Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

Murder Me

Morning call. The starlings arrive

Uncountable to their range

Their plumage boasts green, plum-color,

Black inside the sun's irony

Groundsmen rake the gardens-askew

Old fox shakes a crease off his business-daily

Morphe. The curtains move. Susurrant.

Why won't the air relax them?

The postman arrives,

In each hand a dagger sheathed in white linen

They've sent me palm,

The Easter gladiolus, Belgian chocolate

A rabid, aching woman, her teeth wont to tear

Dissolves beneath a pale blue robe

Retainers take pains to collect her

She is gone to green city Oz

I remain. Crystal turquoise.

Waxy lustres guard my lacquer-sheen

I, aporia, a plethora of word, confound prospectors'

Pick and dig, survey the disheveled forest

I felt their acid,

Pitting little singes as it reached hysteria

They could have swallowed me whole

And they would have

[previously published in Stylus Poetry Review, #14]

Holly Iglesias


When the end came, the surprise was that it was no surprise. There was a calm, no struggle or wailing, they say, their reports arriving in bundles, soft sacks stuffed with something irresistible, the shape compelling us to guess: what. Who dares pull the string that keeps a bundle closed, and finger within all that was abandoned, then finally gathered as words, a gift?

Those who survived, flesh and blood among the remains of that ancient wooden town, say the noise was such as one expects to belch from the throat of hell. And yet the most beautiful sky, the night red, banks of smoke that intimated mountains, and through it all, silver flecks like snow in the sun floating to the earth. People left their cellars to watch it, the end they knew was coming, a vision of the world without past or future. Do not let it startle you, this idea of observing the beauty of ruin, unsurprised.

Middle of Nowhere

The idea of Kansas fills the screen—November, a windbreak of trees, bare now—a foil to the city, without which there is no heartland, no horror.

We scan the fields until the camera sets a building in its sites, walks us toward it to show the clean lines, the white solidity of a farm house through blades of wheat. We hear its impossible rustle, want to muffle it, silence essential to the notion of prairie.

Were there a scarecrow or stalks of corn, we could not be more convinced that we have arrived at the great middle, the plain, awful core of it all. Or that we are about to happen upon stains, small darkening pools of life leaching into the floorboards.

Wear and Tear

Behind the ridge, the moon falls, light paling the limbs of every tree as our arms stretch in prayer to pull down heaven. We are clothed in the work of others; their fingers, stained mango, ocean, berry, to match our pants.

Snug across the belly, history is an ill fit, buttons tugging at buttonholes, anxiety hanging over the belt. The season is upon us, love—time to take up the needle, close the seam on another day.


First the world will sparkle with a glitter ground from things in the cupboard, the closet, the garage. Families will bunker as it settles, fathers hammering, mothers tuning the radio. Each will care for his own and gaze with tenderness at children wolfing down heaps of Franco-American spaghetti, Vienna sausage and applesauce. Cans will create new mountains; boys will play with shadows until the batteries run out. Thus begins the dreaming, the long mushroom night.

Gary Beck


From Broadway window,

high above the street smut sounds

of gambling, dope, flesh

lower appetites that mesh

into a brutal traffic hazard

full of menace,

hulking near squalid movies

Rich White Trash, Blazing Zippers,

Hot to Trot, Wild Swedish Nymphs.

Nymphs are departed, forgotten,

jammed so far down the subconscious

that the only song remaining

is a timeless drone of spasmic lust

predatory, omnivorous, debased,

ruthless in the prance of evil deeds.


Mr. Smackhand sits at desk

lethal latin book before him

rumbling Caesar to his students

watching for a snicker.

Little scholars squirm and fuss,

peeking at their neighbors' papers,

while others dream of magic rings,

praying for the bell, their savior.

Skip Fox

The stage was nearly ready

All eyeballs out, teeth set, the sphincter of

existence providing that dusty wooden theatre scent

and the prop-boy’s navel still full of lint, etc., all atoms

of their statement, as sunlight on the grime of tenements

under swollen skies, a particular insouciance like burnt

cabbage or rotting meat to eye. Break a leg, they say, you

bet, or, better, request the self-evagination of every creature

before you get . . . what? Why not let rot the boards and chide

the staff, get honest job as whore? Where was the curtain

cast? Again? The text is soaked in tears. Here are the feet

that were his hands. His mind wearing little socks that slip

on the bare floor. Otherwise he’s naked and sports

a boner. Whose were those gifts to his side? Was

he lost in a sprocket and “all tore up”? What comes after

a good meal? Could one man document all the different

colors of a harbor, say? What might such a study leave? sheen

on crown of hair? a comedy of lights? In the distance, over

waters at night, the Globe catches fire. Language rides

ready in bushes, sunlight overtops the world and cars go gliding

into the curve, another morning to make of what you will.

warm body spread over time

with a plumb-line like furnace bees going mad first

cold day of autumn, or a manicure in the wings, if

you don’t remember who you are, maybe you aren’t, sun

slung over slippery side of buildings where everything

on fire is free, blue sky of eye, leather unfolding off

stage, morning ripe at your knees while the claw of

necessity reaches into the frame, automatically, and

tenses, not every girl’s a boy, even in dream, castration’s

only what happens to everybody all over again, the

best, the worst, the unlucky first, etc., consider

consolation's torque when you pretend you’ve consciously

recruited your inadequacies, inabilities and fears instead

of having chosen to inherit them, once when frozen stiff

in the glare off the actual’s cold, empty grin, and so forth.



Like sailors with mops

swabbing down her interiors, deck suds rinsed by

torsos in tee shirts with long arms, there’s always room

for joy, deep flourish of contentment rustling

in the rafters, the possible blooming beneath infinite

skies, air alive, thoughts swimming through florescent

lucidities, mind of life, ballet of protozoan angels

climbing walls, mist-like illumination, while our lights

flood every crevice, each doubt made otherwise

and whole, driving into a small city each morning,

spring manifest beneath tires’ sibilant whine as globe

rises, filling eyes with light, chambers of mind blind

with it, the particular, engine, leaf, cloud, sky and

idea, sure in the belief, that if such darkness as I have

seen at last obtains, for these there's always room.

Sacred Tongs

Potlatch of the gods, abjuring eye, feather edged

in blood, etc., time to go inside, commit

suicide, or sign a song with hand smelling of fresh

dick and spittle, Laughter Falls from Light: A

Palindromic Flesh-Colored Bathing Suit, dehorsed

the next day by village women bristling with rakes

and hoes, little words screaming their minds out on

the page, try frying up a flat stroke, you’ll be dumb struck

as stone to your own insistence (what’s new?), crack

attack (shit), wounded relic at home, flatulence of lonely

lovers (bah), or reduced to a single pillow (you listening?),

a pool, or huddle, resemblance in flesh, working toward,

even now, no specific, nothing in general, everything

otherwise, lacking center, like most lives are left, lost

in a poem, how will he retain his domains (or you, yours),

reduced as they are while “Where’s my pillow?” rhymes

with what he’s about ready to forget, leaving a residual

thud like driving a hump down hill, or if rhythm driven, it

flails like a pogo-stick on stilts (it’s spring! Heavenly

Anything!), no, nor center of mind (except occasionally

when pulse runs with muscle of intent, naked on the set, frilly

in flesh, best crawl beneath a porch, prolong the torture, under

a pig sty cower, screen running with cruel exposition: you

will lose everything finally, save for a grin on white ash, memory

lost, even your hardon poking her pudendal arch, gut slick to

gut, silk sweet as liquid flesh (like hari kari under smoky skies), horn

to sweet crevasse, insane with echo-like Urals, light losing

laughter that falls after, all gone, yet wonders shining on

the horizon, a table set on fire, mirror blazing morning’s sun,

moment studded with the banal, yet supple and wild, a

squirrel making its nut in your skull, her tiny feet on your butt, a

mad tugging at each other's lobes, lie down on the carpet,

weave it if pungent, leave the body where no one will find it.

Gianina Opris


A former Special Ed. Teacher retires with a bad heart. It always comes as a surprise.

She wants to go San. Benito’s gate. Don’t forget this is a struggle. A life as a dusty box. A life shared with others.

The last person, who knows,

Also dies.


Imagine a plane

Shaking ferociously. The voice of a family beside a parking lot.

It’s too much. It’s power. All the “wants.” The “likes” of which you have never known. Say simply: NO. Let’s be Carol and Carola and Caro. Go back in time to before. This sandwich is eating me. Destiny has a wicked sense of humor. A tumor.


Do you know how lucky you are? Lucky?

In ten days she gets to be released from the hospital. Are you ok?

There is shame too.

It is accepted: the enormity of the news. The darkest night. Iraq as music.

Vacation to Palm Springs. Fourteen and pregnant. He agreed. Being gay.

We have to hide a part of ourselves. The baked bread. Is it time to say something?

She drinks whiskey shots in the kitchen. What day is it? Her lips are purple.

Why does she choose to be her mother and her daughter when they buy clothes?


He worries that he will move to Israel.

He is a freshman in college.

He says “my roomate” maybe for his language.

He hates himself for believing it.

He becomes suggestive.

He serves as a pin setter for bowling.

He goes to prison.

He is listening and begging.

He wonders if they treat adults differently.

He is a cold Saturday morning.

His socks are on the floor.

He can’t compete with this present moment.

Roger Mitchell

Random Gardening

The sun is outside lying on the clothes.

The shovel looks relaxed. Wont do a thing

to improvise July. Though who knows,

it might take more than random gardening,

parts of cars, to make one. The robin yanks,

but the worm says, Not today. The wind

is on the take again, and the flayed banks

of the shriveled river hang there, chinned

on a few roots. We finally arrive,

but no one knows us. We know no one, too,

so we get along famously, even thrive

on what the dirt seems to be coming to.

The air gets set to gather and then go.

The sky pays no attention to the crow.

Rum-soaked Banana

“The essential feature of Dissociative Amnesia is an inability to

recall important personal information.”

Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Ed.

It might have been May, maybe June.

It might have been something I did or do

with a knife and fork, more likely a fork,

as I was coming up Broadway, crossing

Delancey, hoping I’d get to the Met

on time. For what, I don’t know.

Maybe that show, the one called “Othello”

by Pirandello, starring Anthony Hopkins

as Auntie Mame. Mother had already had

her dichotomy, performed by lobotomy.

Did I mention the beans? We bought them

last autumn, but then we forgot them

later that week in Havana. I was peeling

a rum-soaked banana in skivvies, when who

should come yodeling through the cabana

but Fidel. I fell feet first off my shadow.

You could have smothered me in shadblow,

served me confetti over shad roe.

My Life, My Dream


My life returned to me last night,

but in a dream.

Here, it said,

I need a size larger.


My life returned to me last night,

but in a dream

it said it couldn’t follow.


My life returned me to last night.

I’d rather have the dream, I said.


My life returned again last night.

Where have you been, I said.

Dreaming, it said.

Oh really, I said.


My dream dreamt of me last night.

It was my life, returned.

I already have one, I said.

Oh really, it said.


To me last night my dream

was but a life returned

to the wrong address.


I know, it said.

I know, too, I said.

What, it said.

I know, I said.


It said, I said, it said.

I know.

Counting the Stairs

Maybe there is no world. Maybe nothing

is what the trees have been saying for years.

I remember counting the stairs. I knew

where I was always. Seventy two

meant I’d gone too far, though the tiles on the floor

were the same up there, and the water fountain.

I want to walk away from this poem

before it tells me it may not be me

writing it. These may not be, after all,

my thoughts, rather what the trees have tried

to suggest without mentioning a thing,

without even knowing they were trees.

Sheila E. Murphy

the reason I don't want to is no reason at all

shepherd me (to myself)

I have not listened for so long (the walls require protecting)

I require protecting (self imposed)

due diligence becomes the threat of magic uninvited (self)

let's go on being doing learning valuing (at our peril)

something has to change (has cha)

the river is an invitation (answer)

the river is a desert plea (indulge)

and when I close my eyes (this dulcet plane)

grows curves (a world)

singing may comprise the quiet between singing (hear)

here conditioned are my terms terms (watch wheat)

turn silver with the onset of the dimming sun (across)

the land is still (the land)

the underneath that is so (generous)

includes impulse and different light (received)

Hugh Fox



You see these grandmamy oldies, well, you know,

seventy, seventy-five, another twenty years in the

(doddering) saddle, and they say “SHANTIH WOMAN,

everything I touched seeded and flourished,” but

the fireside mud-pie night-sits were best, a little

CN , no more, let’s just sit and talk . . . enough . . .

2. Subway Faces

After Brazil, mom and daughter sitting across

from us, train to Braintree, listening to their

inner voices, “We’ll all be dead before we know

it, and we’ll never have any money to live decently,

your father, my dad, what a bunghole . . . I don’t

know what I hate more, summer or winter,

they should take Paris Hilton out and shoot her,

along with you know who . . . ”

3. Encore

My first night back in Boston and all night

I dream I’m back in Paris, Rue de la

Parcheminerie, the Spring of 1913,

Saint Severín church, demolishing the old

for the new, like all the old buildings had been

bombed, when I wake up and have my Nutella

and toast breakfast, no me importa si el

idioma official de los Estados Unidos vuelve a

ser Español...o Galoise, Basso, Pawnee / it makes

no difference to me if the official language of

the U.S. becomes Spanish or Galoise, Basso,


4. As If         

As if daughter Margaret (34) and the kids

(4 and 8) were on the TV instead of being

across the table from me, is it the fifth or

fiftieth century, “If I get my teaching degree

in two years and get a highschool or grammar

school job, I could still build up forty years of

retirement money . . . ,” Suddenly she’s 80, Alex

is 46, Rivka 52, and me 1932--?

5. Sparrow Park, Sunday, June 10, 2007

Sunbathers, strollers, moms and dads, a basketball

court, lots of bing, bam, boom. . . . MM on the grass

drinking a big bottle of water, then back down almost

naked in the sun, no Dordognet-Francophile,

Norman Invasions, one shaved-head black grandma

and her grandson on a purple plastic mini-bike,

“You go ahead, I’m not a sun-person.”

Stephen Baraban

keel a/o kill


(Electronic Poetry Center),

clicked through and navigated

so suddenly in the moment

EP is the C--

across decades, sound file: “keeeelll to brrrrreaeaeakerrs,”

thick ritual voice, already grave

lapse? when a Master is not of sufficient character

you’ll have fits

deciding what s/he’s owed. Ez is

what precedent? his piths:

dazzling; his spit: a daze-

ing, plaguing



quotes that are of the matter:

And then went down to the ship,

Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea

--Ezra Pound, Canto I

And Kung said, “Without character you will

        be unable to play on that instrument

Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.”

--E.P., Canto XIII

Ez for Prez

--1950’s grafitto

poetry as comprised of “piths and gists”

--E.P., The ABCs of Reading

The yidd is a stimulant, and the goyim are cattle

--E.P., Canto LXXIV

James Grabill



Are they still with us, those whose swords

halved whole bodies, those whose blankets softened


the winter, those with faces carved in rock

back at the waterfall of decades through the Milky


galaxy with massive infinitesimal infinity?

Names for the sun are carved solemnity, a roadside


with pollen showering a billion times a billion times.

Guitars riff overhead, down through what we’re breathing,


strumming the talkers waiting heavily, the coffee line

near screeching milk steam, the big grin of a four year old


with his mother it looks like, a cup of warm chai tea carried

to another table, the conversation opening its ‘50s band shells,


its satellite dishes, as potatoes lift out of the ground somewhere

and become rocky hills.  Now subatomic guitars shudder


downstream from 1990, the hound running in ‘76, the marchers

in Washington in ‘69 passing by Lincoln, people with four-hour


candles, sleeping in church basement sanctuaries, the Ford in 1955

on two-lane roads, hotels towering over a green pea.  The pine table lifts


through the void into meaning.  Bookshelves rise up from their floor

into starlight, the green day inhaling old studies in Germany.


Over woven trans-continental rugs of many colors, the table’s a harbor,

the solidness in flux, a vibratory forest sense in polished clarity


for the swirling mud-mind, mute firs all the time speaking

of rain, who gave themselves to God and slung home feasts,


who took off with dancers igniting the joints, steadfast employees

with classical ambition, at this station for why we’re here.




            “. . . bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog...

        spendthrift of tongue . . . stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese . . . ”

                                                   --1 Henry IV


You doltaged fiend-gut ventilator, claptrap removed by elevations.

You distilled radium of presacral midnight, you nasal air-breather, you,


you helium already burned in parthenogenic engines, country hamhocked

local counsel of curving leaves, man, water-washed side of the passing train


gone in a fingersnap almost back to human form! You backing-up brake-lit

vehicle valved between degrees of pain, rotunda over a broken finch egg


you, you porous solidness arced by dilated apple grove calculus

given over to nature.  You overly mature first words, dentured syllabi


heart-beaten drink-plowed governor of gas and an ancient wagon train.

Thou comfort of thorn-rimmed clocks whose hands move quietly through


stale Gordian wheat at night of us, man, you simmering day of the week,

evaporated and spray-painted, stamped through by iron factories


without a brain of somebody’s own, avalanche of Neolithic praises

tossed to the side by a child--and furthermore, you republic


wisteria seen from the moon, you breadloaf and sparkling water

in the empty glass.  You brown boardwalk of ingredients not yet shipped


from the mother country, you with your living room

of eel mouth foam the fool counts to number the age.




Suzanne Ryan

Alraune 4 or 24kb

25kbs was the measure of her men.

25kbs included herself.

Everything she had ever said about them and all she had ever felt for them slotted neatly into a 25 kilobyte folder or file of emptiness.


By committing her loves to the keyboard, the monitor; she predestined them for early graves.

The kilobytes misled her memories and transferred them - exchanging them for more RAM and better speed.

The life and works of everyone who had touched her needed a folder, a subject and a desktop space.

A little bird transcended the sky and metamorphosed into a 25kb internet folder.

Saved and Saved As yet empty, had she not saved her feelings accurately? Were they lost in space? In the recycle bin? Ah.

She saw as if from outside herself – she saw her experiences and feelings melting down, down, down becoming earthbound and merging with those of the others.

Below, with them. Again. Losing all sanctity. Broken wires.

Attempts at opening a 25kb folder to retrieve the old self and the truer ties.

Encroaching on her again.

It was like raising the Titanic.

Mark Weiss


The imposition of metal shoes

is the least of the horse’s hardships.

The sweet disposition of geldings. As a leather bag

testifies to the mortality of cows.

Once by the shape of a hand

you could say which tribe

which not.

Let us proceed to the emptying of all things.

Scrape of blade on toast,

each floral teacup carefully chosen.

Take personally the affronts of the past.

Above, dark water.

Below, dark water.



Once by the shape of the hand

you could tell the land.



We wear the same clothes differently.

Death as a boundary disturbance.

The sway of her hips against the gothic.

Man with man

beast with beast

house of blood.

Explaining perspective to the blind.

The occasion of necessity between ping and pong

as tentative as blossoms.

Not to have been shot at or starved

would seem amazing luck

in the world as it’s been.

It’s this complex engineering called beauty in motion.

A kinship with cows.

The disguise of the native.

The intelligence of a dog

applied differently to the landscape.

As useful as feet. Strange to think of them

as appliances.

Your body’s quick intelligence.

All praise for instinctual virtue.

The language of sorrow has an Irish accent

a Jewish accent a

Scottish accent et cetera.


Yellow haze of mustard

among cactus and thorn. Salad

for the border-crossers.

Hand to mouth

as easy as

“ . . . and given the times,”

he said . . .

Noise and predation.

Become accustomed to muscle and bone

where before skin

and a skein of nerves.

Sticks his finger in his ear

shakes vigorously

clears his throat.

The unknown codes of the law of twos and sevens.

In the consideration of the greatness of this or that ruler

include the accomplishment of questionable goals.

Amy’s Dead

I’ll say what I know.

Fill in the rest.

Call it the voyage from self to self-prime.

You do what you can to find the rhythm.

May I buy you, did she ask,

the bread of affliction?

After long study she

stands at the window,

then sits on the sill,

her back to the lawn.

Impossible elegance, the woman in the portrait

too distorted to survive.

Somebody’s paradigm, somebody’s embrace

of a desperate perfection.

Muscle, bone and flesh rose to her.

Canta No Llores


Every morning for 10 years 10,000 Greeks took a shit and went out to fight.

Three million six hundred fifty thousand dumps, and Scamander

ran brown in the morning, red

in the afternoon. Plus horses

sheep and cattle.

That, and the carnage.

They leveled forests

to burn the bodies.

Greeks bearing gifts?

A no-brainer.

Dropping a cat into a nest of birds.

Sow the ground with salt,

leave nothing for longing

no stone on stone.


A sense of competence of sorts

in the doggy pleasure of obedience.

Thwack, and the arc of the ball.

The rise and fall of breath.

The celebration of meat and fat.

Grip the ground as if climbing.

As in the reciprocity between pose and painting

the channeling of impulse and instinct.

De facto segregation of the back-country.


If I make the effort the crying child

will become white noise.

We only learn betrayal from the best of friends.


and the disappointment of symmetry.

Let webs be webs

and ivy ivy.

A sense of “not here.”


Think of satisfaction as a glyph.

As for instance, the woman with distended labia

stopped here,

at the edge of the cliff, where now there’s a falls,

and pissed.

Her nose, they say,

was “ladylike.”

And her feet glistened with rain.

Corresponding to the tendency of the toes of each foot to resemble each other.

A different vocabulary.

These, if I so choose, are my people.

In the darkest of times

creatures of sunset and sunrise.

Edifice erected upon instinct.

Distinction between song and sound.

Busyness of birds.

We kill to assert our right to do so.

Came closer, parted the hairs, squinted.

A set of instructions.

A flurry of gestures

expression of race place species and self

invented rituals, every possible

of the moment’s dances.

The game of pots and kettles.

As the child builds the components of understanding.

Where was I? Each chamber

like the last.


At the end of time

the cattle, freed, revert to aurochs,

docility culled

by coyotes and wolves.

The eye stilled of its restlessness.

Stillness invented.

Come, I will give you meat and fat.

A history of shoes.

Chaotic interplay of fixed positions,


teased out like a fright wig.

Why appear in a state of constant surprise?


and a quiet surface, the bay

nonetheless a battlefield.

Let us imagine the harmonious workings of violence

as if observed from Chaucer’s cloud. Small beings

reduced to consequence.

As if to leave no footprint.

Different Stories


The man who lives in boring times

bucket by bucket moves a mountain.

Wedded to the trajectory,

a collection of shattered lenses,

a matrix of rituals.

Man, or machete.

A catalogue of expectations.

Cutlass, for instance,

the brute violence of the toolshed

become a scimitar in the hands of pirates.


On the subway platform the girl sways

to invisible music.

Maybe she’s gone to the islands.

Different stories.

I knew a girl whose childhood

was her mother’s experiment

in elective surgeries to make her

“beautiful,” new nose, new eyelids,

as the world sees it.

Except that she’d refused the last experiment.

A different story. And what became

of all that perfection

that one defiance,

that vote for symmetry.


Failure to make circles.

Old age, as the young man assured me,

is a state of mind.

In the order of things

there will be a fire.

Ownership of islands will be swept by the sound

and all these wetlands.

This has been home

and this has been home

and this has been home.

Much of what you plan for

won’t happen, and what does

you’ll be unprepared for.

Following beasts,

elk and elephant providing wisdom.

“Where grass

is good

there will be meat.”

“Salt is aggressive

and rises to water.”



and mystery

in the English

idiom, math

and mastery

in the physics of war.


A nice day,

flaxen girl in flat sandals licks

a cone of white ice cream

and strides through the park.

Strides through the park in flat sandals

licking a cone of white ice cream.

So nice a day.

Oh custard.

Oh sugarplum.


A mayan woman with her mayan children

at the Delacourt fountain.

Hard to imagine a beauty more divorced

from that belle époque fragility, she

recalling blood and viscera.

But her children

will speak the local dialect.


How flame doth harden meat but melteth water.


A tendency to swallow whole when excited

(a tendency for excitement)

but macerate, grind,

that the slice of water chestnut not

become the death of you. Chew

as if your life

depended on it.

Time enough for the visible world

beyond the restaurant.


In his will he endowed a fund

to feed a homeless person once a year

in the finest, most expensive

restaurant and record

the recipient’s despair



Gleaning the last of an insufficient harvest, he

chops down the final bit of scrub so that his

child will have warm food, and

who knows what luck might bring

to keep them for another day.

First worry

then despair.

Maybe the last

of insect or mammal

will descend upon them.

Where blond means enough to eat

and brunette not so much.


So it turns out

that we’re not the answer

to the dreams of centuries.

Lope of the hunter from field to forest.

We have adapted wheat to grow on clouds

and grain to fall like rain.

Laughed, then died, and the living

guess at the joke.










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p.o. box 43, Maplewood, New Jersey 07040