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Deep Tissue Magazine

Issue 11

Duane Locke

A tremor In twilight azure, a turn to turquoise, then Gray air erases blues. An albino deer’s skin altered by an evening sinking sun’s mixed Scarlet and crimson, but silver-edged By the sky’s sleight of hand. The deer’s tongue tip stirs the pond Into parallel sword blade shapes, dark streaks, Resembling a music staff waiting Waiting for a feathered pen to write notes, on staff of blades, shapes designed to cut, hurt, turned into A foundation for future music By a perception enhanced by the temporary touch of my fingers On the contours of her one leg, The one leg of my one-legged lover, The wine glass.



My brain is bivouacked with armies, Some volunteered, others were drafted, Instead of rifles, synapses are fired, Some kill, some bullets gave birth. Tonight, the anonymous voice on the phone informed She, the fantasy I loved, had tried to commit suicide, Failed. The commentaries revealed My past perceptions of her were my misinterpretations It was like finding a love poem Written with ardent passion was written about a fiction, And not what I believed I was writing about. Something else existed than that to what I responded. Neural sealed doors were covertly opened. Now The apparitions that evaporated, although as An alive being it never existed, was only an invention by alchemist Of loneliness, no longer spoke in my perception To dilute and destroy Burton and melancholy. So I saw myself As a pine ,like the pine of childhood by the highway.


The pine was hewed for turpentine, its skin Was hacked off with an axe, scraped to let it words Drip down into a rectangular zinc cup. Sent To a refinery to be scrubbed and bottled for exploitation. I looked at the empty bottles that filled my bookcases, Wondering what their contents was distorted into when used.


Etudes came from wood--tall, thick, segmented bamboo stalks Pushed by wind, scraped together to play an oriental trance music, A music that momentarily blotted out human false norms, False memes, false mores. Down in a wild iris purpled black bog, a mother quail followed By five bright chicks. Flying sand hill crane tinted vermilion by flying through The sun-warmed blood of the wind. Pan had lost his pipes, So he accompanied the music By playing a bassoon made of balsa wood. Pan excited the now wild freed pigs


And the pigs grunts accompanied as a chorus. The pig’s ancestors had escaped from a Spanish ship That had docked at this location To steal young girls for European bordellos.


Sorrows are never hermits, never solitary, But growl in packs like wolves, Sorrows are ordered not haphazard like our thirst, Or other desires, Sorrows maintain social cohesion By teeth snapping. The order of our life whether in Appalachia And its Autumn multicolored arches of dying leaves, Or in Key West as the sway is watched Of sea urchin spires are arranged by losses. All else seems aleatory, like a thirty story Building with its chromium steeple appearing Surrounded with a purple-lavender-gray halos. Sorrows, that started with a singular and soon Duplicate a difference from their origin, and then


Another to form a varied pack that occupies An extent of space tonight on the black faux Leather sofa and each has, being conformists, Red beads hanging limp on their throats, The beads has the red of shell-cracked- opened Bay tree seeds fallen on a sidewalk to rot.


When I came back from Rome, I brought back A photograph, a photograph of ruins on the Forum, Photographs of white marble chips scattered, Partially buried in dark brown Italian earth. The chips if arranged as in the original seemed To represent something I had lost. I put all Photographs of ruins on one of my walls. Some of the scraps were unrecognizable, But others were not. On was shaped like a lower arm, Exquisitely lust-exciting, but her elbow was missing. There was a wrist, but no lower arm, no hand That could fold and touch. Fingers, but the fingertips were gone, only knuckles left.


My mind tried to construct these fragments Into something familiar, her shape, but I saw I could not. I saw the past could not be recovered From the ruins, I could not turn this present Photographs into something coherent, or An illusion of something seemingly present. Why, I wondered. Then I recognized the cause of my failure, I had no original, no past, to use as a model. Our real extended relationship was as obscure to me as to what These fragments if united into their original meant When they represented an obscure fiction to the Roman mind.

Biographical Note: Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida, has had 6,601 poems published in print magazines And e zines. Nation, American Poetry Review, Counter-Example Poetics, etc. His last four books 2009-10 are: Yang Chu’s Poems 376pp, Crossing Chaos( Canada-Order: Amazon), Voices from Grave, 40pp., erbacce, England, Soliloquies from A High Wall Cemetery, Differentia Press, California; A Marble Nude Pauline Borghese With a Marble Apple in her Marble hand, 53pp.,Scars publications. He has been awarded the Edna St. Vincent Millay Poetry Prize, Charles Agnoff award, Poetry Society’s Walt Whitman award, DeKalb award for best poem, and a Swiss award


For best poem written on Europe. Also is a painter. His paintings, quasi 300, on sale at Lisa Stone Arts, 290 Parrulli Drive, Olmond Beach, FL, . A photographer, both nature and surphotography, many exhibitions, has done over 30 poetry book covers. Blaze Vox has recently published 40 of his SurPhotos in a book Poetic Imprints: Responses to the Art of Duane Locke. For more information, click Duane Locke on Google, or see Who’s Who in America (Marquis.) Has over a million entries on search engines. Comments: Constance Stadler on Voices: “For those who intimately know Locke’s work this In not surprising from the pen of the greatest living poet extant.” Hugh Fox on Yang Chu’s Poems: “…reinvents Zen meditativeness that turns everything Out there beyond civilization into the sacred.” From Bitter Oleander Press Catalogue: “Locke…one of the most incredible poets and Minds of the 20th and 21st centuries.


Kushal Poddar

Just Your Lucky Flood

The spring birds opt today for stealing the strings and pegs; A babbler flies off with your hope pearls in a slow motion.

Then strings of hope build the nests.

Today you repaint your ribs and dip the brushes into cold turpentine; a drought ends its run; now flood time, indistinct stream,

you feel good yet remote, submerged.

But today, the day of nesting, a string stolen represents a string remembered; you know they started the rescue mission. You watch sun bubbles just above your face, vague yet rainbowish.


Planning with the water

No rest on a day off. I bring my thirst to the water; take the water off the faucet; tell the wetness I planned a summery celebration, a summer holiday.

Then I fall asleep over my piled promises. The TV set stays awake; hums about blood, war, feud distant than my thirst dreaming me carrying it to the water, telling the water about a celebration in future. Even future remains nearer than the news on a rest day.


The water drops off the faulty faucet, its sovereignty of fall short lived, freedom lying in its uncoagulation, union with a greater body.

I watch the kois you kept in a tub


too shallow for their survival. The fish searches the bottom for something more than the food we threw in.

The water circles its initial place of fall; then more circles circle the first one. Your kois rise up to break them. Now calm, the water exists in all and one.

The fish outlive our friendship; later we meet at a water conservation seminar; you lie, you liberated the fish last July when flood entered your premise and I lived beyond memory.

I dream their union with a perfect shoal surviving our defeats.

Death’s umbrella flying

My uncle keeps death waiting outside in the rain; poor death forgot his umbrella.


The breeze brings the whiff of manure. I feel vigorous, useful. You can smash me right now; put me in the soil.

A floating umbrella goes. Death suffers from dualism. The dutiful trees get wet at distance.

The town’s heart moved away from this place. The town still grows on; my uncle travels it all from his sickbed.

We drink some flame; watch the coughing death; rain renders a washerwoman effect to its skin. We wait.

The next gush of wind may take either him or our uncle away.

Kushal Poddar (1977- ) resides in the city of Kolkata, India. Apart from poetries, he has written fictions and scripts for television mini-series as well. His English poetries have been published in the online and print magazines all over the world. He
is the author of “All Our Fictional Dreams” and been published in “Poor Poet’s Pantry: Collaborative Poems”. The forthcoming book is “Surviving Cyber Life”. 12

Dawn Kilby

Transparent Covers In the midnight hour I look for you I find you beneath the covers looking for me

He, I am I am not a misborn though unplanned I came. I have a father. He, within me, plays my existence with His eternal fiddles. A misborn I am not Universally I am my father and mother He, within me, is God.


Untitled Rainy days break my knees. Tell it to the trees For they can see The tears between you and me. Come what may, Time knows not today. Tomorrow speaks of past While future's play is 'ready cast!

Shady Masks People come People go Piety does not show on the Faces of those who claim to Be Christians Be Free Live not in a glass cage. Have not any rage; break the mirror with your spirit. Have much merit and be free.

Dawn Kilby (1976-) was born in Bad Cannstatt, Stuttgart, Germany; raised in the United States. She has been published in the book “Poor Poet’s Pantry: Collaborative Poems”, "Word Salad Poetry Magazine: Summer Edition" and "Word Salad Poetry Magazine: Winter Edition".


Felino A. Soriano

from Divaricated, Spatial Aggregates 51.

Impulse of reactionary thorns a tongue response reciprocates anvil angles of impressionable altered emotion. Objects and algorithms combine in meshed forays disciplining watchers’ octagonal glares, character pupils mirror flesh on flamed reprise reflectional nuances collocating response and methodological



Of things, like-things abrasive. Confined roles societal predication reliant generational histories spatial deterioration you-them modal truncation of original systematic honoring, relaying finalizing

hope as transgressional armor gauged by gazing absence

physiognomy’s function into fiction’s concluded parody of dementia (as youth’s escaping elemental pellucidity) ▪



piano in cursive expression; signaled articulation

motive rhythms

removed clarity, abstract funnels of diluted angles;

certain grace, sustained gratification; polluted images blackened blurs woven-wearing eyes of glittered concepts steel silvery silence of a shadow’s ornate degree of flattened perfection▪


Alabaster warranty expiration April’s elongated entrance burgeon of humid mouths, yawning. Garden silhouettes partaking birth from seeded wombs restructuring scent in dialectical manifestations. Pale of dying melt on concrete’s varied veins, opening structure of skeletal healing, absolute

temporal ease, temporary mesh of quarterly reinventions▪

55. Jazz as womb introduction— wired with woven mirrors intimate musical dissertations—

as sedentary pleasures involve verbatim muscular inventions does-as serial nuances gradated compromises revolving collocated silences (prior, then, an escaped rendition of pre-life after the subsequent reactionary confine of musicless spirituality)

combining systematic joyous veneration, the jazz of orchestrated meanings of delving improvisation▪


Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 45 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,800 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: -Felino A. Soriano Find me on Twitter and Facebook Personal website: Felino A. Soriano | Poet of Philosophy and Jazz Coöccurrence Founder, Publisher Counterexample Poetics Founder, Publisher Differentia Press Guest editor, Calliope Nerve Contributing editor, Sugar Mule


Donal Mahoney

Convention in Miami for Gerard Manley Hopkins Around his navel this morning a halo, a red stipple Hopkins would love: "Glory be to God for dappled things..." It's a gift from this woman he doesn't know who welcomed him last night with open arms and open legs and sent him back to his wife this morning, unaware he was bringing home a souvenir, a bright halo of crab lice.


Waggle and Jounce

Out on the lake the whitecaps leap, old lions shot in midair. Not far from the water I sit on a knoll and open your letter. You're in Sacramento now singing for money. Here in Chicago, on hot August nights, I lick in my dreams at the scoops in your shoulders. I prefer them to ice cream. Next week I'll fly out and salute your nipples. Long may your buttocks waggle and jounce.

No New Woman I’ve found no new woman, as you’d like to surmise. But the next one who braids my mind with my heart won’t get away, not even if she’s a nun. The next one like you I’ll lock in a room near the sky and there will I kiss her until she is certain a thousand butterflies one by one are lighting all over her body.

The Play’s The Thing

Every day the same play. The moment I rise, the first act begins, the same plot all over again. Only the characters, only the scenery, vary. Act after act, no intermission, no denouement, it never ends. Every night, in the front row, the same lady in a plumed hat stands and shouts, “Author, Author!” I smile, I bow, what else can I do? Finally I pull the curtain and turn in.

An Irish Enclave, 1956 South Side of Chicago, long before Barack Obama On bungalow porches and out in backyards, on hot summer evenings old men lower themselves into green canvas chairs, smoke and sip beer, laugh and relive Easter, 1916

and plot what they’ll do when the niggers pour in and eddy all over the dregs of their city.

Donal Mahoney has had poems published in The Montucky Review and other publications in the North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Deep Tissue Magazine is published and Edited by Glen Lantz Follow Deep Tissue Magazine at Bogspot

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