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The Oddball Show with Not Art



Tonight on the show the Oddballs welcome the local artist known as Not Art, whose distinctive tags can be found re-appropriating overlooked or forgotten pieces of our urban landscape. We’ll discuss the message expressed in this graffiti-based artform, and we’ll find out what’s next the elusive Not Art. To tune in just press play below. #WeAreAllOddballs

Pertinent Links

Not Art’s Facebook page

Not Art on Instagram

Not Art article in Boston Magazine

Not Art article from WGBH news

Rich Mackin’s 1999 Non-Protest


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Jagged Thought #126: Alarm The Aching Ears of The Alliterate


8:11 am

My eyes are red.
Shelled and disheveled.
Smelly on my belly.
Television speller.
Can’t spell Addiction without ADD.
S.a.d are you – a disorder for socially anxious
People in the basement?
People wondering where the peace went?
How the pace of this world
got too fast for them?
Teething on the pen, running menace
on the microphone
listening to the silence of a
Saturday morning.
Waking up yawning.
Not happy where I’m going.
Drinking dirty water
and pains in my abdomen,
could be cancer, probably is
so might as well try
quitting cigarettes.
Should probably start writing for hours, if this is all life is.
while time fast forwards
like wilting flowers.
Like if my sad addiction
didn’t rhyme with medication
Then we both might not not not go nowhere
rock the radio station.
In a flooded basement
with snakes that bite.
With Biters that write.
Those with untied microphone cables
Rhyming to save us.
Na, enslave us.
Take us away aliens
Teach us and prove it.
That the reason we are here
You have something to do with.
You probe us
And take samples of our skin
cause we must be worth something,
Not just something to do
on your universes weekend.
My universal weakness
is rhyming for tweakers,
distorted speakers
throwing signs in the air
with broken fingers.
Putting dot dot dots
In sentences
To keep you in past tense waiting for the end of this,
a resolution
With the pen an Oddball show with a top 10 list.
A popper sells for ten,
pills that
numb you.
I give you pop poems about pills for free,
Lucky you!
Put a beat through each syllable
Verse and constant consonant.
And alarm the aching ears of the alliterate.
Let the mental masturbation
mean something,
coming with severed synapses,
firing with
friendly fire.
off the shelf.
At the dMv,
Licensed to ill
Speaking Beastie.
Behind each sonnet,
No Meter Teacher,
No Double-Helix-gun-slinger
Writing at dawn
With an itchy trigger finger.
Go figure.
Go forward.
Go backward
Go toward.
Shine the mirror in the sky,
Blind our eyes,
cursed since birth.
Man the storm at
A yard sale
Selling cd’s and books?
Got a gym set?
My mind is distracted
yeah I’ll buy your Kandinsky egg.
I’ll buy your old magazines
Do you want mine?
selling digital copies
For free-ninety-nine.
Empty bottles and dragon-breath-city.
A game of operation,
And not with all the pieces?
How glorious!
I’m still buying.
I think I am dying.
Bury me with that
Mouse Trap and cardigan
And I’ll show you
A good time at my mass
And cantation.
Drinks and libations
my funeral is gonna be a party y’all!
Oddball gone
But not forgotten
Bury me with the disco ball.
The good go get
And the bad got got
Eyes blood shot
8:11 in the morning.


Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.


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Poem by Nicholas Lemiesz


Dark Angel

A foggy night fills the path where we meet again,
glittering moonlight bouncing off your curves and skin.

Your tall, black boots clap on the cold cobblestone.
A sway of round hips, a dancer, presenting yourself to me.

One single finger to the side of your full lips, you give me a little pout,
it sends me back into old memory,
sensual times when we would spent
only but a mere moment apart.

A flick of your thin digits your streaming hair submits,
obeying your command, a goddess controlling aqua fibers;
it reminds me of all the days when I could lose myself
in your long coiffure, once dyed a light lavender,
a field of flowers, I could once call my own.

You look to me with your innocent eyes, a lonesome siren.
When you were once by my side,
I would submit to them daily.

Arms now open, your fingers calmly curl,
a smile and a sigh.
You strike a quick yet lovely pose,
I remember what I miss most.

My dark angel, you return to my life.



Nicholas Lemiesz is a budding artist in the poetry world. Currently, he is an electrical engineering sophomore at Wentworth Institute of Technology, in the heart of Boston. His influences include the minds of E. E. Cummings and Pablo Neruda.

Sally Deskins is an artist and writer focusing on perspectives of women including her own. She’s been published internationally and exhibited nationally and has curated several exhibitions and books.


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Poem by Jack Powers


The Lord
Wants me
To be the best
Of my generation,
No excuses, that’s
What he wants.
It will be painful
Following His wishes
The Highest Tower
Is what he calls
     Me to
Surprise, I’m already
With my Mother
And father
     in heaven
That’s a climax
We climb as they
Not to be our own
We lean into
     The struggle.
We Must get into
     the task.
This task is ours,
It’s not easy
     To believe
But, if you don’t,
Heaven will be
Far from you!


Poem by Jack Powers


Jack Powers (1937-2010) founded Stone Soup Poetry on May 1, 1973.


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Stone Soup Servings Presents: C.C. Arshagra


Stone Soup Servings is a regular series for Oddball Magazine that features upcoming performers at Stone Soup Poetry, the long-running spoken word venue in the Boston area that has partnered with Oddball Magazine. Stone Soup Poetry now meets from 7-9 p.m. every Monday at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery at 541 Massachusetts Avenue in Central Square Cambridge, Massachusetts. The open mike sign-up at 6:30 p.m.

On May 30, C.C. Arshagra returns to Stone Soup to close out its forty-fifth anniversary. We offer the poem below as a sample of his work before he takes the stage with his band, Funk Physics.