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Deep Tissue Sept. 2010

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Deep Tissue Magazine Issue 8, Sept. 2010 Cover Art: Deconstruction/ Reconstruction (Sarah With Scissors) Cover
Deep Tissue
Magazine
Issue 8, Sept. 2010
Cover Art: Deconstruction/ Reconstruction
(Sarah With Scissors)
Cover Model is Sarah Nella Vanilla
Photographed by James Crafford

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Contents

Glen Still

3

Meera Flame

10

Babs Martin

13

James Crafford

15

Poet Biographies

18

Other Zines

20

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Glen Still

this kind of hard living

now I‟v e gotten use to things the way they trip and fall all over and by all accounts

I should be thinking about other options the cause, the effect, the fact that my decisions are becoming my daily karma

I see the words

drilled in my head the bounty on my pupil the stress of just wanting to live let alone believe in something so pointless as faith or the fiction of redundancy grinding against the past, the future, the history,

as it‟s written when everything is said and done

now I‟ve gotten too use to the the constant headache maybe i've gone and gotten myself all confused and by all accounts

I should be over stepping my bounds

the gun, the trigger, the fact that the fraction of wishing has become the mathematical equation

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of my soulless attitude

don‟t put a little faith in me don‟t put that mark on my forehead

„cause I‟ve gotten use to this kind of hard living and by all accounts

it is what it is

nothing more!

frantic traffic

the criers have pierced the sky with their tears whimpered with the clouds whining about how they cannot shine anymore their eyes have been buffed out

the demented have masturbated their whole life away stroked the totem pole built by disturbing models they can‟t shine anymore their hands have been blistered

I look at this world and want to regurgitate every single morsel it has fed to me every particular lie told to my ears every plan staged by the incognito

I want to call this world for what it is

a waste of time sitting in traffic

trying to get to the next place

the wounded have bled all over the street died without paying their debt they cannot shine anymore but they don‟t care

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the lovers have loved to death with all respect to nothing but hunger the lovers don‟t shine anymore either they‟ve had their fill of nothing watch them as they fold one by one

self medication

stop medicating yourself with past recollections of a victim of every prescription sold to you and bought or hustled like you are not the responsible party for the throat that takes it down stop medicating yourself all in the name of pity

and you will die in vain because you never believed in love you had this idea of something so benevolent but the compassion that you lacked must have been you medicating yourself extinguisher of the pain caught between your every nook and cranny and we will die in vain together but, so far away from each other

you believed in violence black eyes and bruises calling yourself names that only you can ever change me with those flesh wounds the knife in the back will come soon enough but me, insipid to pain

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staring back into your eyes you have to finally admit

they were not worn on your body

I clothed them on mine

wore them as a reminder of why

I should never medicate myself with words that are meaningless or dreams that can never come true

so I just stopped medicating myself… as of this moment

i could say "I Love You

but i've said it so many times it's become redundant

so 'i'll stop medicating myself

with that word " love" that irrelevant word "future"

and above all

that test dummy sugar pill i've been swallowing:

manufactured under the dream of:

"I promise"

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My Name Is Cain [my enemy is Abel]

I‟ve got all this love that I‟ve stored up the remnant of everything I lost the hell hounds barking inside my head the angel's wings that I clipped not knowing that girl would fall down to earth

bruised with black and purple memories a heart that bled like a levee broke down in old Orleans before the flood way before the apple bit off the tree of knowledge and what can I tell you now other than I know you got all that love waiting under that fig leaf wating for that rape because i disguise myself as your friend but i am more than willing and Abel if you believe the story of bend over baby

i promise i will not fuck you in broad daylight!

I‟ve got all this kill and hate waiting for my brother Cain my name is Abel

i strut my difference in your face

like i might be superior bring down the smile of god with the killing of a living essence and I just want to offer my opinion

to this “history” of the fabled story

i will conform if you will shed blood but if and when you do

i will

suck it up because i am Abel

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believe in me as i say believe in god the what not of who is who was never was

maybe i deserve to die or wander aimlessly into the land of Nimrod I will take the blame and all of humanity will remember my name say I was cursed when in fact I was free in freeing every living thing until they chiseled my legacy into stone as the psychopath that could have saved the world but didn‟t the media was bought and sold by god who wanted nothing but a sacrifice and baby i smell your blood on your period god should be put to shame! the tampon that sucks us all in for nothing more than the shedding of blood and i feel the drench of this decision and the consequence as i slew Abel out in the killing fields

then war was started by the hand of god me as his culprit unwilling but knowing your so-called destiny something eons will argue over

but here I am now before you a villain decreed by the god that wants death from life slaughters the living helpless in the place of the degenerate

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slips them a happy pill that placebo that rectifies any guilt instilled in morality just pray and conform and everything will be

Moses and Jacob and Jesus!

I took my lover on a plain

on a grassy field overlooking Armageddon

they said I was a solider with conquering in my vein

I shot Kennedy

because i was Abel

if they only knew what I had planned the living of us to one another as equals but that is long forgotten

my name is Cain do not forget me your life depends on it!

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Meera Flame

World weary

Possess me, Protect me, Bless me, Confess to me. Never leave my side, dont grieve for me, when you look inside my eyes be shy when you smile, Im still here for a short while, Cant you see that Im wilting away? like a flower Im fading away world weary, Dont leave me alone, I wont be here for much longer Slipping out of dreams, Prayers and nightmares fuelled by Opiates that numb the ache, kill the pain Drifting once again In and out of this world Oh Im world weary, look at me silently, Eyelids closing, And when the angels come, tell them to take my soul with care, wrap me inside their gentle wings and transport me somewhere, to where the rivers flow, where the wild flowers grow, and cry not so much for the love, that you once used to know, Once used to own .

Tribute to a Father long gone.

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HE IS A SHOOTING STAR

He is a beautiful shooting star, So near yet so far, Look Im holding out my hand , Hes burning swiftly into the atmosphere Passing through a trail so clear, Such a thing of delicate beauty.

Now look at where we are We travelled so far He is a still a shooting star, Trying to catch him, He is Enigmatic, Energetic, Electric, Orbiting around the sun, Sending out energy to everyone, Shooting out beams of silver streams Emitting streaks of light, sparkling up the night He is the moonlight ,

He is Meteorite.

Blazing up a trail so rapidly, only to fall , but never to fail ,never to fade, catch him & hold him close to your dreams, close to your heartbeat.

He is a falling star Running on stolen time, dancing on bated breaths, But a star that shines so brightly can never die, Time beckons us on, one by one, precious ones , a thousand kisses have come and gone

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beloved ones, time has gone, run out like the shadows that slip so fast through the hour glass falling out of our hands, words lost inside a foreign land, We are only grains of shifting sands look Im holding out my hand, always & forever so near , yet so far Hes a beautiful shooting star.

Written for Mick Karn.

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Babs Martin

Looking for Pensacola Poets

Are you the sky blue dragon fly

who plays dive-bomber,

Perches on a rose stem,

Observes a miniscule moment

of my life?

Are you the waves

that gently wrap foam around my ankles

and pulls down flamingo backdrop

like a maestro orchestrates a hypnotic scene?

Are you the clams

who wiggle wiggles out-of-sight

for action under sand?

Are you the Hung Jury beach band

who rocks out a medley from Buffalo Springfield

breaks into a hopped up version

of Lou Reed‟s “Walk on the Wild Side”

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like Mountain Dew on PBR?

Are you the Drowsy Poet‟s Coffee Company

serving raspberry mocha and steamed cream

espressos, empty of mics in silent corners?

Birds and butterflies swoon with purpose.

I‟m surrounded by flawless functions.

I know what I am,

I‟m the human intrusion,

a block of flesh and bones sink deep,

obstruct sea creatures‟ air holes.

I swim all day

shake to bands, sing Irish tunes all night,

Drink rum and strawberry daiquiris

And all I brought is a couple of crumpled

worn-out poems and a store bought bathing suit

looking for Pensacola Poets.

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James Crafford

MY FAVORITE PLAY OF ALL TIME

I remember sitting in a scene study class with Stella Adler when two actors took the stage to play a scene from Anton Chekhov‟s UNCLE VANYA.

UNCLE VANYA has since become my favorite play. Let me get this out of the way right now: WHO‟S AFRAID OF VIRGINA WOOLF by Edward Albee is my favorite American play, but VANYA is my favorite play of all time.

It began that night in class during the fall of 1974 when Armand Benson (playing Dr. Astrov) and Shirley Kong (as Sonia) did their thing. I don‟t believe Stella let them even finish their scene. Not sure. But I do recall what they accomplished.

Stella Adler was, perhaps, the pre-eminent acting teacher of the twentieth century. She knew her stuff and she was in fact the only American acting teacher to actually study with Stanislavski—the creator of “method” acting.

The method is often misunderstood but essentially it was an attempt to be psychologically and emotionally truthful (although we can split hairs and argue over how that actually happens).

When young actors would attempt to portray the great scenes written by the great playwrights, including Shakespeare and O‟Neil, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, Clifford Odets, etc., she would remind them of many elements of the scene that most of us had not even thought of. I would often walk out of her classes feeling like a philistine who had never had an original thought it his life. Most often the scene would end with remarks from Miss Adler leaving the actors stranded in their desire to continue acting. But that moment was usually a

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teachable one. Somehow that particular night, I got it! It clicked. Chekhov, who had been elusive and difficult, suddenly made sense.

Sonia is in love with Dr. Astrov and he hardly recognizes her existence, except in a socially polite manner. While Astrov, lusts for the young wife of an old and ill professor, who refuses to surrender and who also refuses validation of the love of our title character Uncle Vanya.

The crisscrossing heartache of this story touches me deeply and the way the characters talk through and around one another as they dangle in their own dream worlds, strikes me as being absolutely real and psychological truthful.

Armand and Shirley had their evening of glory. They hit the right notes. They poetically uplifted the banality of the text into moving theatrenever forgotten by me.

Since then, I have seen several full-length productions of UNCLE VANYA both on stage and on television and in the cinema. Rarely does it all work. I think Chekhov is most often presented too darkly. Often the dialogue “reads” heavy but “plays” light. One cannot act Chekhov too heavy or one misses the nuances of the comedy that our playwright insists are there.

Two years ago, my wife and I saw an Off Off Broadway production of UNCLE VANYA that took my breath away--eight characters on stage without a single weakness in the cast. That itself is a minor miracle.

By the end of the first act, I was madly in love with “Sonia” or at least the actress who played her. Live theatre has the ability to evoke such enormous feelings in the moment, in the actual moment of the performance. The living audience and the living actors are in a relationship that happens in real time.

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I have always been moved by the theme of unrequited love. Love that is unrealized, love that is forbidden, love that is misunderstood, love that is obsessive, love that is without sex, love that cannot be, love that passes in the night. VANYA is full of this. The characters are unhappy and yet they bravely live on, one foot in front of the other.

My favorite humor is also humor that comes out of reality rather than punch lines. VANYA makes me laugh, not because it is clever, but more that the characters ring true.

Recently, I purchased BBC TV video versions of Chekhov‟s plays that includes two versions of UNCLE VANYA, one featuring a very young and dashing Anthony Hopkins. I can‟t wait to watch them.

This play written some one hundred and thirty years ago, brings a smile to my face, an ache to my heart and a tear to my eye. I have no doubt it will soon do it again…and again.

Lake Carmel NY

August 27 2010

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Poet Biographies

Deep Tissue Sept. 2010 18 Poet Biographies Babs Martin was born in San Diego, CA, raised

Babs Martin was born in San Diego, CA, raised on Route 66, and currently

resides in Oklahoma. She is a creative expressionist in words and music. Babs written works have appeared in anthologies, on-line publications and magazines. Her Rock-n- Word Trip recordings and CD singles have been featured on several radio programs in the US and Canada. Babs collections and performances are designed to fly you on a high and deliver you to the door steps of your own sensational journey.

you to the door steps of your own sensational journey. Glen Still is a wandering poet

Glen Still is a wandering poet who currently resides in Oklahoma.

is a wandering poet who currently resides in Oklahoma. James Crafford is a writer, actor, photographer

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.

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Deep Tissue Sept. 2010 19 Meera Flame is married with 3 gorgeous boys. She has been

Meera Flame is married with 3 gorgeous boys. She has been doing

jewelry design for 17 years and has had her own workshop for 16 years with her talented husband.

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Other Zines

Eviscerator Heaven http://evisceratorheaven.blogspot.com/ Full of Crow

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Zygote in my Coffee http://www.zygoteinmycoffee.com/

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