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Deep Tissue
Magazine
Issue #5, June, 2010
A deep piercing cut production
Cover Model is 42
http://www.myspace.com/sexybitchiswatchingyou
In this issue:
Jack Henry
Deep Tissue 2
a Shepherd's lament
he lay
in blood
devoid of meaning
a chunk of lung
Cinderella arrives
cooks it up
sucks it up
and a young boy suddenly looks up as an albatross flies across Central Park
plainly spoken
a perfect Cheshire smile
blankets of gray shroud mewling masses huddled deep in their collective sigh -
and
outside
gray and white gulls huddle in pods near overflowing trash dumpsters -
an old man
(shuffling stooped)
sun full,
eager -
your smile offers greater revelation than those subtle moans still drifting past my eyes -
Deep Tissue 6
your own?
as we swim
in pools of decadent shit
search for rope
or stick
or grasping hand to pull us free
scratching notes on stall doors
even as shadows
grip
a last nervous hair
on a dangling sack
suddenly I wonder...
your own?
your own?
add my name
box me in
i load another shell
into a Mossberg 12 gauge
every time you whisper
ill defined rantings
unqualified warbles from an errant mind
i sharpen a blade
shut up
stop talking
quit stealing my breath
five days to 46
i wonder how long i've been dead
every time i start over it's just another fist full of dirt
in the hands of time
Deep Tissue 9
on the outside
on the outside i lay bleeding
fuck you
nothing to say
fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
no breath
fuck you
no dope
fuck you
no speed in my veins
fuck you
Deep Tissue 10
fuck you
i must pause
perhaps slow
perhaps
dream
yes dream
of masturbation
ah yes that's it
my dope
fuck you
my drugs
fuck you
fuck you
just a hit a bump a short transition away from this radiator water acid flush reality
fuck you
Deep Tissue 11
fuck you
defined
sometimes words
are just marbles inside chalk circles etched on black asphalt playgrounds
sometimes words
are lost in swirls of damp laundry spun careless in industrial washing machines
at corner Laundromats
sometimes words
weapons of freedom snorted or spiked or inhaled from the fringe of suburban bliss
sometimes words
clang when jail doors slide shut and the skin of humanity
sometimes words
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 jackhenry951@hotmail.com.
Deep Tissue 13
Authors Note: In 2009, three chapbooks were planned for the 'Third Entity' cut-up series; 'The
Holy Hermaphrodite', 'Damp Tissue Angel' and 'Hive'. Of these, only the 'Holy Hermaphrodite'
was published as I aborted the trilogy. However, I have often had the niggling feeling that these
books should have appeared as I intended. With this in mind, I have decided to publish the
remaining two chapbooks exclusively in 'DTM'. These will be presented in parts over
consecutive issues. I am beginning with 'Damp Tissue Angel', probably the most sexually
provocative of the series. Next up will be 'Hive', focusing on social and control mechanisms.
So ... , here is what could have been then, here now.
On/Off
Lizard Men
Duct Tape
Freefall
Digital Death Killer
Art Murder
Colonels Attack on Neo-Matriarchal apocalyptic sex-cult
Damp Tissue Angel
Lazarus Rising
Womb-Man
Madame Lithium
Pink Underground Planet
Abandoned Warehouse
Permutation: Control
A Greener Exit
Deep Tissue 14
I
murder witnesses perhaps pink crucifix?
Lazarus Rising
drain vixen vipers
power power and
magick
I worship hawk headed God
raw voice
Lazarus rising of fire
praise Themis
sex power power and
mp3 audio frequency
degradation microchips implants
transmission emancipation
Lazarus rising mp3 audio frequency
cocaine brain transmission emancipation
destroy you all
praise Themis sex
Freefall
control panels ejaculate
erection tenting metallic tongue and fingers
index finger pumping star exploding
cock hard and sphincter grips him powder blue
pre-come her arse her lasers phasers pussy of sperm float gem on strawberry
burying digits ground alien entity
http://www.myspace.com/antonyhitchin
Deep Tissue 16
Laughing at Funerals
By David McLean
eternity
eternity might be a child picking his thoughtful nose
where night smiles itself full of nascent memory
and the slightest hint of juvenile sexuality
though he is not a pervert yet -
the abject
abasement is an arrogance
the proud can never achieve
and abjection is a word
as empty as words are
a sword to wound water
that heals like an ego
or a vagina that dies
and curls up
like a forgotten insect
or a cracked bell
a destiny and a debt
the abject is lies
to scream at night
like a fetus feeling
nothing a lover
and a madman
a schizophrenic vampire
gnawing his arm
as he strolls and as MPD
is evidence of recent prosecution
for a serious crime the abject
is evidence of the process of flesh
and sex and life and time
a propitiatory appropriation
appropriately blind, only
approximately, never
mine
Deep Tissue 18
the trees
the trees sense electric spring and suns that smell wet
like old socks in heaven's cupboard, but suns that nourish
winter's emptiness with light and love,
David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a large
lake called Mälaren, very near to Stockholm, with cats, kittens, and a couple of dogs. He has a
BA in History from Balliol, Oxford, and an MA in philosophy, taken much later and much more
seriously studied for, from Stockholm. Up to date details of many zine publications and several
available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths, a few print chapbooks, and a
free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com. The latest
full length laughing at funerals is available via Small Press Distribution
http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/9780981184456/laughing-at-funerals.aspx?rf=1
Deep Tissue 21
Living Hell
she rides on a half tone Chevy decrepit of old and forgotten
i think she thinks she's invisible with her shadow following
her and me into the universe of forgetfulness
i think she thinks she's nothing else but a cigarette burning in her own
living hell
http://blogs.myspace.com/glencstill
Deep Tissue 23
Alligator Allegory
by Chris Stravener
Fingers
You said to me
you want to be
in God‟s
divine fingers
if that‟s
the place
I sincerely
hope you‟re
happy
I crashed
Deep Tissue 24
in climatic sex
& alcohol.
a deeper life
unseperated
I am animal
ANIMAL
the shame
serves to
make me grow
the shame
is a two edged
Sword
the body
fucks:
feeds soul
openly declare
in waking life
Deep Tissue 25
and
this is
my shame
understand. Only
this.
Before decreeing
Second hand
A potential hint of
Grave self-harm
Then commences
Investigating
Chris Stravener is a songwriter living in London in the UK. He writes poems to explore
what he can't put into songs because of the closed format of the songwriting structure.
He has a new CD coming out in summer 2010 called 'Alligator Allegory'. He has pages
on MySpace & facebook if you're interested in listening to the songs or reading more
poems".
http://www.myspace.com/chrisstravener
http://www.facebook.com/people/Christopher-Stravener/1801223774
Deep Tissue 28
Babs Rock-its
By Babs Martin
http://www.myspace.com/babsmartin
MugTown Rockers, a fictitious place comprised of hooligans from around the world, ride Brit bikes and
Café Racers, traditionally wear leather, pudding bowl helmets, seaboot socks, long white scarves and
they are twisting throttle ready for a burn-up. Seven of us Rockers associated with the MTR gathered in
Memphis where we were greeted by members of the Memphis Mummies. These Tennessee sherpas
guided us on a complimentary tour of the legendary Sun Studios, held a mammoth crawfish boil, and
showed us the way to tear up Beale St, so I wanted to return the hospitality and introduce them to S.A.
Griffin and Elsie the Poetry Bomb.
Deep Tissue 29
S.A. Griffin begins the show with the story of how Elsie came into being and the purpose behind his
vision for the Poetry Bomb tour. I won’t reveal too much, because you just have to hear it in his words
and experience the show for yourself. But, I will say the artistic bomb is not a symbol of peace. S.A.
explains it as a symbol of destruction – to destroy the status quo, an opportunity to speak out in truth
according to individual perceptions, to keep things heated and stirred up towards change. In essence,
the Poetry Bomb is an object of inspiration for everyone to actively explore a creative expression within
themselves. Once S.A. finished the introduction he opened up the time for attendees to read. No one
popped out of their seats, so S.A.
asked the lady who had been serving
delicious coffee blends to read poetic
sentiments written in a spiral on a
paper plate which S.A. had found on
a Java Cabana table earlier that
evening. Next, he turned it back to
the audience and this time I jumped
up to read a poem befitting of my trip
in Memphis with my motorbike
mates entitled, “Rocker Highway.”
One more Java regular attendee read
then S.A. began reading poems from
the bomb. This was just about the
Deep Tissue 30
time nine Rockers dressed in full kit came swinging in, most buzzing on brown ale, and crashed the
coffee house serenity. S.A calls out, “It’s Brando from The Wild Ones! What are you rebelling against?”
Smashr smoothly answers, “Whatta ya got?” Classics never go out of style.
The joint was pretty lively after the Rocker entrance and S.A. Griffin continued his outstanding
performance reading some of his own work and ended with a poem he wrote inspired by Memphis
Rockabilly music which he sang acappella. I contributed my poem “Rocker Highway” and the Babs
Martin and The Trip Awake in Fog CD to Elsie’s cause. We hogged the stage taking various shots with
Elsie then some of the mates helped load Elsie back in the van so she could make her way to New
Orleans.
In all the action of the weekend, including the crawfish boil, me dancing center sidewalk to live down
and dirty Beale street Blues, and the midnight raid on Graceland’s gates, The Poetry Bomb remained a
highlight as we often found ourselves talking about S.A. Griffin’s outlaw Beat style poetry and his
inspiring message. Oh yes, and I did indeed act as the total fan. I strapped a satchel around my chest to
stash the 2 inch thick Outlaw Bible of American Poetry while I rode on the back of a vintage Norton
across town for the sole purpose of obtaining S.A. Griffin’s autograph. He graciously obliged.
Deep Tissue 31
Rocker Highway
Trippin on a Triumph
litter my serenity
TRUTH
underground side
of storefront society
on abused alloy
I meet my mates
at beat-up pub
Deep Tissue 32
fuzzy illusions of
immortality
Road rolls on
divides horizon
http://www.amazon.com/Outlaw-Bible-American-Poetry/dp/1560252278
Babs Martin was born in San Diego, CA, raised on Route 66, and currently resides in Oklahoma. She is a
creative expressionist in words and music. Babs written works have appeared in anthologies, on-line
publications and magazines. Her Rock-n-Word Trip recordings and CD singles have been featured on
several radio programs in the US and Canada. Babs collections and performances are designed to fly
you on a high and deliver you to the door steps of your own sensational journey.
Deep Tissue 33
Covert Poetics
By Michael Grover
talk about politics or religion. Particularly with my views on either, I stayed in a lot and didn't talk to a lot
of people. This idea was re-enforced one night at a bar; a friend of mine got jumped by three redneck
locals for talking shit about the war with them. He ended up with cracked ribs & getting his face
smashed.
My neighbor was a nice girl, & quite attractive if I may say so. She invited me over on the night of the
fourth of July to this party she was having. I figured it can't hurt right? Well as attractive women often
do she had some attractive friends. When I arrived one of her attractive friends instantly started flirting
with me. About an hour & a few beers later somehow we were talking about the war. The debate was
getting heated. I told her no matter what we have to remember that Hitler's soldiers were just following
orders too. With that she started saying she was gonna kick my ass. She was a little girl, but feisty. I had
to go back home to myself imposed exile, kicking myself in the ass that I could not keep my big mouth
Deep Tissue 34
shut for just one night. Oh and the cute neighbor girl never wanted to talk to me anymore after that.
She treated me like a freak, & I guess I was around there. I had my own mind & my own ideas.
I guess I'm too much like my father who is a retired socialist union worker. After Vietnam he got his nose
broken by a returning soldier for asking him at a bar how many babies he had killed. So it runs in the
family. We Grover men have a problem keeping our mouths shut. And most of us live in the south which
doesn't help. Not me, I moved north to the Midwest, where I can speak my mind. Anyone can, as it
should be.
This brings me to that other subject that I wasn’t supposed to talk about, religion. I was raised in my
place in the south, conditioned as a Southern Baptist. I never had much of a choice. It was my mother’s
wishes. I remember I was about eight years old & Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park came on TV on a
Saturday night. The next day at Sunday school, we were all excited talking about it. The Sunday school
teacher came in and just listened to our conversation, heard enough, broke it up by shouting with fire &
brimstone, “Rock & roll is the music of the devil.” We all just froze, the room fell silent, & we went on
Of course I went home from church to find my father in his normal Sabbath position. Sittin' on the couch
listening to rock & roll, it was probably too early for a beer at that point. Of course I had to ask him “Dad
why are you listening to the music of the devil?” He had been looking for a reason to pull us out of there
and here it was. He went into the bedroom with my mother, there was a lot of shouting involved, and I
and my kid sister were saved, really saved. He came out of that argument and announced there would
be no more church on Sundays. When the pastor came to the door to beg him to send us back, he told
him.
Deep Tissue 35
This brings us pretty much up to date. A couple of Sundays ago I got a call that a friend & fellow Poet
here in Toledo had passed. He had passed on Thursday; I checked the obituaries there was nothing.
There was no evidence of his passing. He was a very private person; they obviously wanted to keep this
secret. I made a few calls, talked to the right person. Told him as members of the Poetry community
John & I had to pay our respects, plus he was a friend, & John and I both agreed he was the best Poet in
Toledo. So they said we could come. But anyone that showed up from the English Department at the
university would be turned away. The irony was that he worked there as a professor. They were going so
far to make sure they would not find out, obviously this was the way he wanted it, that they would call
us on Friday with a time and location. All they can tell us now is it would be between one and five. He
mentioned it would be a Buddhist celebration. That's what they called it, a celebration, which is nicer
John & I got to talking about the secrecy of this, and how we had never been to a Buddhist “celebration”
before. We both agreed this would be like nothing we had ever seen before. We also both agreed we
had to respect his wishes & uphold the secrecy. We didn't even talk about his death, because if they
knew about the death, they would start asking about the service.
Low & behold on Tuesday night when church was in session, who should show up but the Poet Laurette
of the county, who also happens to be a professor at the university. He comes through sometimes, but
not much. I don't think he cared how the reading was going tonight. He made a b-line straight for John,
Everyone told me how nice it was of him to show up. I just watched him over in the corner working John
for information & said he wasn't here for the Poetry. John said yes, he was trying to figure out where the
Deep Tissue 36
celebration was. John just told him yes I know more than you do about it, but I can't tell you. He didn't
even know where or when it is right now, so he could not tell him that. These were the lengths they
were going to make sure people like him did not show up.
He didn't even talk to me. So anyway we dodged that bullet. Wednesday night we went to a reading &
the host asked us to say a few words about him. We guessed we had to say something at that point so I
got up and spoke about him and read a Poem by him, but I kept it brief. Then John said his peace.
Friday when I woke up, I had an e-mail that told me the time and location of the celebration. I let John
know. We picked up our friend Luis who had broken the news to me in the first place, and we were off
to this adventure.
The celebration was at the yoga studio he went to. They had a huge back yard, so they set up a tent and
had it there. First things first, this was the first time I had ever seen a female monk. She had her head
shaved just like the male monks do. It was a magic day. It was spring and things were blooming and
I have to say, this would be the ideal celebration for the Church Of Poetry, as the monk started if off
with a death Poem she had written for him that morning. At one part of the Poem she screamed very
loudly and all of the dogs in the neighborhood started to bark. We then did a chant as everyone there
walked up to the front by his picture, and lit a stick of incense and put it in the pot of sand next to the
picture. We were seated near the back so the pot was quite full. As I tried to put the incense in it the
other sticks kept burning me. I finally got it in. There were talks by his lover, friends, and students. He
was obviously very much loved & respected. It was a very peaceful celebration I have to say, non-violent
unlike the Christian funerals that I had gone to. I don't know what makes Christian funerals violent. I
Deep Tissue 37
can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the overwhelming feeling of guilt that they always try to sap from
you.
There was food, so we all ate. The three of us were starving artists after all. Luis started complaining
about needing some pot. I told him we could go get some after this, so he kept trying to rush it. We
finally stayed long enough that we felt we had paid our respects and we left. I called my friend to make
sure he was home, & we were doing business. When we got in the car, John and I both agreed how
pleasant it was. We both said not violent like Christian funerals. Luis chimed in from the back seat that it
was lame. That he was Puerto Rican and Puerto Rican's party when someone dies. John and Luis
instantly started debating about that. They kept on debating all the way across town to get the weed. I
went in and got it, came back & they were still debating, not the funeral anymore. At this point they
were debating if Crystal Bowersox from American Idol was really from Toledo. It's true she was from a
small farm town outside of Toledo. Anyway I had never watched American Idol in my life, & I wasn't
As we made our way back downtown we noticed there were more people than usual on the streets. Luis
told us Crystal was in town today, they were having parades for her, and she was singing the national
anthem at the Mudhen's game. We didn't see any parades as we drove through downtown, but we did
pass by Fifth Third Field and there was a huge crowd outside, as she would sing the national anthem in
about an hour. It just reminded me of how shallow this city can be, but how it's like any other city in
America with a distorted view of heroes force fed by the media. So we drove Luis home as they
continued to debate about Crystal. We headed back to the Arts Center where John went to his place and
I went to mine. After a funeral it is always time for reflection and writing, and Poets all do this alone.
Deep Tissue 38
Michael D. Grover is a Florida born poet. As a wanderer he's traveled and lived all over the country. He
currently lives in Toledo, Ohio. His poetry has been published all over the literary underground. Michael
currently is a resident artist at the Collingwood Art Center in Toledo where he hosts the weekly reading
with John Dorsey. He hosts and co-edits CP Journal, and runs the Covert Press. His newest chapbook is
http://www.myspace.com/poetxl
Deep Tissue 39
Spillings
By Dan Kellett
Crow
i am in the incision
i must still be in this skin somewhere
i still feel that
plundering
back
sprung
rage
ripping me from the pillow
pouring me into the day
to move amongst clay minds
in brick buildings
my temples pulsing
like a liars heart
death is closer to me
in this minute
than it was
the minute before
but not closer to me
in this minute
than life
Horizon
with symptomatic palms
guiding our animal hearts
to doom
in blind herds
chasing the seedy scent
of gain
carving checkbook scripture
peeled from egocentric visions
of The Profit
Camphor
By Mark P. Paleologo
AKA Evil Dick
first
i was so young then
hell
we were both
summer nights
which simply
voice
hands so delicate
we touched
god
i have seen the sun
over oceans
passage of drop
by drop
no thing forgotten
become ash
become flowers
the south
built cell
by cell
with all
ironweed
small
pubescent display
Deep Tissue 45
as we turn
right on red
family
i remember the cold
become soft
terrifying responsibility
intrinsically eaten
segmented people
coalescence epic
really no relation
brick city
parts of a puzzle
on the floor
mortar crumbles
sunday
every day
past places
purveyance of hope
growing thru
enter here
if there ever was a time
to sift flour
to drink ale
without consideration
prominent emotion
let me fall
it isn’t so far
M.P.Paleologo (aka Evil Dick) was born and raised in Northern New Jersey where his
delicate sensibilities were distorted into the carnival mirror perspective represented in
his music, verse, and prose. Influenced by great artists such as Pablo Neruda, Emily
Dickinson, Andy Warhol, and David Lynch as well as many of the incredible indigenous
people which have crossed his path, his sharp edged writing style is laced with
surprising tenderness and wry humor. The author enjoys speaking of himself in the
http://evildick13.wordpress.com/
Deep Tissue 49
newspaper excerpt: (Pennsylvania) "...A series of screams was heard emanating from
Simm's Abattoir, a closed up relic of a slaughterhouse in the town of Temple Hollow. A
shadowy presence has been seen lurking in backyards, on hillsides and amid the husk
of the abattoir. Strange thing is that this town was not even known to exist before a
young girl phoned in the disturbances. Reports have not yet identified her but stated
that she referred to herself as 'Lenore'. We will keep you posted..."
. . .and he is loose.
Unleashed.
Mystic Lady
Aka Meera Flame
Invisible cloaks
I‟m Embarrassed.
Laughter collapsed
That beautiful that became futile and fell into the oblivion,
It‟s become
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!.
http://www.myspace.com/juniswan
Deep Tissue 58
Let it Rain …
By Amy Wood
As I sleep I wander
Wh(Y) incision.....
*The first cut known as the 'Y' incision is made. The arms of the Y extend from the front of each shoulder
to the bottom end of the breastbone. The tail of the Y extends from the sternum to the pubic bone and
typically deviates to avoid the navel. The incision is very deep, extending to the rib cage on the chest,
and completely through the abdominal wall below that. The skin from this cut is peeled back, with the
top flap pulled over the face.
The patient was a 41 year old Caucasian female with significant past medical history of mental illness
who was found in her bed at her residence after neighbors reported crying. At the scene, EMS
administered breathing treatments and checked lung sounds that did not reveal any evidence of fluid in
the lung fields. EMS also reports patient was agitated upon their arrival at her residence. Two minutes
after arrival at 1500, the patient became unresponsive, apneic, and had oxygen saturations from 80-
90%.
EXTERNAL EXAMINATION: The body is that of a 41 year old well developed, well nourished female.
There is no peripheral edema of the extremities. There is an area of congestion/erythema on the upper
chest and anterior neck. There are multiple small areas of hemorrhage bilaterally in the conjunctiva. A
nasogastric tube and endotracheal tube are in place. There is an intravenous line in the right hand and
left femoral region. The patient has multiple lead pads on the thorax. The patient has multiple scars
both horizontal and vertical in the radial and antecubital areas of both arms. The patient has a 5 inch
scar on her right breast, a 3 inch scar that is not completely healed on her left kneecap which upon
examination reveals fracture of the patella. There is no evidence of other major surgical scars.
INTERNAL EXAMINATION (BODY CAVITIES): The right and left pleural cavity contains 10 ml of clear fluid
with no adhesions. The pericardial sac is yellow, glistening without adhesions or fibrosis and contains 30
ml of a straw colored fluid. There is minimal fluid in the peritoneal cavity.
HEART: None.
Examination is discontinued.
Time of Death: Body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, and absence of heart approximates the time of
death between 7:14 A.M. on October 13, 1968 and 9:20 P.M. on May 21, 2010.
Wings
Pulled from the fire,
stubbs still visible,
petri dish grown,
cloned, on rocky cliffs
far above this Hell on Earth.
Behold, a sinner, poised
to rival God, giant leap from Heaven
To rise, solar flare hair
a corona around flaming sky,
to find the color true blue,
a cooler, freeze frame hue,
antithesis of me, bad girl,
churlish girl; now shining woman
strolls the path of most resistance
and comes out flying.
----------------------------------------------------------
Deep Tissue 64
Miami
Lucifer lives in the suburbs.
East of the Palmetto, south of 836,
close to the smells of Calle Ocho,
he cries fire tears for what he's lost,
Perdomo ashes on terrazzo floors.
Over caffeinated on black cocaine,
served in demi tasses, liberally sugared;
he babbles on about broken wings,
and the life the Commandant stripped
away, fighting Him in the Oriente Hills,
conquered, blackened, tossed in the straits
and told to swim.
Talk of revolucion outside cafes
where the governors rally
for former positions, currying favor
from the man with the horn, bullhorn,
bullshit, Armaggeddon never comes.
The Four Horsemen left with Teddy Roosevelt,
Marti fast on their heels, Jose, can you see,
we live in Hell, and it's best to keep Lucifer happy.
Because it's hot enough here already.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Tug Of War
Holding on for dear life.
Taking a stance, planting feet firmly;
though the sands are soft and we dredge
down deep, it falls away from us, inch
by inch, ground up glass and shells
slipping beneath our toes, and we're pulled
closer and closer to defeat, devoid
of purpose, unable to end this game.
Fibers form ridges in the soft skin of palms,
they are red and swollen, grip loosening
second by second, but we never let go,
never give in, stubbornness infuses our being,
and the rope becomes the only thing we live for.
There are lines drawn, boundaries we cannot cross,
and when, at last, we do, claxons chime, bells ring,
the clock switches back to twelve; we pull the rope
close in, slack now after infinite tautness, and find
Deep Tissue 65
Yesterday's Muse
Spent so many years shouting in the dark,
banners held high, slogans subject to change
without notice; notice the broken talons
on the white haired eagle? He fell from that
grassy knoll, head filled with revolution, rifle
held in opposable claws, blanks firing
every which way, hitting lightbulbs, casualties
of big ideas laying dead on the oil slick sands.
To come to this; days flying by, brain filled
with past visions, grey hairs growing inward,
fogging mind, flogging for past mistakes,
childish whims, soap boxes smashed to kindling,
and not enough flame to warm our hands
in this chilling time of vanquished dreams.
Our high ideals mumbled from the mouths
of homeless insanities, bouncing off alleyways
where no one notices, and no one cares.
Better now to do an interior cleanse, fix
what time has damaged, and cover what we cannot mend.
And see how far we've come, swimming upstream in polluted corners of the mind.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Aftermath
You told your friends,
laughing over longnecks.
My neck is long too, and full of scars
Like my wrists with their cross hatching,
lips raw and bleeding; I cannot stop picking,
nervous ticks to keep from remembering,
stronger than beer, the potions, pills, toxins
I take to induce forgetfulness, that glaze
of the undead in my eyes, and they clap
you on the back with knowing winks in places
I no longer go, streets I no longer walk;
preferring my own prison to the one
you chained me in, rough hands and thrusting
horror, where language is skewed, and "NO!"
Deep Tissue 66
http://www.myspace.com/kinderkitty
Deep Tissue 67
When I stepped into the restaurant, the host, who resembles a horse,
was doing a handstand and led me, walking on his hands, to my table.
Sometimes he’ll come out into the dining area holding a spatula,
Stuff like:
dressed in a dashiki,
in fact, he never takes off his beret, not even in the shower.
His testicles and hydra-penises are neatly shaved as are the genitals of all French men.]
Deep Tissue 69
She then shredded apart an unoccupied table and walked out of the restaurant calmly,
I observed a bisexual hippopotamus performing trapeze tricks on some of the palm trees outside.
and whirling food from the buffet at Floridians inside and outside the restaurant.
I started chucking food back at him, the Iranian started heaving food at me, a kindergarten teacher jumped out from
under a table and began picking up and throwing five year-olds at the Iranian, a pregnant woman began giving birth
to babies and firing newborns at the kindergarten teacher from a slingshot, Ivan burst out of the kitchen speaking in
tongues and threw a cat at the woman firing babies, the host ran in on his hands, flinging dishes at Ivan with his feet,
and suddenly Michael Jordan and Lebron James showed up out of nowhere hurling basketballs at everyone.
Deep Tissue 70
I’d had too much, so I crawled on my hands and knees out of the restaurant into the street.
was just seen flying around the Lake Okeechobee mall in a jetpack,
Besides, he said food fights like this happen all the time in Florida.
http://www.myspace.com/newamba
Deep Tissue 71
Smithereens
By Suria Kassimi
Deep Tissue 72
dogish
he!
she! she!
Me!
I
me? he... he... she...
WHY?
CRY
CRY
CRY
push-up
resounding
hallows
husky bark
encode
ablation
branding
fiendish
sulfuric wounds
Deep Tissue 73
leaking
freaking out
these
glory ends
friends.
daughter
unfailling
burning disquiet
mirrored darling
&
being spooked
symbiotically
hooked
piercing
&
cutting
coevally
hold on tight
and
don’t let go
Deep Tissue 74
my little
girl
love
you
so
Suria’s art is built around the idea that as an artist she is a witness to the reality of the culture in which
she lives. She depicts the actuality of what the eyes can see. As a “Realist,” she renders everyday
characters, situations, dilemmas, and objects, all in their verisimilitude and utilizes an expressive manner
so that real objects signify a cyclical rather than linear time frame.
http://www.myspace.com/sourisrojakassimi
Deep Tissue 75
A Love Affair
By Tarringo T. Vaughan
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 un-
cool 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
Deep Tissue 77
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.
http://www.myspace.com/tarringo.vaughan
Deep Tissue 78
Incomplete poem
Darkness
various shades of gray
illuminating ominous shadows
distorted memory
transcending lies
sensory overload
inaccurate perception
built upon distortion
fragmented promises
whispered on a temperamental night
denial front and center
previous experience trumping the current
broken individualism
constantly resurrecting
hope smothered by regret
a broken poem
built upon me
Kat Solomon has been exploring her poetic voice for over a year
now and is enjoying it. She also writes a weekly column called
Adventures of a Midwestern Jewish Woman Living in the Hill
Country for the Blanco County (Texas) News.
http://www.blancocountynews.com/news/article/19989
http://www.myspace.com/katscolorfullife
Deep Tissue 79
MICHAEL POLLARD
He was born John Michael Pollard the son of “Red” Pollard the jockey who rode the racehorse Seabiscuit
to glory. His mother was a nurse and Shirley Temple played her in the first Hollywood movie about that
story. I remember her as a classy elegant woman who challenged me with interesting questions when I
came to visit.
My father hung out and worked at the track near our home—Narragansett—and told me who Red was.
I would see him walking back from the track on occasion although I have no memories of talking to him
or hearing him talk. I have since read that he went into a long depression after the halcyon days of
Seabiscut’s fame and rarely talked to anyone.
His son, Michael, was about twelve when we became friends. I was about nine. The three years
between us was an extraordinary gulf. Mike was perched on the edge of teenage sexuality at a time
when I was deep into my innocent boyhood.
I was the oldest of four children but my mother confessed to having a miscarriage in her first year of
marriage and I always felt like I had a missing big brother (or sister) and that my elder position among
the siblings was somehow by default. I thought of Michael Pollard as that missing link. I looked up to
him. I admired him. I learned from him and I respected him.
Deep Tissue 80
He had a goodness and an integrity mixed with a natural machismo. He knew and hung with a couple of
tough guys from the neighborhood but he wasn’t any sort of hoodlum himself. I was his skinny little
friend with the loud laugh who had a sense of adventure while hanging out with the older kids. I was
very used to be the littlest and the youngest wherever I happened to be.
I have a vivid memory of one particular snowball fight that occurred behind our elementary school in
Pawtucket. There was a large hill of sand covered with snow and ice that Mike and I were on as we
attacked our foes, below and at the other end. I remember that the snowballs were infused with ice
and sometimes stones as we charged them with armfuls of ammunition, eventually routing them and
sending them to their homes. While following him that day, I felt like I could have held off Santa Ana at
the Alamo or the Persians at Thermopylae.
In the coming years, as I acquired a taste for books, literature and art and went to college determined to
excel in my studies, I saw my friendship with Michael Pollard take a sad turn. I was a half million times
smarter and more sophisticated in the brainpower than him. He became a truck driver and soon
thereafter a druggie and alcoholic who as in and out of rehab for many years.
When his father’s fame became a part of the cultural landscape again with yet another version of
SEABISCUIT on the big screen, Mike deplored it. He had nothing to say about it, reminded people that
he was not close to his father and that his father hardly ever even mentioned those days.
I had more than one opportunity to re-meet him while he was in rehab during his final years on this
earth. I couldn’t do it.
My memories of him as a childhood hero were too pure to be diluted with the harsh reality of drug
addiction and a recovery that was not meant to be. I declined to see him.
Sometimes I regret this but most of the time I am glad I do not have those images to compare to the
ones I have of him leading the charge in Potter’s playground circa 1957.
Deep Tissue 81
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.
“Excess thought is the antithesis of rational meaning and protects us from the horror of
reason/ What matters is not the enunciation of the word but the word “/ Georges
Bataille
“If they knew they were thinking about nothing they would go mad…”/ Henry Miller/
Deep Tissue 83
Thought is a task for the poor in spirit/those who believe there is a sky above them/that
the world is round and that the sun echoes the stars/life is soon enough forgotten a
wretched revenge on the sad beings who make no effort and even dreaming eludes
them/They lack imagination and resort to recounting what they apprehend as the real
limited by the senses/When I am alone with others I do not think/I think only when
forced by the random moments on the page full of complexity and the paradox of
memory forgotten the empty voice the stringless Cello/the compulsion to be obsessive
in my personal hygiene deserts me and I have become a filthy wretch/the major
examination to prepare for on the subject of the Desire to know neither consents nor
refuses the space and time of understanding/Anonymity is the displacement of a
thought fallen outside of the mind of the other who no longer recognizes me dying
ceaselessly the words to which I must submit myself as I talk myself into
which is always more real than what it speaks about/My companions of sleep the rusty
door hinge the cracked pane of glass the empty bottle the dust of 3am the crushing
sheets which squeeze the life out of me/it is in yr company that I imagine a satisfactory
existence/We sleep behind the throb of technology of astrological movements the
volatile bodies in the upstairs of restless immobility/we sleep before the smoking
cities/in the blood of poets/above the Desert of Nagazaki/we sleep in the stomachs of
our women on the nipples of our mothers under the skirts of our Priests/we sleep in the
pursuit of Information that takes a circuitous pathway thru the dark forest of the
Deep Tissue 84
door/The only means which is granted us to express our contempt for life is to avoid
it/to go into hiding/to keep to the mountain tops and the depths of the sea the vastness
of the Steppes/Avoid the closed window the speeding car the locked door the artificial
light which extends the day/Life is not worth the trouble of departing from its
suffering/Despair indifference betrayals lovers faithfulness solitude family liberty debt
weariness money poverty love honesty mediocrity intelligence none of these things are
worth a thought/it is not thought that the catastrophe causes to disappear but questions
and problems/ Isn’t it this revolver/this rope/this opium/this knife/these drugs this
revolver again the most efficient with which we shall do away with ourselves tonight if
we have half a mind/that postures and pretends with its loaded insolence which
liberates us and removes any possibility of suffering thru another night/I am
comfortable in the presence of nothing at all the place of being hollowed out by fatigue
usual it is 3am and after three nights of stifling humidity a storm has blown in from the
West filling the horizon with black bruise of jagged swollen clouds heavy and
oppressive flushed and stretching across the Unknown City with white and grey claws
Deep Tissue 85
/there is a stillness that distracts before the first flash of lightening which illuminates the
row of cypress trees black now a rancour of deep green as gust of wind driven by
thunder unloads torrential downpour/The bricks give off their suction of heat and turn
from red to a deeper cadmium an unconsciousness stone damp sleep of uncertainty/The
weight of this rush of moisture flattens bougainvillea and jasmine tendrils edging up
the slate wall that encompasses the garden whipping the foliage into aerial acrobatics
storm raining down its desolation the air chills and I open out the windows of the
Apartment a rush of cool air fills the room/the smell of heat recedes/the dust is
pressured into submission/the streets below are flooded and the Tram of strangers
sluices water from the shiny tracks the sound of rubber tyres aquaplane thru the
deluge/I turn out the lights and take pleasure in the flashes of light that outline the
furniture in my room a objective physiology of rare electrified shapes and forms that
fascinates the eye but remains indescribable/in the end all roads lead to the extremities
of the Universe which ever we choose/I am forced to think vicariously as I rarely leave
my room/a certain fascination with necrophilia in the pursuit of the body of
knowledge/permanently attached to my inevitable desk a consciousness of being
conscious/of reassurance that I exist is demonstrated in the consumption of everyday
necessities/I empty my packet of cigarettes/There is no coffee to grind/the bread has a
purple green mould growing on its crusts/ there is no more mineral water/the milk has
curdled in the heat/All these observations bring with them an awareness of the
definitive “to be” as in I am this thought that needs an extensive support network that
attaches me to the social that I find so absurd and it is the boredom of co habituating
with this anonymous throng that keeps me alive out of pure conceit in my superiority/
to exhume the residue of traces of my life imprinted on the imagination/What directs
my thoughts to where they end?/the muted felt of a piano key a door slams on what
intent the silence of an anonymous noise dissipating/I think of how to eliminate
memories of my past selves of the things I seek to forget the humiliations the failure the
inevitable loss of many objects I might have loved or desired to love/How I miss yr
voice C /I want to hear you speak before the end passes but I know you will remain
inaccessible at least in the manner I would want you to approach my desires/hidden
speculations of perverse sexual travesties we shared are no longer as memories enough
to satisfy my urgency for sensation/ hoping to arrive at a conclusion of passion like that
expressed on the deserted beach where we walked overwhelmed by the mystery of
Deep Tissue 86
ignorance by repetition and insistence/the unfortunate writer is not thinking about his
text as much as he is thinking about himself/His words remind him of yrs and in this he
thinks he has his finger on the pulse of humanity the psychology of the subject the
psycho pathology of the hidden secrets of the other/In this he sounds like everybody
else and his work lacks heterogeneity/For the self is not unique but ubiquitous and
overruns the planet like vermin/The mind with its spherical borders of repetition is
unbearable in its banality/the intrusion of meaning/ Vertigo is the natural habitat of the
thinker/The divine is the territory of the dreamer the one who easily slips into the state
of fugue/ reverie/the reluctant inner embodiment of the eloquent vision/The sign the
signifying signifier the realm of semiotics what intoxication/ such delusion/it is
probable that one can deceive the self without much effort/Memory is easily forgotten
and the recall of speech turned into the counterfeit of persistence in denying the
convulsion of being revealed as a liar/A rare pleasure of agony born with the utterance
of every word which must compound the resonance of such dead places/We must stick
to the story the body of evidence will not be buried trust has been excised and suspicion
aroused/Why are you telling me these ephemeral truths?/extracted from despised
substances of abuse/For this reason I have changed my name so as to throw the hounds
off the sense of scent/How our urine stinks/The DogMan hunts the scent of the ambition
and vanity with which the subject is diseased a surrogate of unreason and
irrationality/all the more fascinating for it/The genius is the echo of the disposed of
divine and worshipped accordingly under the mistaken belief that therein lies eternal
Deep Tissue 87
source of our neuralgia our cancers and tumours our agoraphobia/The solitude of
thinking only ourselves gives us the impression that we float in a clear blue sky in the
celestrial gap between heaven and earth/other wise with the help of drugs I sleep a
desperate insomnia/a wakefulness that is not unlike a coma in which I can hear but not
move or speak/The deserted streets in which he sacrifices himself to the dark shadows
of the derelict incarnation of his own selves his SKz manifests he sweats his legs
collapse under the weight of his shuffling bodily fluids/What cant be explained or
understood must be forgotten to leave more neural space for invisible objects of
conjecture/This subject is always avoiding infinity but dreams of eternal
life/Information oppresses fails to liberate sets free but fails also to instruct/it is dark in
here without shadow and you will never see what lies above you/it becomes too
complicated and I don’t know how to explain its qualitative limit as an horizon under
scrupulous concentration of the instinct to define its temporality or spatial
dimensions/it is compressed by my insolence/Life is dying no matter how short it is/this
absurd nothing replete none the less with planning and appointments as if there were a
surfeit of tomorrows to look forward to or to regret/In the Equinox Forest the wind
gains momentum and black rain pours from the sky/Veydra hesitates at this break in
consciousness fascinated by the lacerated forms of the steel sheets of foliage/Dying is
life no matter how long it takes it arrives and you will always be caught unawares/ you
must dream yr death with moderate ambition/She thought about such impossible
things aroused by the Forest of rusting perfection of the night come to an end in the
coldness of men’s hands clasping her breasts with contempt and indifference to their
uterine origins/This is their resentment and they wish to maul and tear the breasts as
does the whole of the abscess of man/Obscene with the dead remnants of mutilated
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wear the short term memory is unreliable and often constructs its own state of
recall/Recall adapted to the present/Insertions of the intervals of the NOW/This is its
phallic inheritance/any false image rather than failure to perform the act of recall/what
did the myth of the Oedipal translate the innocence of violence into?/there was nothing
else at the time to account for the objects of sadistic thoughts/they had to be externalised
for the damage they did to the interior the guilt the self perverse aesthetics of lust
unsatisfied poisons the flesh/Or so it seems perhaps not without a doubt/Life is the
proscribed object of desire the iconography of the cult of the immaculate masculine fear
full of insolence towards the understanding that to speak is to reveal more than enough
of the probability of frightening material dimensions apart from cut off from the
dream/Drugs manifest our dreams but disrupt our sleep arouse our understanding that
it is loves margins that are worth seeking out/Death can only be presumed even at the
last minute it is as alive as the dream which life forgets as the suns arises with its
intolerant rays of light particles irritating the eyes/What has happened to the impulse to
have faith?/Faith is a reckless abandon to a presumption that we will be released from
our inability to survive to act to take control to admit that yr life is nothing but an
Deep Tissue 89
epilogue to the future which will never arrive intact but is fragmented by the imperfect
work of living/It is in the nature of the signifier to signify despite the cold nature of the
language it is forced to function in/
So let us renounce all faith and beliefs in consequences and ambitions and any hope of
influencing others other than ourselves/Let us be disappointed and anxious and full of
dread for these are our birth signs the keys to our nervous system/To write oneself out
of the prison of self doubt/the geometry of the abyss where we have already seen what
we have to see/Let us pick up our trail and avoid our vanities and routines our agony
never existed except under the weight of heavy eyes of insolence/I to am weary of
everything including understanding/I search for the improbable by way of the pointless
the useless the lack of a destiny is my real fate and the thing that is deep inside me
which I avoid all night long the voice in my heads a gust of wind thru a dead interior of
corpses escapulated from the indignant demand for the fearsome laziness of relief
behind lowered blinds and windows nailed shut with paranoia/Calls out what is
always written is worth nothing/Less than a bad memory retains of its didactic
futility/And this is a great relief to finally have no expectations other than to think and
dream when the thought fails and the dream is mostly forgotten the residue is this life a
vague sensation that there was something yesterday and nothing different today and
more of the same tomorrow/ Exhuming the Interior Monologue only stirs up the
anxiety and sense of being chained to words that speak of brutality and horror/this
cannot and must not be avoided/we are not here to please or be pleased/I am detached
from everything except my body and its pain I am detached from myself except for my
pain the thought feels no pain but pains the body in its constant contempt of thinking/I
am thinking of life the scattered remnants of better times and worse times and this
Deep Tissue 90
transfers to my nervous system which aches with the understanding that I thought I
believed in art as some believe in god and this is what I cannot accept this is the bad
memory I refuse to recall knowing this all the time obsessed with the word as if one
word could answer/And can a sense of hopelessness and hope coexist in the same
moment?/All philosophers mess with the shit of their words compounding a sense of
the senseless/The Academic stinks and it is with this stench that it marks out its
territory/I have thought for an eternity and at the end expected to be rid of dread to
have understood and relieved my self of the hope of being able to accept not finding a
conclusion other than laughter or tears/some searing emotion of recognition that would
relieve me of the need to have theories about life to stop me from continuing with this
obsession to know when I already knew/ have lost knowledge not gained it/I have
confused my mind not clarified it/I have read comic books under the guise of novels
and works of fiction purporting to be metaphysical or worse still to claim to be able to
exorcise the metaphysical to replace the divine with what?/nothing/the world can never
be for us anything other than what it is and this borders on the unbearable/I understand
this paradox even if I don’t accept it/For those who think there seems an endless cycle of
living our near dead sensibility/But we must awaken it and put it too work as if we are
writing machines transfiguring the voice from the dream to the awakening/I will
always be in verse and prose a labourer and a working class intellect for these were my
formative years and these experiences gave me the bitterness and anger that goes with
living at the bottom of the food chain/I was born in convulsions and I still lack any
peace of mind/I hoard my penury as if it were a special gift or talent/There is glamour
in this depression and mania that I am burdened with for it gives me my edge and my
vision/I see thru the transparency of the cleverness of the written language in its
manipulation of ideas and words which claim the right not to have to come to any
conclusions but remain open in their ignorance/ Their fear of a resolution which would
put an end to the industry of their production/The existence of the intellect is one thing
but the use and reason for that intellect is another issue/The intellect has all the
dangerous attributes of the atomic bomb and can do as much damage if not more/I am a
child playing at what others will see as a serious game/There must be a reason for
words/they demand/there cannot simply be a flow of codes which are as pleasant as a
good fuk/People should read the way they fuk some with their eyes closed others
thinking of a lover some with a video camera documenting the action some with cruelty
Deep Tissue 91
and violence/some to relieve the boredom of the day to fall asleep with that gross
human emotion of satisfaction/We are faced with the very impossibility of
communication and will be confronted with the need to communicate that information
in a language I no longer believe in/sounds dis-articulated in an absurd nasal
manner/All is rhetoric and opinion/A man with time on his hands is a dangerous
weapon/A bored writer is a natural born criminal if not a killer with out
conscience/What a sense of restlessness and uncertainty/nothing is more distracting
than the attention of others/always wanting to know why and what?/sceptical to the
point of forgetting the pathway out of the Forest or failing to trust the path that he is on
and where it might lead if anywhere/Fails to control his emotions or his feelings/His
prose is the detritus of his poems his poems the exaggeration of his thoughts/Feeling
everything he aspired to not in the body which becomes fatigued but in the mind of the
imagination never realising the dream but continuously extending its expectations/For
the end of the dream always leaves the dreamer disappointed as does the orgasm//to
live and to dream and to have faith in the dream is to make no distinction between the
two states of two different conditions of labour/To wait anxiously for sleep to pursue
the dream and hence to live again the ongoing state of being in a state of fundamental
cohesion/To maintain the disparate fragments of his aristocratic legend which only his
most intimate acquaintance recognised/ Attend to yr legend for this is all you have that
remains beyond the closure of death/what jagged inconsistencies inhabit the mind with
it synaptic implosions/These confessions are in fact the clarified recognitions of the
absurdity of thought/The return of something once known but long since repressed
appears/The intellect and madness of the corpse lingers in the imagination long after
internment/There is no tomb labyrinthine enough to incarcerate the melting fluids of
the body which leak into the outbreaks of passion of specific moments of self
abuse/Sinister in its expectations of posthumous obedience/we cannot leave life before it
ends can we?/We must write our way thru what remains no matter how miserable and
weary it seems/
“And anything that falls short of this frightening spectacle that is …less intoxicating less
mad/less contaminating is not art/The rest is counterfeit/The rest is human/The rest
belongs to life and lifelessness”/ [Henry Miller TC P 256]
http://www.myspace.com/bizarredevice
Deep Tissue 92
Chapter Three
Lucy tells me that she forgot to tell me a small detail about the kidnapping. She said that Blue
Boy wrote something in his blood. He used his finger to scrawl a word into the pool of blood on the
floor. “What did he write,” I ask? “I don’t know,” Lucy says, “I couldn’t make out the word.”
Later, I turn on the television and Stephanie Powers the President of the Blue Boy Cain Fan Club
is on network television. I walk over to a desk and write her name down on a piece of paper with a note
to interview her for the book. She’s on the television asking all of Blue Boy’s fans around the world to
pray that he is returned safely. I snicker at the thought of a bunch of brain dead idiots on their knees
praying for Blue Boy. Lucy asks me what is so funny. I tell her that he is probably dead by now. “It has
almost been 48 hours since he was kidnapped. If they don’t find the victim within 48 hours, the odds are
likely that the victim is dead.” She tells me that she doesn’t want to think about that.
Deep Tissue 93
The president of Blue Boy’s fan club says on the television, “His captors will be hunted down and
beaten within inches of their lives if a single hair on his head is harmed. If anyone knows who has taken
Blue Boy and where he is, post the information on Blue Boy’s official website. We must unite together to
be strong in this dark, dark hour.” I laugh once more and shut the television off.
The next day Tantalus Omnibus holds a press conference denying everything. I stay at home and
record the press conference off of the television news coverage. Kilgore goes to the press conference in
my place instead. Tantalus Omnibus is the leader of Arcanum Magnum. He is dressed in a blue suit and
has on black loafers and a gold Rolex watch. He walks up to the bank of microphones and flashes a
million dollar smile as the cameras roll and photographers snap pictures. He tells the group of reporters
that Arcanum Magnum is an international organization that is dedicated to bringing peace to the world.
He states that Arcanum Magnum is not involved in any way, shape, or form, with the kidnapping of Blue
Boy Cain or any of the other celebrities who have recently been kidnapped. After he had finished
reading his prepared speech, he thanked everyone for coming and abruptly left.
After several days have passed and there is no request for a ransom, the law officials begin to
fear that maybe the kidnappers have killed Blue Boy and dumped his body somewhere in a field or
maybe the woods. Agent Kirkland announces that search parties are being organized in order to search
wooded areas, fields, and abandoned buildings in the surrounding areas. He asks people to volunteer to
help search for Blue Boy. Thousands of people come out to help search for Blue Boy. They search for
Lucy and I meet Bobby Slade for lunch. Bobby Slade was dressed in a baby blue running suit with
a matching ball cap and a huge gold cross around his neck. He looks like a very serious and intense
person. Bobby gives Lucy a kiss on her check and tells her he is happy to see her. He tells us that he is a
born again Christian. His words sort of burst out of him rapidly like a machinegun. He looks like he has
Deep Tissue 94
been waiting for a long time to share this message with somebody. He tells us that he has thrown away
his sinful nature of the past and replaced it with a more Godly nature.
I shake Bobby’s hand and tell him I am happy to meet him. I tell him that I’m interested in
writing a book about Blue Boy Cain. When I mention Blue Boy’s name, Bobby’s eyes light up. I tell Bobby
that I would like to get a different perspective on Blue Boy and that is why I wanted to talk with him.
Bobby laughs and then sits back quietly thinking. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out. I
“There was something strange about Blue Boy,” he finally says, “there was something not right
about him.” “Blue Boy is a no talent so-and-so. He can’t sing and he can’t act. If it wasn’t for his
mommy’s money, no one would know who Blue Boy is. He said it made him sick how much attention
Blue Boy got. He said that it never failed that Blue Boy would do some stupid little thing and the whole
world got excited. I think his exact words were “everybody would piss their pants.” He said it was like
the world depended on every little move that he made. Bobby didn’t see why everyone thought Blue
Boy was so hot. He said that there was nothing special about him. He was just a punk that was riding his
15 minute wave of fame. The hand of the Lord works in mysterious ways.
When the food came, he made us bow our heads in prayer, as he blessed the meal. As I eat my
pasta and chicken, Bobby tells us about how he has turned his life around, that he now has his priorities
in their proper order. He said that God was now first in his life. Before being born again, he only lived to
satisfy the desires of the flesh. Now his desires are to only serve God.
We talk about Blue Boy some more and then I ask him if he knows anything about Arcanum
Magnum. He says that he doesn’t really know much about them, but that the Reverend Brown from the
Church of the Redeemed Angels does. Bobby says that he will set up a meeting with me and the
reverend sometime next week. He said that the Reverend is a very busy man, but he will convince him
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to take time to talk to me. “The Reverend is busy saving souls, very important work.” Bobby tells me
that he likes me and wants to help me out. He also said that he would pray for me and Lucy. We both
After meeting with Bobby Slade, Lucy and I meet Kilgore at a bar downtown. The bar is one of
Kilgore’s favorites, an Irish pub. The three of us sit at a table in the back of the pub. I ask Kilgore if has
learned anything new about Blue Boy. He smiles at Lucy and tells us that he has been a busy beaver. He
completed four interviews with people who were close to Blue Boy. He said that he had interviewed
Blue Boy’s mother, agent, girlfriend, and a high school class mate.
I tell Kilgore that Lucy saw Blue Boy write something in the pool of blood on the floor of the
bank. “No shit,” responds Kilgore. “What did he write?” “She doesn’t know,” I respond. “I will have to
ask some of my friends on the police force what Blue Boy wrote in his blood,” says Kilgore.
Kilgore says that he doubts there will ever be anybody like Blue Boy ever again. He said that for
many people, Blue Boy had attained celebrity status without any discernible talent, education, scruples,
manners, or modesty. “But, after interviewing these people, I have come to realize what an
extraordinary person he was.” I look at Kilgore for any signs that he is bullshitting us, but he looks
sincere. “He was basically an expert showman and salesman. The product that he sold was himself, his
image of celebrity and success. I think all that talk about him being stupid was just a con job. With the
help of a plastic surgeon, a hair stylist, tinted contact lenses, and a high dollar publicist, he turned
himself into a prince. More importantly, he had crafted himself into a product that was marketable,
something that could be sold and the people bought it. He was a consummate salesman.”
“Blue Boy’s lifestyle of moneyed entitlement was his most defining characteristic. His job was to
party and then market the publicity from his drunken acts of stupidity. The socialite bad boy was
constantly getting in trouble with the law. Tales of his exploits stoked the world’s insatiable appetite for
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celebrity gossip. People couldn’t wait to hear the latest gossip. They wanted to know what he was doing
and who he has doing it with. It seemed like everyone was his fan; it seemed that the whole world loved
Kilgore tells us that he first interviewed Blue Boy’s mom. She is kind of a strange old bird. For an
old lady, she still has retained some of her former beauty though. I bet she can still turn the old guys’
heads. Blue Boy’s mother said the kidnapping happened so fast that she didn’t know what to do; how to
respond to the situation. She said there is nothing in life that prepares a person for such a thing. “There
was this great emptiness that weighs down on me like a heavy stone. The greatest fear was not knowing
if he is ok or not. I worry constantly about his safety and wellbeing. Every day it burns a little hole in my
heart deeper and deeper. I am constantly wondering if he is eating right, is he sleeping, is he being
treated well. I try to push from my mind any bad thoughts. I can’t live with any bad thoughts.”
Blue Boy’s mother said that as a child, he was always attracted to the media. She remembers
him sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper. She said that he would read the whole paper from
the front page to the back page. He also religiously watched the evening news. She said that he always
wanted to know what was going on in the world around him. She remembers him making a game out of
knowing the names of famous people. She said that he would quiz her about famous people all of the
time. She said that she didn’t know half the people he would ask her about. Knowing famous people was
She said that people would ask him all of the time if he always wanted to be famous. His answer
was always a resounding yes. As a young boy, he told his mother that he would be famous some day. He
said that the stars revealed that he would be famous some day. She said that he had learned to alter his
consciousness. Through the power of his mind, he was able to penetrate the secrets if nature. He made
good on his promise. He was one of the most famous people in the whole world.
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His mother said that Blue Boy was a strong willed child. She told him to discover his one true
will, be it for good or evil. His mother told him to find his one true purpose in life and pursue it to the
fullest. She instructed him to discover the path of action that is consistent with his nature. Know
yourself and be true to yourself is the whole of the law. She always told him to aim high. If he wanted to
be successful in this life, he had to set his goals high. He had to picture where he wanted to be in life.
The key is to envision what the goal is and then make it happen.
Blue Boy’s mother said that he trained his subconscious mind to believe that which he wanted it
brainwashing. He would visualize that which he wanted to take place and it would happen. She said that
Blue Boy was always a very willful child and as he grew older his will to succeed and accomplish things
only grew stronger. Blue Boy had learned to replace the ordinary view of the world with a pure vision.
It is through the sharing of oneself with others that a person reaches the highest pinnacle of
success. The person of success is someone who not afraid to reveal his or her feelings, thoughts, and
emotions with others. She said that to perform your will on the three levels is the secret of the universe.
Your one true will determines your course in life. The true will does not rest until its desire is created.
Failure comes from ignorance of one’s true will. Your true will should spring forth from your soul like a
fountain of flame.
Blue Boy’s agent, Marty Greenbelt said that he was a wonderful, nice, and intelligent boy.
However, just about everything he said was banal or very mediocre. Marty said that Blue Boy really
didn’t have anything very profound to say. It’s not like he was going to amaze anyone with his mental
prowess. He was the stereotypical stupid rich kid that lives a life of debauchery and decadence. The
more that he can flaunt his privilege before your face, the happier he was. He was the kid let loose in
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the candy store. Blue Boy was reaching for everything he put his eyes on. There was no control to his
behavior.
He focused his attention on his on his public persona. He knew how to seduce others into giving
him their attention. When he looked at the world, he only saw himself. His desire was to be cherished
and respected. Wherever he went, people loved him. He basked in the glow of the limelight. There was
nothing that he didn’t want. He wanted everything. If he had an impulse, he satisfied it. He was
All that was important to him was the satisfaction of his immediate needs. He enjoyed the
rewards in life that money brings. He said that it was unnecessary to apologize for satisfying our needs.
He enjoyed sex without associating it with some kind of symbolic meaning. He said that sex was simply
two animals doing what animals do. There was nothing romantic or life affirming about the act.
Marty, Blue Boy’s agent said that Blue Boy didn’t understand why some of the things he did was
offensive to people. He was the poster child for what a lot of people think is wrong with Hollywood. He
did everything to excess; there was no middle ground for him. Marty suggested that Blue Boy needed to
find more balance in his life. He needed to develop his greater human potential. Marty said that
basically Blue Boy’s life was just a sham; he was not doing anything productive; nothing that had any
lasting value. This fact about his life bothered Blue Boy. He wanted his life to have more meaning to it.
Marty articulated that in this world, it is important to be authentic. Blue Boy worked hard at
being authentic. It is important to have a connection to the past. The past is what provides the artist
with their pedigree, with their seal of authenticity. You have to see that their ideas come from a
historical background. They stand upon the shoulders of those who came before them. That is exactly
what Blue Boy did, he stood on the shoulders of his mother’s past. If you don’t have that connection,
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then you won’t seem authentic. The people will be able to tell the difference. Without authenticity, you
Kilgore also interviewed Blue Boy’s girlfriend Lisa Andrews. She said that when they first met, it
was one of those magical scenes like you see in the movies. They were with a mutual friend sitting at a
café drinking coffee. He had told a joke about the president and she remembers dancing in their shared
laughter. He seemed to be the spark of life that animated their conversations. She said this was true of
all their conversations. She knew that she was mesmerized by him from the beginning. She was like a
moth caught in his flame. Life seemed more rich and complete when she was around him. She realizes
that it was charisma that he had. There was just something special about him. Everyone around him
Lisa said that many people are attracted to the rich and famous; this is a well known fact.
However, many people differ in their reaction to the display of his eccentric behavior. She said that
sometimes he could appear to be a little strange to others. Some people were fascinated by his antics
and others were disgusted. Many people in general, were enthralled by every little detail of his
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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