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  November 2004
volume 2 number 4
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Matthew A. Barraza
  Tom Berman
  Jack G. Bowman
  Quiana Briggs
  Tony Bush
  Joseph Camhi
  Velene Campbell
  Michael Ceraolo
  Rosemarie Crisafi
  Dan Danila
  Francisco Dominguez
  John Feins
  Daniel Garcia-Black
  Ursula T. Gibson
  Larry Jaffe
  Donna Kuhn
  Marie Lecrivain
  Sharmagne Leland-St. John
  Laura A. Lionello
  Harold Lorin
  Rick Lupert
  Stosh Machek
  Kelly Ann Malone
  Terry McCarty
  Tim Peeler
  James Pinkerton
  Beverly J. Raffaele
  E.W. Richardson
  Ken Scott
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Rev. Dave Wheeler
  Robert D. Wilson
  mailing list
Matthew A. Barraza
November 2004



Madame Aperture

    This is a single, employed, 37 y.o. Mexican American male admitted to Humanity Hospital on 10/2/68. Pt has dark hair, eyes and light complexion. He is appropriately dressed and groomed. Pt reportedly born to a fractured, chaotic household, but counters: "Although my home has been broken, it was the best home I ever had." Historical data indicates previous affiliation with criminal/violent subcultures, but denies current involvement and has no apparent charges/holds. Pt presents as OX3, and MSE was unremarkable, but he did deny knowing current U.S. President's name. Fund of knowledge appropriate, but was apt to quote movies and songs during intake interview. Affect is generally flat and mood dysphoric. Chief complaint: depressive sx and insomnia but will not elaborate, stating only: "I've always been this way. This is how it's supposed to be." Was able to contract for safety. Currently refusing medication and is resistive to treatment. Pt admitted with an AWOL precaution. Denies DTO/DTS plans/intentions.



On the Couch Eating Pistachios, This Tends to Happen

He didn’t have a lot left at the end of the day

he sat in front of the monolith giant big screen

black hole ennui vacuum sucking up pistachios

frozen yogurt and Grape Nuts feeling content,

somewhat chiseled but just as unwanted and horrified

as he ever had. The talking heads were depressing

and the bombs fell under darker skies.

He bemoaned all the women in those countries

that would never get him. He drove the metal beast

with a cell phone clipped to his disappearing ear

mouthing the words to other people’s lives

imitating intimacy with her still at the back of his mind.

He’d mimic clarity, feign the occasional attraction

but somehow she’d remain, erased only by empty lusting

and phosphorent miasma

across a matted sheaf of wounded windows.

He’d eke out some soul, scratch poems on them

and silently pray for the blind to read them aloud

while the ignorant feasted, regaled and sang

unto the great blackened, slowly waning hope

he’d long ago sold

to his demons.

copyright 2004 Matthew A. Barraza