Writing

Recreating the President’s Brain from Zapruder’s Home Movie by Philip Quinn

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Recreating the President’s Brain

from Zapruder’s Home Movie

 

by

 

Philip Quinn

 

jfk-zapruder-film-still-feat
 

from Love’s field,

                       all roads lead to complete synaptic breakdown
 
at Main and Houston, sharp 90 degree turn for the worse

             one block north along Houston to Elm Street

 

the cheering crowds
traces of love, traces of American actor fallout
Hiroshima, “Ask not…”
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Mary — a film by Yarre Stooker

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Mary

a film by

Yarre Stooker

 
 

 
 

“Eddie Woods writes poetry the way he lives life, intensely. Experience informs his art, and vice versa. Passion, raw edges, nothing left out. Sex, love, politics…coupled with an unrelenting drive towards awareness, the need to understand what universal reality is all about. His poem “Mary” enters the listener’s ears like a wordbomb, exploding inside the mind, and reverberates down the spine like electroshocks from the brain’s pleasure centre.”

— Mark McCawley (from Mary by Eddie Woods, Urban Graffiti, March 8, 2012)

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Mercy by Kenneth Radu

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Mercy

 

by Kenneth Radu

 

Novelist, short story writer, poet — Kenneth Radu has the unique ability to uncover the extraordinary within the everyday, to peel back the fabric of the superficial to expose hidden depths of meaning. In “Mercy” Urban Graffiti is pleased to present Radu’s story of how a dark, unspoken family secret tears apart a family’s very foundation. ~Editor

 

Tattoo Nude 1. Photo © 2006 by Devin McCawley

Tattoo Nude 1. Photo © 2006 by Devin McCawley

Her head had cracked against the cement floor and she believed her life had come to an end. Her mind plummeted in a tailspin down a black well. In the descent she heard a voice demanding cunt and Adrian offering “be my guest” as if inviting him to use something he owned. She had never forgotten those words as the friend clutched her hair in a fist, repeating “holy fuck.” She would die with the stench of engine oil and whiskey swirling around her brain in the depths of the dark. Dizzy from alcohol, her brother smoked and laughed while his friend, also rank with booze, grabbed under her skirt and clawed off her panties. His nails razored her delicate flesh, he fingered her private parts, and she jolted upwards. His weight pressed hard against her breasts, she struggled to breathe, she couldn’t push him off, and she appealed to her brother: help me, Adrian, please, god, help me. A hand clamped over her mouth and she tried to bite it and scratch the guy’s face, but her jaws wouldn’t move. Both Adrian and the second friend held her arms apart by the wrists while the first friend drilled deep into her body and screams cut through the soft tissue of her brain.
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Four Poems by Hal Sirowitz

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Four Poems

 

by Hal Sirowitz

 

JFK

 

The day President John F. Kennedy was shot, I was at Junior High School, sitting behind the girl I had a crush on. We heard the tapping of the loudspeaker, a signal that there was going to be an announcement. Then, the principal informed us the President was being taken to the emergency room in a hospital in Dallas. A few minutes later, the principal returned to tell us that Kennedy was pronounced dead, and we now had a new President of our country. He told us school was being cancelled, and we should go home to watch further results on television. For the first time in my life I felt I was a part of history. The Cuban Missile Crisis didn’t really count, because school wasn’t terminated. Mother didn’t want to watch it on television, because she got squeamish seeing all the blood. She said the blood-stains would be hard to remove from Jacqueline Kennedy’s clothes. She called up my father to tell him the news. His secretary said he was at a meeting. Mother said she wanted to talk to him anyway. The secretary got my father on the phone. He was annoyed at being interrupted. My mother told him the news. He said he would try to get home earlier than usual. But he had to fight traffic. She said he was lucky, he didn’t have to fight death, like the President.
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Hal Sirowitz: The People’s Poet — essay by Ron Kolm

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Hal Sirowitz:

 

The People’s Poet

 

by Ron Kolm

 

Author photo © Copyright 2010 Kim Soles

Author photo © Copyright 2010 Kim Soles

I met Hal in 1980 when he was emceeing the poetry readings at St. Clement’s Church on 46th Street in Hell’s Kitchen. Hal did a terrific job in mixing the knowns and the unknowns, and then making the unknowns feel like they could end up in the pantheon of New York City poets. At the conclusion of each event Sirowitz would read some of his own work. The first time I heard him I was instantly hooked. His poems were short and funny, and in them Hal was able to project himself through his mother’s eyes. To her everything was a potential threat — especially to her family’s belonging to the mostly assimilated Jewish middle-class.  Religion still played a part in his work, but almost more as a set of superstitions, than as a link to the ineffable — and it was more through the sensibility of the father than the mother. Hal’s poems were also incredibly concrete — they were filled with real things; real cats, real girlfriends, real condoms. And many of them began with the mantra, “Mother said…”
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