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Fast to Say I’m Finished… by Jason Wright

Staring at the Cellophane
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Fast to say finish

Please let me go away, to another place.

Where the fire melts the fear away, And the warm water is flowing blue and green, Where the fat falls of the bone, And makes a dream sing.

They say, fast under the breath— That this world you live in, and the way you live it Brings you closer to your death.

That the stomach expands and contrasts And the lungs pink now black, are coughing and growing sick from The strength I lack, and the weakness I have.

I exist only in a minute, and soon I am fast to say Im finished, Throw the pen away, burn the book Im writing. And say this is the last poem I’m sick of trying

But I guess Im fast to say I’m finished, and I know I have to keep on

Strumming my guitar

Staring at the stars,

Writing with my pen

Drunk in bars or to keep from sleeping on the train,

To keep staring at each person who looks at me

And notices the words oddball magazine scribbled on the front cover

I guess im quick to say im finished and Ill never do this again, But as long as I have a commute, You’ll see me writing on the train And scribing my name on every single ugly page.

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New Ceremonies for Old Skin by Jason Wright

See this old skin, see these baggy eyes, see this plastic smile and lions grin?

Let the ceremonies begin.

See this dragon walk, breathe into a bastards lung, see the wall of blue inching in?

Let the crest of the wave carry me home- let the loser win.

Now watch as we all dive in to this spectacular display

It’s a mirrored image of a dismantled page, of a disenfranchised slave

Of a parade of misdirected saints, all running the wrong way to the end of the race.

It’s a ceremony, all of us new, born.

The wrench in my mind, has unwinded my clock,

And has pushed me back to when I couldn’t talk and I couldn’t walk

And couldn’t hold a pen in my hand,

Couldn’t sleep, and saw a bridge, and this is where I used to live,

Alone in an alley, with a vaudeville tramp, living for something I couldn’t quite grasp,

Just a handful of scraps, put into a loose-leaf binder,

Where the welcome were unwelcome we begin to rewind here,

Where the soul of a misfit, was hung at the gallows………and darkness lifted

And the sun stole our shadows, and brought them to a place where pen and misfit made

A new ceremony for old skin, and the band it played,

On and on, and on and on,

And Leonard took the stage,

And that was the dream…and I guess it still is, from two poets, two lovers, two slaves.

All taken away by the crest of a wave, listening softly to the silence it saved.

Courtesy of Rubba Boots Photography © 2009

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Letter from the Editor

Dear readers,

I feel  like I have been gone for a while now, though I am still writing every day.  I am glad you come and check this out, I listen to every word you have to say, the truth is at the end of the day, you are my family, and friends. Every poet, who has put something down, every artist who has put something down, all this magic we have created, lifts us all

So now I am looking for a few good friends to make the first street magazine.  I also have to write a business plan soon, maybe someone can help me with that too.   It s hard when you have a dream…and a job.   Sometimes the job takes over, sometimes you forget that the passion you have to reach people, to let them find their voice and use this magazine as their platform. That is the truth of this magazine.  I am only one man.  I am the creator of this, and I have had alot of help along the way, but the truth is I am so glad that you are all reading this every day. People, who read this…maybe even for the first time….let me tell you a little about the magazine and the reason I write.

I write because there is nothing better then putting pen to paper

making words together and looking at them later, and be like damn

I created that, or I made someone feel something.

that is the reason for writing. This is only a platform for others to express themselves, LIke Pie putting up the poems he does, Pungi putting down a story that brings you to the edge of the hospital bed.  Or Doug Holder respect to him for his poem about Newbury St in the Seventies.   Bridget and her poems, and Ivans poems.  David Krancher putting something down every time.  Adrienne Drobnies, Shamaiah Turner. Andrew and Erin< Borne and Burns…Alex Duridas.  All writing for the common goal to get that in your soul.

thats what we do this for…this is Boston, this is Chicago, this is Cleveland, this is the magazine for all of you… I know I have been getting some feed back, so let me know what you think…leave me a comment let me know how I can make this better. I just put up an add on Craigs List, and I gotta meet with Gloria when she gets a chance to get the street mag going.

alright everyone peace and love….go sox, celtics, bruins, and every person who has a story with no oulet…..

this is your magazine.