deep tissue magazine 11

8/6/2019 Deep Tissue Magazine 11

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Deep TissueMagazine

Issue 11



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Duane Locke

AT ALBERGO MILANO BETWEEN MILAN AND PIAVE

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.



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INSIDE MY BODY WITH IT BRAIN

A BILLION ACTIONS ARE TAKING PLACE

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.



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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

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



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And the pigs grunts accompanied as a chorus.

The pig’s ancestors had escaped fr om a Spanish ship

That had docked at this location

To steal young girls for European bordellos.

SORROWS

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



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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.

RUINS

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.



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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



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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.

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 20thand 21

stcenturies.

http://3217--www.lisastonearts.com/






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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.



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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.

Watery

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



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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.



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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 writtenfictions 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: CollaborativePoems”. The forthcoming book is “Surviving Cyber Life”.



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Dawn Kilby

Transparent Covers

In the midnight hourI look for youI 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 notUniversally

I am my father and mother

He, within me,

is God.



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Untitled

Rainy days break my knees.

Tell it to the trees

For they can seeThe 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 BeChristians

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".



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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



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remorse▪

52.

Of things, like-things abrasive. Confined

roles

societal

predication

reliant generational histories

spatial deterioration you-them finalizing

modal

truncation of original systematic honoring, relaying

hope as transgressional armor

gauged by gazing absence

physiognomy’s function into fiction’s concluded

parody of dementia (as youth’s escaping elemental pellucidity) ▪



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53.

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▪

54.

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



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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▪



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Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental andphysical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity inpoetry 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.

--

Felino A. Soriano

[email protected]

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

http://www.felinoasoriano.info/



http://us.mc1206.mail.yahoo.com/mc/[email protected]


https://twitter.com/#%21/felinoasoriano/



http://facebook.com/felinoasoriano






http://www.counterexamplepoetics.com/



http://www.differentiapress.com/



http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/



http://www.sugarmule.com/














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Donal Mahoney

Convention in Miami

for Gerard Manley Hopkins

Around his navel this morning

a halo, a red stippleHopkins would love:

"Glory be to God for dappled things..."

It's a gift from this woman

he doesn't knowwho 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.



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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 scoopsin your shoulders.

I prefer them to ice cream.

Next week I'll fly out

and salute your nipples.

Long may your buttockswaggle and jounce.

No New Woman

I’ve found no new woman,

as you’d like to surmise.

But the next onewho 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 therewill I kiss her until

she is certain

a thousand butterflies

one by oneare lighting

all over her body.



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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 hatstands 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



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and plot what they’ll do

when the niggers pour inand 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

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http://deeptissue2.blogspot.com/

Send submissions to: [email protected]

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deep tissue magazine 11

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