Deep Tissue Magazine

Number 12
1

Alan Britt

FRIDAY NIGHT, LATE SEPTEMBER

I weave like a boa through laundry hanging on pastel plastic hangers from basement copper pipes, quarter-inch leads zigzagging my jungle of existence.

I could fall down
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beneath these drying black cotton trousers and heavy grey sweats, even choke on these button-down polos that never quite lived up to expectations, but I choose to stand anyway.

I cut through all the bullshit to live another day.

EVERYONE WANTS TO BURN

Every day I devote myself to her, thunder shreds my gauze dining room curtains; bison clouds nudge power lines and suburban warehouses.

Everyone wants to burn as bright as blue plumes billowing from I-95 Philadelphia

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sanitation incinerators at 7 AM, rush hour.

But, today, the road not taken is the only road left.

So, my fellow horses of instruction, shake your gilded halters if you must, but beware that beautiful blue wolves prowl these beautiful blue hills we’re so fond of calling home, and remember that the scam always unfolds when you least expect it.

However, for the scam to become a legitimate scam it must first pass the test of guard dogs fast asleep on Sunday piles of un-ironed laundry.

But let me tell you, 68 pounds of herding dog

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can relax like nobody’s business atop wrinkled denim asses and ungodly wads of barracuda-striped business shirts quietly shielding at least three pairs of slightly-stained and exhausted, khaki illusions.

AFTER THE CIVIL WAR

Reconstruction, as far as I recall.

Reconstruction that followed families through the Louisiana bayous of the Coushatta nation.

Reconstruction that involved your folks and mine.

Not a single Great Aunt voted for the tattered flag, that day, let alone baked a pie,

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a special, nonpartisan pie, that everyone could enjoy.

GETTING HARD TO TELL

It’s an $1,100 bottle of Chilean merlot or perhaps it’s merely Papa Joe’s Big Red signaling from a buoy disguised as a mermaid in the moonlit Atlantic.

I used to worship the clouded berries of your seaweed hair before my godmother suddenly appeared as a sullen wolf from a Brothers Grimm fairytale prowling my sheets and pillowcases.

I used to worship my uncanny freedom

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until I stumbled across guilt and despair, not necessarily in that order.

Dressed as a male peacock shimmering for all he’s worth, I used to worship electric imagination.

And, sometimes, I even worshipped the Divine Providence promised by bloody placentas sprawled like Autumn on the granary floors of 17th Century extended metaphors.

I worshipped it all!

Then, we rode like hell, one god-awful night, my appaloosa and I, across the feral Arizona desert, bleeding profusely from our genocidal blue eyes.

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Alan Britt teaches English at Towson University. His recent books are Greatest Hits (2010), Hurricane (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). Essays recently in Clay Palm Review and Arson. Interviews and poetry recently featured in Steaua (Romania), Latino Stuff Review and Poet’s Market 2000. Other poems in The Bitter Oleander, Christian Science Monitor, Confrontation, English Journal, Epoch, Flint Hills Review, Fox Cry Review, Kansas Quarterly, Magyar Naplo (Hungary), Midwest Quarterly, New Letters, Pacific Review, Puerto del Sol, Queen’s Quarterly (Canada), Sou’wester, Square Lake, plus the anthologies, For Neruda, For Chile (Beacon Press), Fathers: Poems About Fathers (St. Martin’s Press) and La Adelfa Amarga: Seis Poetas Norteamericanos de Hoy (Ediciones El Santo Oficio, Peru).

Alan occasionally publishes the international literary journal, Black Moon, from Reisterstown, Maryland, where he lives with his wife, daughter, two Bouviers des Flandres, one Bichon Friese and two formerly feral cats.

8

Rose Morales

The Ethereal Beauty of the Newly Dead The seconds stop, expiration of final breath, then stillness, mouth poised in bubble blow puff. Bubbles burst like saliva escaping, rainbows broken in corners of the mouth. Minutes before the cold, softness of the frozen cheek, some awareness still lies there, a ghostly firing of synapses. They light the way down dark tunnels, hurrying unburdened legs onward, unto home. Beauty of the eyes we think no longer see, but it's our faces that disappear, the candle
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not yet flickered out. It burns, micro blink, gazing out at far horizons, the green flash, gone, the time remains for keen laments of living and the wrenting of lapels. Belief I store it in a lock box safe, swallowed key jangles on my spine, revealed, but never told, the final piece that lives on after faith and hope is gone. Chew the skinned morass, the pleasure of teeth sink in my fractured bones, impaled by the cross reversed, Buddha sits upon my chest, I found him on the road, and had not the balls to kill him. I would not choose sati, Shiva looked on with jaundiced eye. I am a relative pariah at the pyre, let those who sin do the suffering. I turn six corners, a star crossed Jew, stripped of my Matriarchy by angry Philistines, Sarai stoned for the progeny of her barren womb. I will not turn my back, though I be old and grey. I live in a land that pulls threads from the mat, obscuring views of Mecca from the South, the East, wars from North and West, strangled under burden of my girdle, pulled into nurseries and called jihad. I walk with nothing, skin and hemp against my back,
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the road is empty, and the end is dead. I bring up binds that shatter all my ribs, I have no more to give, no more belief, no Heaven, nor a Hell, no gods along this stretch, I give you this, my love, and only this, a tale, a story, the keys at last, the total wreckage of my soul.

Rose Morales is the author of the book "42" now available at www.alabasterandmercury.com She lives in Miami, Fl with her husband Alex.

11

Felino Soriano

Recollections 38

|sleep|

canopy of fortune textile sways renaming selection of night’s

spontaneous hours

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certainty

of drastic horizontal stillness weight transfers from whole to some, purpose becomes branded feeling

the

nested within shelf of cottoned circumstances

creating

halo of admitted freedom the eyes surprise with closed indentations

halting blink of noon’s styled air unraveling sight with darkened stone immovable by light until dawn’s earliest struggle

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Recollections 39

|upon frail hands|

Nothing speaks (able though characteristic, nonchalance) as does the cypher’s inexistent shadow

withholding prior holdings spaced into deliberate fulcrums

inward outcast, movement’s deracinated subject

bone into bone thus wrinkled explanation

hurried to youth among vision’s sole hanker to

reignite wisdom’s osculated ending.

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Recollections 40

|conversation with hollowed vocals of accumulated silence|

mastery of unwinding chaos cultural complexities approximate diversions of

analytical movement; an —after truth (this subjective dimension, diverse speculation)

apparitional mirrors converge with blatant tongues of dilated embraces:

we can hear skeletons retain temporal

schemata

their alphabetic motions reclaim habits of prior innuendos, imposing fantasy of sound

nearest

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augmented window of evaporated wind’s unseeable carcass

bodies, voiceless now as

following arid mendacity and

paradox of caressed tribulation

Recollections 44

|trust of misused conundrums|

divisible web of answerless queries retain adolescent motions depth of visual assistance through a density of sound jejune with partial acclimation crossing
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across

chaos’ juxtaposed paradoxes, retaining confirmation of ambulatory cessation

Recollections 50

|social reliance|

verbal accolades spontaneous effort as esteem ascends

blend of forehead plateau

beyond then self-sufficient halo

manifest dexterity of self and self-another

version

delineates counted moments dissolving etched degrees of

resuscitated

persona

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: www.felinoasoriano.info.
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Chad Repko

ANGRY PASSION It's one of those days where reason is clouded in haze where you get lost in the maze There is only one thing to praise I want to take you with me in the kitchen with no referee on the floor asap Throw me against a wall and crush bodies together wrap me in glory and bound me with tether pull the hair, scratch the chest get out all those demons
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that frustration have expressed in the hall, on the stairs we will soon make our way upstairs I love that dress on you but you won't be able to wear again torn and slightly off no candles or champagne It's not over until all muscles are drained you can rip off my cultural shroud and begin your own reign Hands clinched tight as one fist tongues speaking in spiritual coexist we leave the world of gain and success exorcise the meaningless stress bury all the vampires that seem to depress and unveil our touch that we repress sweating and twisting as I undo you complete meditation That I do deserve and so do..... you ........

VISION AT THE STOP LIGHT The light was Red when I saw you, Walking like a sweet violin Black silk top, beautiful chest, And soft skin. Hair flowed over a passionate neck and the body as vibrant as the sun and a smile..... a smile that makes my sorrows come undone I see you gazing my way, and your eyes have worlds inside And I see us begin to talk a voice like an angel with nowhere to hide You get in my car to much of my surprise you nervously show laughter As I begin to drive
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I see us in a bed after a night of sweet communication Exploring each other’s warm skin giving in to all of our temptations the minutes and hours do not exist as we use each other to forget all of our frustrations I see us experiencing weekends, a picnic away from the maddening day Phone conversations, lively vibrations As lost as we seem to get We help each other find our way All of this.... Is what we seem to display I see years go by within your lightened touch and all the growth of what we've become Filled with the passions that flow and with the horrors that can come Drying each other’s tears, holding Gravitating on the touch Hoping we do not succumb I can see you battered and tired of the stress within the soul And no matter how hard I would try I could not make you whole And as you turn to others as before you have turned to me The decay of time Makes you want to be free And as the life time rolls away like the credits on the big screen My vision is complete As I hear a beep when the light turns green and in those little minutes, you are gone.....

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THE LIVING AND THE DEAD Strange memories of things I can barely remember not a long lifebut it seems like a lot of Septembers a little bit of calmness and a bit of suspense somehow- it all makes sense I remember a golden island of Moorea Trade winds, adolescence and a girl from California a beach of immeasurable beauty vacations and seeing the world so young I barely noticed the booty I remember reading Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Tolkien Helter Skelter, Poe while in school Thompson's fear and loathing While others got game- I was a fool Always feeling there was something in-between the living and the dead that there was something else here something to discover just ahead I remember an accident Femur split in two months in a hospital bed my developing years watching Alfred Hitchcock presents and engaging in my fears I remember LSD nights spent raving on Ecstasy snorting coke, Ketamine, Speed learning philosophy and cosmology counteracting dependence with Sadomasochism and diving into the world of psychology panic attacks, hearing the jazz sax the balance between living and dead doctors scripts, mental health tips but nothing really settling what's in my head

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I remember making movies studying Scorsese, Lynch, Warhol My life has always been a Woody Allen gag Engrossed in Chaplin's comic realities Trying Creatively to melt thought to screen devising pictures scene by scene I remember love and marriage ten years of complete adoration changing, becoming what need to become lusting after that one complete friend and maybe you needed a bigger cock whatever it was, it had to end And I face my 35th summer learning the space between living and dead with a son now, so full of grace and focusing on the future instead

My name is Chad Repko, born very close to Philadelphia. The journey has been long and tiring, but filled with amazing twists and turns that only make it all worthwhile.

22

Cornelius Bent

Baptism atrocities drag themselves across my ears bleeding from the talking box programmed with agendas codes of illegitimacies written against nature

summer is creeping in slow the caress before the blaze gives me time to inhale each wave of transition inciting my innate deviance to unnatural compliance level by level
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the first sweat of a yet clean body

I've shaken the darkness from my head it's pieces are piled 30 years deep in a barrel where my grief was laid months ago I will burn them both when the moon is positioned to receive the ash

my father still speaks to me through the insects he always told me to care for through the woodland he taught me to listen to through the breeze he said i should touch with my lungs through the perpetual baptisms he knew each moment to be

and this moment finds my form beyond biological existence i am alive and i am well

Cornelius Bent is a human being who writes poetry.

24

Glen Still

Rusted Garden I'm trying to save you and me where we can move on the scaffold high above the water not spilling oil into the deepness of our souls

We can never go back there again it was so insane trying to break the camel’s back
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with straws shooting razor blades

I'm trying to relearn everything that i forgot once upon a blood stained heart a beat that sold me upon a path away from you

The fact is i got an ego and it tends to get in the way of us you got one too and yours is like elastic snapping back at me when i should not be pulling

I'm trying to save us from the Rusted Garden where many tribes have corroded

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laid to waste before they ever planted a seed to grow into one another we are just two people but we can do this together stay up on the scaffold stay above the Rusted Garden

Glen Still is searching for his soul in Seattle Washington. He is looking for volunteers to help him find it.

27

A.g. Synclair

Silent Killer still perfection realized, no neither lithe, nor delicate of limb yet mortar bound in fidelity in eerie calm, a silent vigil watch features intersect at algebraic angles, yet delicate softly, like a whisper wind she plays the executioner in silent dispatch a death knell dealt to prurient folly a milk-white liquid touch. A.g. Synclair is the editor and publisher of The Montucky Review. He doesn't have an MFA in anything. His work has been published in numerous online and print publications. He lives, writes, and otherwise collaborates in southwestern Montana with his significant other, the artist and poet Heather Brager.
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JD Glasscock

Deep Groves

counting moments...slips of tongue arcing breath.....trying to carve my way to discernment..truth over flesh.........do any of the masks spinning love around my frame actually hold to this as hard edges....sincerity in the hip pockets of their cast lines....or is it all frail and broken carnival frivolities to pass the ticking of second hands....what do you believe when duplicity seems to be the road to everything...Hope and gutter swell prayers in the curves they double Dutch shuffle in the side periphery of my lone moon haunts is what sustains the theatrics of my belly crawl through the crumbled ruins of this archaic arch I find within the dazed hazed stumble I call life.....yet still....doubt naws my chewed over bones......my ears tentative to the high stroke timbre of a lie playing hip holster to their verbiage.....to their limbs in manic sultry shape......to the patterns of past mistakes...... It's why i do the bi-polar shake bake to the jump cliff huddle down hollow hill
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to craggy forest junk heap in the seconds it takes to chest heave deep.....it's why in every footfall that places me closer to the sweat of our skin enmeshed in sin I back flip ten feet to shutter curtains between our heat.....it's why every door ghost creaked open to the placement of articulate fingers upon the thumps of blood....I feel the deer in headlight adrenalin game of push and shove.....it’s why lonely hermitage with wailing howls to the beat up harp blues is sometimes an easier road to rule.......easier then the bull’s-eye paint stamp the possibility of intimacy trumps within me.......yet still my pit toss bones in the prescient weave of silk that has laid it's palpability upon the fork tongue adder lisp of my fate leaves me little choice in the cemetery willow that has sung my lullaby since my momma's womb spat me to back alley streets and said goodbye..For in the storybook sigh that has followed all the passing of sun to shade in the drown boogie jazz horned skip step of my solitary transit there has always been the empty symbolistic runed hallow hollow that should be a woman's silhouette.....and no matter the shark teeth grunt pull of my every whim and limb straining against the cosmic pre written loom spun novel of my down trodden hovel...in the end.......my flesh wll form to bend...it is inevitable....inevitable as death calling me it;s own.....of taking me to the endless dark of the deep grove....

Twisted Gate in the sleep time of distant memory a requiem to the film noir black and white frames of a forlorn history the twisted gate was the foghorn of our steps We met in the dark ethers of moons yet cast our hands tentatively seeking lost preludes to kisses never tasted flesh never consumed Her hunger was palpable fornication of reunification of roads meant to tie the cupid pierce of a forever haunt a heat simmering wants in deep glades
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butter wrapped in a guise called love the tickling of skin, small circles being formed by fingers agitated in unsure articulation We spread our lies in thin tethers heart thumps bugling isolation in a word a look her limbs were pirouettes in the repose of truth the gate sent screeching iron to mark the passage of goodbyes held before hellos softened tongues They say stories are just a spinning globe running themselves into perpetuity of repetition That we crayon draw the precipice of our own falls that in the dissolution of our illusion we partake in the immolated aroma of the bruises forming art upon our bones that it be our own fists planting imprints across spectral fluidity in other words....we bit teeth to crooked teeth in the consumption of our own cannibalistic mourning... loathing.... He whistled melancholy stitched into other worldly drifts of memorials to the sorrow lining bottled ships never brave enough to leave docks... And sailors wantonly deep throat banners of lucidity and duplicity to etched barbies with puppeteers pulling strings to movements of imposable will.... the iron of swinging bars
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wails to the tricked trump of this paradoxical query They both pass ghosts who wave in connected continuity lives trickling mirrored answers to the fumbling of their sincerity Honesty is a many bristled beast who causes stutter stare shakes and dark closet movie remakes with huddled forms painting shadows under toddler shaped beds.... They will spin the faulty mishap of their ever dwindling dawdling in the hopes that the next passing will be the last while an alcoved audience peels belly croaks to the inevitability of tragedy marking the ignorance of their stumbling carnal ineptitude the shades that follow the querolous inundation of their eternal white eyed cave shawl And a low ground hugging wind rolls the movement of twisted gates howling forever vocal restraints into the cacophony of life rewinding itself in broken bridges to the record spinning itself on the same melody on the same linear scratch thinking itself original in it's bop bop bop..stop the clock crooning..... and two fading frames sculpt the acrimony of two celestial spirits too afaid to lock hips and lips and understand the breaking of chains.... tick...tick......tick........breathless

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Artifice -- a gift is given when the giver has already taken all there was to give

A glade....an open space....a virulent echo of a long ago melody...one left on the byways....the forlorn alcoves of the humble and lamenting......we travel verily wayward upon mistakes weighing our steps till dragging limbs into a crevice of proverbial threading ......a matrix of chains interwoven with regret....to let go....to embrace the emptiness of wisdom coming from a fool's lips, the lack of it's meat chalking memory without history tying up it's expectations.....we fall to fly...and fly to touch dream.....long is the night with no apology...long is the night alone in the dark.....salt eroding rivers upon trembling flesh.....roadmaps to days left far away, hope and it's parody of happiness as markers to remember, sorrow the collapsing structure to celebrate the forming of cages.....and yet still our limbs sketch sandboxes with which to grasp toddler past times in monkey bar tumbles...

We pray.....we whisper hungers and ritualistic coinage in the verdant yearning that it accomplishes what our own limbs cannot....that within the folds of it's holistic hallow verve it will sculpt the Earth into something more resembling beauty....less so cannibalistic loathing and a carapace of delusional hierophants of black cabal junkie fixes....We lather our wails of stiffening resolve to become less replicated sheep grinding circles in smaller concentric shapes suckling American Idol reality tv celebrity simulacrums of artistic integrity......a convincing hollow eclipse of serenity....our teeth chew upon our own surface flailing circumference dwindling upon the depth of honesty becoming a slogan one uses to fornicate duplicity into the open maws of youth's venal simplicity....we argue the merits of curriculum tied to the pent up altruistic warp of fatalistic truncation of humanity's ever soiled morality....we twist and bend the bars of our prison naming them the fruition of freedom.....our wings clipped and broken as we tell ourselves the pristine glow of their healthy sheen.....stroke, stroke, choke upon the nicotine acerbic fallacy of never ending complacency....we shall look upon this moment of breath and shall wish a different road was chosen when we lay for that final rest.....but until then we shall look good upon our journey.....

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Interludes of a blues mood rolling numerical boxes of prophecy in the shape of bones to the wherewithal of fate syncopated within tones.....got dribbles of drunken blues trickling back of throat......and sculptures of romantic interlude writing what was wrote......my desert is parched...and I got tha attributes of Texan stones with which to impart........Got down home jazz melodies dropping the hammer to the anvil of my anxieties....

My eyes look up only to see the pirouettes of ghosts doing two steps to the foreplay of my broken down jig.......and a crowd back lit with shadows watches........silent in their accusation...demonstrative in their appreciation.........Flood lights lighting the lit paranoia of their barely restrained sarcasm and pent up irony......

When did the roulette of my undying fetters spin the amalgam of my breath rasping death throes to the determination of uncharacteristic by-blows of sought after moral dilemmas....? Was it during the sweating toss turning of rumpled sheets on the night the grins of a desolate man asked me for the fabric of my heart, the crumpling gratitude of my deteriorating spirit....? Or was it the insipid sacrificial conundrum of the last love I clung to tossing a child from forsaken womb? When did the honorific borderline schizophrenic decline begin it's rope'a'dope last round round up?

I mosey in chaps and low slung holsters down dark alleys and paint a smile hovels with hot iron playing across fingertips.........I tilt hat to shaded flickers of forget me not looks as my sight pierces the moments of memory and the latitude of longitude rolling the crosshairs of my upside down existence....

I hear their footsteps echoing distantly down corridors ever revolving around the corpse I call a shell that still hasn't realized it's own demise and keeps puppeting itself with the delusional certainties of a life well lived.....lies are the meat of a story's bi line......yet some part of me...some say the self immolating self incriminating border line bi-polar drop a hat in the lunar
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dance of lucidity brought to a new low part...but still a part....sends staccato rays of hope to a midnight world where the crumbs of such are few and far between the cracks of the asphalt hump riding our dreams.....slipping between the divides of good people's, derelict in their dust the scarlet off their pumpernickel duties, haunt hides in the seams of division bullet hopping visions....and still another part believes in the thirty eight cracker draws this flesh has peeled through the star fucked calendar of years will still insert phallic limbs into the orifice of love's cherubic mentored into the cremate go on a date lute driven archaic stage play of film noir black and white shade gray despot rerun of Bonnie and Clyde romantic fun....one can say much luck would have to cluster fuck the happening.....but can and could sha bang bang the realization of such profound and unsought after climactic interludes......or should I say always sought after forever deluded disappointed hum drum of humanity cavalcades of fruitless yearning......

I shake the cobwebs off the howls I send bouncing truths into the night......gather my knees under me after the fall I failed to notice....and straighten my stride into the deepening of the long eve......in the end.....it's all a crap shoot......a drive by the night in a tailored suit pulling jokers where there should be aces...jacks instead of queens....... and tumble my stumble I leap into the canyon free for all....I got my iron spraying lead aspirations into the gaping maw of fear......my wings unfurled....my throat heavy with song.......eyes nailed to the coffins of could of beens.....should of beens......and into the narcissistic Dante Nostradamus pit I smile......this is what it's all about.....facing whatever comes with a grin shit pasting the worn lines and scars you call a mug......so bring it........spit some blood...a tooth..a fucking limb to the wails of hubris...I have seen everything you got to throw....breathed it, lived it....soiled it....so come on already, I'm getting bored......I'll be your huckleberry......say when...........

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The Oceanic Terror of Dream and potted gold as elusive as weaves of threads etching mythos into a nightmare's boon

The road is a tumultuous driven labyrinth of never ending walls and pitted falls of forever lessons carved in their make.....an endless wake of wisdom in wait for your scarred palms to lift up it's craggy visage-- to consume it's nectar. It is within the ghost towns of these promises that we sculpt our own divinity...find the fulcrum of trinity between the nurturing love of a mother's sacrifice -- the hard boned courage of a father's vice and the innocence true compassion birthed in a child's wide eyed gaze.... I stop and wonder and dream and weave and yet the culmination of these atrophied limbs find the ascension of my life long pursuit sometimes as far way as a rainbow's gold....as elusive as staying sleep from berry wine's revelried gourd..... One can have gift and talent climbing rafters in Cerunnus antlered glory--in the deep dark hallowed completion of the hunt -- yet in the hard curbed streets of these downtrodden clicks of calendar years it is as useless in apeture intrusion as a blunted spoon in blood strewn diadem's of a battle's corpse ridden rune....for in these end days of corporate games it is only in whose eyes u fall upon and whose sheets you sweat that can elevate the meat of your flesh into the fruition of success.....it is only in the hands u shake and the bodies u slide into that can satiate the burgeoning aspirations of your womb bought fate -- a world driven in envy and hate creates hard avenues for rising upon earned merit's value...it is a politician's city to table top spin a be bops grin of victory.....it is the schmoozers licking chops and the inner curves of a suit's ass that get one past the hard oak doors of a dreamer's dream......slithering serpents unveiled to humanity with nothing to dribble off their tongues yet a continuing cheer of sheep and shallow dips in preprogrammed under usage of mental acuity.... My eyes brew storms in the back drop of their falling beauty...thru failing hubris of my body's aching bruises and hard spent scars ---lightning stirring, coalescing to supturate this puppet flesh --- ember burn through the falsity of this spinning globe of duplicity and the allegories of caves long ago predicted now etched in stone of reality's bones --- Men attired in satin and
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velvet hiding the sun from a blind man's visage and hopes of more......prayers rebounding off heavens long ago closed to listen....... Faith is a couplet of melody that in today's age has found difficult to hold a steady tone -- shaken with hollow idols and empty preachers selling diamond studded crosses and nation carved buildings grafted in silver and platinum......platitudes spun in thunderous pronouncements about the all inspiring importance by which name one call's something so vast as to make the attempt laughable to begin with.... And green greed permeates everything as the majority of people become foundations in wailing death to the few aspiring to immortal consummation of their own reflection -The keening siren's call of an endless ball of drunken revelry and go nowhere drifting loss of love and brotherhood....is this the destiny of humanity -- is this the heights we had hoped when first stepping from Gaia's womb?????? I spit upon the next step as my feet stumble their way to change --- I will never give up upon the thermals of my broken wings reforming to flight upon sky silhouetted wind -- by my father Uranus and his ocean spun heaven I swear oath to the breaking of these rust pitted chains ----my blood returning the couplet of faith and fervent belief to its steady tonals of symmetry and universal melody -- till my lungs heave their last melancholy call to dream.....i shall stride this mud with a titan's purpose and verdant growth as I fall to knees at the door of hope....to the endless lope of a bard's heavy weight six colored cloak I shall endeavor to bring up those whose talents have been forgotten -- to those whose lives have been left in the ditch upon the side of the road -- I shall do my best before i Lay to rest to reignite the innocense and pure joy of the children in all of us asleep in perdition......soo all ye dreamers and weavers and saints of heart and honor --- let us join and bring a new future to this failing falling trash heap of corporate creation --- it is our world -- let us bring it to heel.....

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For those of you who are wondering Glasscock is not a fake name. It is my real last name. It is Welsh, and yes, I am sure my ancestor was drunk at the time of choosing. :) I am originally from Orange County, CA but in 1990 decided to be an artist and felt the hunger to experience life so moved from southern cal to trek my spirit down the long road flitting from place to place moving to Seattle in 2000, the avenues in fruition bringing me to Los Angeles, CA in 2009 to finally pursue my aspirations in writing/directing/acting and as a lyricist. I have been writing/performing for 20 years, starting out as a Slam Poet in 1990, eventually becoming a member of a 2000 National Team for Spoken Word. I was the lead singer/lyricist for Sofa King and a music promoter for many years. I'm now focused on writing film and novels. I enjoy people of true depth...people who are honest and real...who treat people from all walks of life with the respect they themselves would wish.... Anyway, that's me. I have 4 self published books thru lulu.com, 6 shorts, 12 feature film scripts, a video game concept, a graphic novel, three novels, a children's book, and various other projects, though I have never submitted anywhere. I am 6'1, 200 lbs, ugly as ugly gets -ha ha- (or maybe not ugly, depending on which throne one sits), 11 tattoos. Anything else, just ask.

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Paula Lietz

This Lovely Disarray ponder me to the depth of your soul with butterfly kisses murmuring tales of old sooth our disarray as you sip my parted lips savoring the taste of wine I've noticed there is no path, for that reason entwine me ever so lenient amid your cautious thoughts that nurture the ardor waiting to unfold in mutual esteem acceptance of now means letting go of the old bear with me in your wisdom as I stumble a bit, cry a bit and laugh at my errors and wonders as I learn and continue this journey that I truly know nothing of worn wood rich in hue, the door once so inviting now to be closed with utmost respect
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I vibrate to the beat behind the door not yet open, it is ajar, pulsating steadfast passion encouraging me to fly but the lesson being that no, not now is the time for flight again I maunder when all I ask if I may for some of your strength of soundness to sooth my disarray this lovely disarray

Storm Passes Pathetically waiting, strung out for a cue shadows starve and hinder my view silently I stand mired in the blue of the moon, indigo sky peeling the dark of the night leaves me vulnerable to the scrutiny of the sunrise Last stars suck in the remnants of what once was the Milky Way preamble wisps and wave of daybreak dance to dawn's tantalizing tango in a narcissistic sort of way I simply wait.... how bloody naive Sterile dust devils shimmy and sear my porcelain skin noon heat brands and taunt in obsidian viciousness, malice taunts me bodily and boldly with your name
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Time maliciously passes me by and I again stare into twilight till afresh the mischievous evening shadows begin their cruel trick of portraying you ironically they make you out better than you truly are ~ full of yourself You weave in and out of my emotions a game, a bloody game of high tides I stand my ground and dare you down You, this coward man in the moon

Oh Euphoria Oh Euphoria this ~ your surreal mania beyond enchantment but a sip of your essence and the reins slip from my hands

Untitled I shall not forget the man, nor father you were they say I'm like you there's no need for words of love ~ I will bring the fishing rods ~

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Edge of Reception at the edge of reception where I know naught sphere, realm, dimension not fully in nor out stretched between nanoseconds of here, there and now and then mathematical matrix of quirks, quarks, myths and theories I dislike physics, but the science of matter and energy and their interactions make sense of this draw beyond my ken it taunts and flaunts spectacular galaxies as I travel amidst this one star ruin black holes beckon and I barely resist their temptation I am in awe what is the definition of redemption as I teeter on the edge of reception Growing up I was surrounded by art in its many forms; my Father and Grandfather both being Professional Photographers and my Mother being not just a Professional Photographer, but an Artist as well. However, that being said, being young and involved in youthful pursuits, I never took advantage of the wealth of knowledge literally at my fingertips. Fortunately, decades later, that dam burst and a flood of artwork and writings have resulted from it. My art, poetry and photographs have been published on numerous online e-zine sites as well as in print.

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Michael Benifield
Lost Stars Alone

I stood next to a moonlit Oak, awaiting my own decisions. Within the mixed array of my mind, lay a burning question.

The mirage of confidence, just like the whisper of wind, turning harshly my tourniquet within, dulling the wrecking-ball pain, and sin.

Stars! You are lost, even you are not my friends. These tears you cannot stop, these wounds you cannot mend.

My warped mind is aflame, pushing back the cool wondering, and hot pondering,

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of this autumn night in chains.

The evening of my life is above, flashing in sequence with the stars. Pushing me to flight, throwing me far.

Can you see through my mirage? My blanket of false hope, wrapped around me... I tie it with ribbons and bows, So you may see it, and not me.

Not I, only a blinded eye, caught beneath the fears of the heart, and exhausted by single tears, falling from my draining strife.

Swipe it away, for I am no longer whole. Swipe it all away, for I am gone. Lost beneath the stars, bleeding salt water, and forever alone.

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Elephant Series #1

Elephant Scorpions
You sting too deep, knocking the head of another asleep. Dieing today by your own sting. No Pity for you my Scorpion being.

Die now but with truth of self, portrayed by ringing bells. The tole of others lost in stride, spread by those who choose to lie.

Elephant Spiders
Beauty and thought, the celebration of lose. The belief that all that in life can be bought, but bridges burnt cannot be built.

The original sin, with the taboo within. Yet, the declaration
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of hidden truth, and in all intense.

Elephant Butterflies
Your little foot is not enough, but your wings flutter above us. Beauty and tithe, youth's answer to strife, quietly gliding between obstacles of life.

A wondrous thing of grace, falling through the pyres. Made by your gentle suffering... a million questions forced by a million desires.

Elephant Dogs
Your bark is much louder than your bite. You could be a wolf, but lack the balls. Humping all in sight, and good in a fight. Howling for company, hungry for destiny.

Lay with dogs and three dog night, growling at nothing, running in fright. Dogs bring fleas and flies around, Dogs, the enemy of the new, and Ignorance's frown.
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Duane Locke

THE PAINTER OF VENUS

He never sold a panting while alive, On his atelier door he kept a sign In large red letters on a white background That asserted “Closed.” Upon his death, no one knew him. State officials had to break in. Were found paintings of Venus Stacked in rows against his walls. Always in each, Venus’s erotic pink cheek Was the same shape as a the pink cloud Becoming dark fringed above on a most delicate
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Background of baby blue spotted with what looked like human tears. Now Dead, recognized as a refiguration genius, but not yet Quite understood. Critics of were perplexed about the sameness of cheek and cloud shapes. Critics asserted contradictory meanings. Many scholars wrote the usual mediocre articles On the meaning of these similar shapes Of cheek and cloud. But no two scholars ever agreed. The public saw in the paintings what the article read them told to see I looked at some of his Venus paintings On the day I received the message about the suicide Of the dark haired girl I loved. Feeling a deep grief, I understood the feelings the similar shapes conveyed. I looked at a photo of his lover, whom no one Knew anything about, her photographed cheek Was the same shape as the cheeks of Venus and the clouds. I understood, but could not articulate my understanding. I just read in news paper that one of the Venus paintings sold For several millions. The new owner renamed the painting. “A Portrait of Thais.” A restorer had removed the dark fringed cloud.

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MAGIC WITHOU MYTH

Linden leaves against nakedness makes one feel As if touched by a magic linen. On windy days the wind will cover proneness with linden leaves, If one is immobile in hidden places. One feels the bizarre mysterious touch of embossed stiff threads And their sensuous revelations talk as touch on the skin. It makes one feel as he is a magician and can transform Himself into something spectacular and unknown in a classifying world of dullness.

SHEPHERDS AT LUNCH

He became pastoral as he sat In an American simulation Of an English Pub. He joined The chorus of Rolex banded arms moving downward To pierce with fork prongs a crust, Shepherds’ Pie, watch the cream-colored Sauce oozing out from underneath. He, a slave mentality, knew he was happy, Cozy in his conformity, as he Imagined himself a shepherd

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As did the other accountants, lawyers, Financiers. He, like all the rest Who bought their blonde wigged, Blue-contact-lens-over-brown eyes, Secretaries to lunch, imagined That all these girls who wore Shoes with long spiked heels Were barefoot.

EL GRECO

The fingers long, the knuckles large, When looked at the second time, the fingers Were extended farther than upon the first look. On the third look The fingers of this tall giant had stretched Through space to cast shadow on the lightning Over the crenellations of the walled city. The El Greco painting Competed for my attention. Its Competition, the girl in front, Her bare back that displayed a tattoo So large on her skin it looked like a mural. She stood in front and gazed at El Greco,

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She looked down on her museum notes to find out What she was supposed to feel. What I gazed beyond the tattoo’s border At her bare skin surrounding the ugly ink drawing, Its texture, a few freckles, was an exciting As the shadow of the El Greco giant’s extended Fingers that shadowed and blotted out The walls of an imprisoned , old figuration city.

HAPPY HOUR OF AN UGLY MAN AT A BAR

Each word he spoke was a shilouette, guttural, Had a Germanic goose step, A helmet with a spike. His sentences Were a hand with an Index finger and no other digits. His face Had the forced grimace of what would be called in bygone days “wooing.” There was a homely housewife domesticity about his ordering rye whiskey. She, his companion, not his wife, looked like a celestial illumination on a Key West beach As describled in polysyllables by tourist Wallace Stevens. Perhaps, the poet would describe her as courtesan in a democratic, liberal democracy, age That had no lacy courts, wigs with long silver curls, or Versailles mirrors, Or a divorced secular woman whose husband left her to stand in black by a wailing wall.

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The scene stimulated my thoughts. Why are the ugliest of all men Are always seen with the most beautiful of women. My thought were on why The ugliest man in the world could seduced so many women, Betrand Russell . He even married a dozen or two. Is this due to a gender deficiency. Have women no aesthetic sensibility. .Jean Paul Sartre, Another ugly man seduced an abundance of virgins, but he had An expert pimp in Simone Beauvoir who enticed her students to have “good faith.”

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, 3217--www.lisastonearts.com . 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.

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BeezleBarb
with a twist dirty, shaken, pimento-stuffed imagination stirred her ice-crystal tongue sipping the idea of one of those Bud Stamper affairs-spun fairy floss stockings, deep-rooted Mencken martinis, smokey humid nights tickled all dewy in unspoken juniper berry poltergeists; not the kind of love that kills poetry---where everyone is happy and just wants to fuck. No, this tiffin would release her words from the bounds of nobility with a dusting of its fine unsweetened innagadadavida powder; the kind of words mistaken for revelation; tympanum to conscience noir....

trick or treat his Quaker City confection came all corn syrup pink and white resinous anise oil extract rattled in her little box when he shook it heavy-handed, plenty good, thick carnauba molasses sugar lust tasting like door-to-door love in an old-fashioned pillow case his artificially-colored, hard candy shell stained her Halloween tongue; masquerading as an engineer, her bell echoed in the approaching tunnel sounding off loudly, irreproachably riding the rails as his freight train boy toy; he could even call her Choo Choo Charlie… “Finally, a good score,” thought the candy-ass lover assessing her bounty, assaying her jones by the tips of her fingers she rolled his gummy, licorice soul skillfully over the sharp edge of her loaded, pearly bite

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Ricky Garni

Voilà I don’t want to tell you I love you anymore today because I have already told you too many times. So I start to say There is something I want to tell you and you look at me as if to say I already know what you want to tell me when Voilà! I show you a photograph of a deer entangled in telephone wires. You see, I say, it can’t actually fly. An eagle grabbed it and carried it up into the air but it became too heavy and he dropped it and it landed aloft in the telephone wires. I didn’t know that a deer who couldn’t fly you say, how strange, yes, and it’s true, it’s true, I love you, I say to you, I can’t help it and I don’t care and my heart soars like an eagle watching a deer floating in space I am saying I love you and a man stands beneath all of it with a camera and he is happy looking up and smiling and clicking clicking clicking away

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I Wear Goggles For Fun I wear goggles for fun, not as a way of seeing into the future. But seeing into the future has proved to be a great benefit to me - and has even helped me save money occasionally on goggles because they often go on sale but when goggles go on sale is sometimes a great mystery, like death, the great mystery is why I wear goggles just for fun.

Everybody Loves To Kill Richard Widmark Boy, that Richard Widmark could act. Man, he could be nasty sometimes. It’s not normal for a blond guy to be nasty. I think he had to put more juice into it. You have to wonder if he went bald. He looks like he could go bald. Hard to tell if he was tan, though. Everybody loves to kill Richard Widmark. I mean everybody. Especially ladies. Richard Widmark really knows how to die, too. Good thing. He did it enough. and then his body fell limp in the chair He was dead. No, not really, he was just sleeping.
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He seemed nicer sleeping in the chair. Like Richard Widmark only bald and sleeping. Soon it would be time for dinner and a movie.

One Sometimes I think about that beautiful poem by Merwin and how he looked at the photograph of you when you were twenty and how beautiful you were, and yet he did not know you then and you were gone before he was ever born Sometimes I feel the same way sometimes about you I think about how beautiful you were and how you were gone before you * I ever knew. You wrote just one poem in your life but it was A beautiful poem, and I think about how it makes me sad, but it shouldn’t, and how I wished you had written another but you didn’t and then I think about how once you were the Emperor of Rome

Naughty Ink I had mighty different shapes in mind for you.

Ricky Garni writes and draws in Carrboro, North Carolina. Over the last twenty years, he has produced thirty books of poetry, ranging from the one page A PERFECT DAY to MAYBE WAVY and OK YOU CAN STOP NOW, both of which are over 500 pages long. On the back of OK you can find the following blurb from writer Emily Cooper: “You idiot! All your poems are stupid and about nothing in particular!"

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G David Schwartz
Oh Sweet Emily Oh sweet Emily Thank you much for thinking of me Why you went to go Out of town to the rodeo Dear tender Emma I know you remember What I had said to you In July 4th 2002 Let your eyes get bug out Let your voice just go and shout Let your dreams just dance about and please allow our love to hang out

Sally Has Such Little Hands Sally has such little hands and she wears such tiny rings But they seem to be simply so To go grabbing things

I Do I do certainly wish to be Held within your arms And I do not believe That would cause any alarm

G. David Schwartz is the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of “A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue.” Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write.

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Deep Tissue Magazine is published and Edited by Glen Lantz Follow Deep Tissue Magazine at Bogspot http://deeptissue2.blogspot.com/

Send submissions to: glen_lantz2@yahoo.com

Thanks for Reading Deep Tissue Magazine!

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