little hard to believe. Nathan said that one thing was for sure, Blue Boy knew how to line his pockets. Nathan suggested that in many ways, Blue Boy was just a small child. His acting out was just a cry for help. He only wanted to be loved and accepted by everyone in the whole fucking world. Apparently his mommy didn’t give him enough attention when he was young. So he became this sick fuck that paraded in front of the camera. The poor bastard, let’s all hold hands and cry for him. Nathan said that he expected Blue Boy was dead. He knew it was cold blooded to think like that, but he just felt like Blue Boy was gone. He said that the fact that they didn’t ask for a ransom means that he is dead. “They will eventually find him in a field somewhere or in a shallow grave half buried in the woods. It is sad, but you know it is true. He was a fuckup, but he didn’t deserve to die. I hope his death was quick and painless. I really don’t wish him any ill will.”
The next day, I meet with Blue Boy’s friend Antoine Carter. It has been about five days since Blue Boy has been kidnapped and more and more people are beginning to worry. Thoughts that Blue Boy might be dead began to creep inside people’s heads. Antoine and I meet at his house in a rich luxurious neighborhood filled with iron gates, tall stone walls, and security guards. I asked Antoine if he had increased security since Blue Boy’s kidnapping. Antoine said that everybody that was anybody was increasing their security. Antoine Carter has been Blue Boy’s friend since elementary school. He said that he knew the real Blue Boy. “He was certainly not the character that the media portrayed on the television screen. There was always a risk that some people would take him less seriously because he had been playing a role. But he didn’t really care. He knew who his friends were and they knew the real person, not the character he portrayed for the public. The media thought they knew him, but they did not. The media always gets it wrong. I don’t me you, but newspaper and television people. They never take the time to get all of the details about a story like a writer does.” Antoine said that Blue Boy was a performer; he was only playing a part. His character was the dumb rich kid who gets into trouble. Antoine said that Blue Boy was very good at playing this part, maybe a little too good. He was like Curious George always getting into trouble or like Denis the Menace with money. “That’s what people wanted to see and he gladly provided it for them. Blue Boy knew what he was doing, he researched everything. People only see what they want to see.” Antoine also said that Blue Boy was very savvy in how he worked the image of celebrity. “He was always smiling; Blue Boy felt that it was important to project a friendly demeanor to the public. The parents of little girls are won over by a smiling face. He had successfully created an image that combined explicit sexual availability with innocence and naiveté. He was like white noise behind a solid drum beat.
Deep Tissue This sounds sort of Zen-like, but, he was everything and nothing all wrapped up together in a single
package. He was simple and profound all at the same time. He was a blank screen from which to project your message or product.” Antoine said that Blue Boy referred to himself on several occasions as a walking billboard. If he wore a certain kind of shoe out in public, the next day sales for that shoe would skyrocket. Jean companies would pay him truckloads of money just to be seen in public wearing their jeans. Antoine said that he didn’t understand why so many people hated Blue Boy so much. He insisted that Blue Boy never did anything to hurt them. Antoine said that Blue Boy was just living his life the best way he knew how. He didn’t understand why people wouldn’t leave Blue Boy alone. “I would hate to be criticized for every little thing he did. I think most of us would agree with his sentiments. Everyone makes a mistake now and then. You can’t blame the guy for not being perfect.” He said that he would hate to live under all of that attention. “Blue Boy couldn’t leave the house without being swarmed by a crowd. He had used publicity to build a multimillion-dollar celebrity empire. His outrageous behavior had scored him headlines and magazine covers around the world. His brilliance was in getting the attention of the media around the world. They loved to follow him where ever he went. It is like a pack of dogs chasing the fox. The moment he stepped out of the house, they were on him. The media had an insatiable desire for everything he did.” Antoine said that it was safe to say that Blue Boy was preoccupied with himself. He only emphasized the worst features of a collapsing civilization. Ancient taboos had no hold on him. Guilt did not haunt his dreams at night. Instead, his attitude toward sex was more than permissive. Women and men were a means to an end for him. He was liberated from the superstitions of the past. He said that sex was vital to maintaining our creative energies in life. Rules and regulations did not apply to him. Rules had no hold on him; they could not touch him.
Antoine asks me if I know anything about the disappearance of Rico Nerada the writer. I tell him that I know who he is and that he was abducted, but that is all. “Besides that, I don’t know much about him.” Antoine asks me if I have ever read Rico’s book “The Monster Among Us.” I tell him no, that I haven’t read the book. “The book is about an average guy who slowly goes insane and starts killing people.” Antoine gives me a copy of the book and I promise to read it. He says the book is mystical and will change my life. “Rico used to be an emotionally unstable English professor who taught creative writing classes at a local college. Rico suffered a nervous breakdown when his wife of twelve years left him for a younger man. When he returned to his classes, he developed a penchant for asking the young women in his classes for sexual favors in exchange for high grades in his class. After several of his former students contracted sexually transmitted diseases and their parents complained to the college president, the college administration soon asked him to leave. In order to keep things quiet and not draw bad publicity to the college, he was paid the remainder of his contract.” “Rico is reported to be a junky with a nasty habit of shooting heroin in his toes. He used to date the actress Natalie Thurman until one night he got too wigged out and beat the shit out of her. The beating that she took from that junky put her in the hospital from seven days. The doctors had to wire her jaw shut and she had to eat all of her meals through a straw for three months. The bastard beat the holy shit out of her. You can barely recognize her from the police photos taken at the hospital. Some cop made a copy of the photos and sold them to the celebrity magazines and retired from the police force rich. The mayor bitched and moaned on channel five for two weeks that the prick should be arrested and prosecuted and then it all died out. We never heard a single peep about it again.” “Rico was eating dinner at a fancy restaurant that you have to get reservations a year in advance. He was dinning with a movie starlet who was the latest great big thing happening in the movie
world. I guess actresses never watch the news or read a paper. If they did, you think they would not to go out with a misogynist heroin addict who could beat then within an inch of their lives. They had finished their $300 dollar a plate meal and had just stepped outside the restaurant, when a dark van pulled up and snatched Rico. The culprits pushed the starlet to the ground and hurried off with the famous writer. Once again the FBI is in front of the television cameras telling the people how they are putting all of their resources into solving the abduction.” I ask Antoine if he knows Nathan Pembroke. He smiles and says yes. I tell him that a friend of mine interviewed Nathan the other day and that Nathan didn’t have many good things to say about Blue Boy. Antoine laughs and says that he is not surprised. He said that Blue Boy and Nathan used to be more than just friends. “You mean gay, I ask?” “Yes, they were lovers,” says Antoine. “When Blue Boy met Lisa, he didn’t have time for Nathan anymore, so Nathan became a little bitter. The last I heard was that Nathan was seeing some artist guy until Nathan became born again. Now Nathan spends all of his time on his knees praying.” I tell Antoine that Nathan thinks Blue Boy is dead and ask if he thinks Blue Boy is dead. Antoine says that he hopes that he isn’t dead, but it gets harder each day to continue having hope. I tell Antoine that I believe that Blue Boy is still alive, even though I don’t. I guess I did my good deed for the day by helping this guy believe for a little while longer. The odds are in favor of Blue Boy being dead. But, you never know, sometimes the long shot comes through and wins. Kilgore calls me up on my cell phone and says that he wants me to come over to his place. He says on the phone that he has a surprise for me. I tell him that I don’t like surprises. He says that I will like this surprise. I jump in my car and drive across town to Kilgore’s apartment. He has a small one bedroom apartment on the third floor. The apartment building is mostly filled with college kids since it is within walking distance of the college. He moved in here because of all of the young girls and it is close
to several bars. He said that the major selling point was that he could get shitfaced and go home without getting pulled over for drunk driving. You can find the rest of the story at this website: http://www.scribd.com/doc/33451967/A-Pentacle-for-Blue-Boy
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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