Tryst Poet: Peter Magliocco

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Peter Magliocco, writer/artist/editor, was raised in Southern California but has spent over 20 years editing the underground lit-zine, ART:MAG, out of Las Vegas, Nevada. His bio appears in the Marquis' Who's Who in America 2004-06 ... Known as The Mag Man in small press circles, he has recent poetry at LITERARY HOUSE, SCARS PUBLICATIONS, HUDSON VIEW POETRY DIGEST, SKYLINE MAGAZINE and elsewhere. His book of poetry & art, Ex Literotica, was published in '06 by Publish America (www.publishamerica.com) ...

(Ex) Communications

Someone is dreaming in your mind
hallowing toxins of bio-science in sleep
   fabrics unraveling
the transplanted fibers of your being.
Someone put your hippocampus in the zoo
   for a tri-semester
while Walt Whitman's homeless impersonator
is expelled from the library
   (smelly feet NOT wanted).
Let us now journey across the Body Politic
where I saw god's face minted on a postage stamp
   sold by Aunt Samantha
for her retirement income
& the cancers eating her breasts were also
those feasting on the century's war veterans,
those Goya's colossal savage swallowed
among the common victims
of a mass spiritual starvation
   of your world's bodhi,

   while
   all along
deluded "new world" prophets
prayed for an alien savior
in a resplendent UFO
for a transport to a kind infinity --
& righteous deliverance from old planets
   of impolitic blight.

A New Millennium of Men Vs. Women
I say that poetry is flesh. -- Edouard Glissant

wherein Barbie gives a tacky wink,
telling me the virtues of her T.V.-manfriend,
swearing that she's found her true love
to monogamously enthrall

& somehow I should be impressed,
like a spy in the galaxy of amour
who gets his osmotic charge w/ voyeurs
before a nude militia men squad

about to fire steel-jacketed nipples
with New Year's fireworks
into Hugh Hefner's born again asshole, ehh.
No I don't think so, big yammy, I don't believe
Neo-gender the answer, or even the question
scholars decode from Madonna's boudoir loo.
We must burn down the clinics,
lap yeast from the Bride's flesh rhymes & lies;
marry dead with the living,
take a Bermuda Triangle cruise before we drown
on the wet tongue of a Playmate's cosmetic fraud

swearing god is not a man
but a woman in drag,
made in the image of a lab bottle
left with empties
in the parking lot