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Craig Dotti Mar 2013
It's said if you get hit by a High -speed train
The body-bag needed to house your remains is no bigger than the one needed to fit your sandwich in at lunch

As I pass Brielle and South Amboy, Perth Amboy and Secaucus at 80 mph
I stare out into the swamps festering with industrial run-off
And the bombed- out buildings of once thriving towns
I get the feeling that I want to return to the earth

People tell me a lot of things
They don't ask much
They tell me I can be successful at anything I choose
They throw around words like charismatic and love and passionate
They tell me that I have the mark of Cain
They fail to realize
Charisma is for the talentless
Passion is blood on your hands at the end of the day
And love is blood and war and a dark place and feeling that keeps you in bed

Some call this depression
But to me it's  seeing my world as it is
Not as it might be

I tell anyone who will listen
I can't get over you
Guess I'm hoping for one final piece of sage advice
But the blind are the blind for some reason or other
And I can't look at myself in
The mirror these days

I've never made a habit of Walking on the tracks
It's not that I want to be in a zip-lock body-bag but I don't own a gun
I've smoked enough *** for five lifetimes
And I don't care that I have never seen the Pacific
Water is just water anyway Right?
David Nelson Jun 2010
Slashers Defined

In response to my piece, Slashers, it was requested that maybe I could
reveal at least which band or other info these great guitar players performed for to gain their claim to fame. I don't want to spend too much
time on this defintion, but will give what info I think is pertinent. If you do not know some of the names I have presented to you, and you are a blues,
rock, jazz, fusion guitar fan, I suggest you take the time to listen to some of their work. I have included some of my favorite incredible fusion players that do not have a super star following, but are renowned in their group of fans, probably mostly musicians to some degree.
If you are a frustrated guitar player like I am, do not listen to the likes of  Holdsworth, Johnson, Gambale, or Morse unless you love being tortured.
Anyway on with the show.
        
Eric Clapton – Yardbirds, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos.

Jimmy Page – Yardbirds, Led Zeppe, The Honeydrippers, The Firm

Jimi Hendrix – not only what is, but,  what could have been

Alan Holdsworth – Solo jazz fusion player – hot

Steve Howe –  Yes, Asia - Progressive rock, jazz –

Bill Nelson – BeBop Deluxe, Solo

Terry Kath – Chicago (25 or 6 to 4) – another sad early departure

Ted Nugent – Amboy Dukes, **** Yankees – The madman

Jim Krueger – Dave Mason Band – solo progressive rock

Eddy Van Halen – Van Halen

Ritchie Blackmore – Deep Purple, Rainbow

Jerry Doucette – Doucette (Mama let him play)

Eric Johnson – Solo – New Age, jazz

Frank Gambale – Australian- Jazz, fusion, rock

Goerge Benson – Jazz

Larry Carlton – Jazz, new age rock

Marc Farner -  Grand Funk Railroad

Peter Frampton – Humble Pie, solo

Joe Satriani - New age – solo

Johnny A. - jazz, new age – solo

Danny Gatton – jazz, rockabilly – solo

Chet Atkins – jazz, country

John Mayer – Pop, blues – solo

Neal Schon – Journey

Steve Lukather – Toto

Masyoshi Takanaka – New age, jazz – Japanese solo

Lee Ritnour – Jazz, new age – solo

Leslie West -  Mountain, West  Bruce & Laing

Monty Montgomery – jazz, blues (accoustic you have never heard)

Wes Montgomery – jazz 40's – 50's

Phil Keaggy – New age Christian

Robin Trower – Procul Harem

Brian May – Queen

Rick Derringer – Montrose, Edgar Winter Group, Steely Dan

Robin Ford – John Mayall, Chick Corea, solo jazz, fusion, blues

Carlos Santana – Santana

Ronnie Montrose – Montrose

Steve Morse – Dixie Dregs, Kansas, solo jazz, fusion

Trevor Rabin – Yes, solo new age

Gomer LePoet...
Attempt to shine
     flickering figurative klieg light
with the help of hyperbole
     on poverty wrought
debutante material, this predicated
     on my own unbiased thought
initially related during
     my early boyhood,

     how many countless
     bachelor beaus sought
to pledge their troth,
     who hailed (strictly
     for purposes of this poem)
     from Pennsauken,
     Perth Amboy, Penobscot,

but thee essential truth ought
to be gleaned (lodged
     as like some precious gem
within geode, qua Harriet Kuritsky,
     who oft times recounted her
     personal anecdotal information)

underlying veritable truth, I allude
means to underscore
     how thine late mum
     as the "baby" of her family
     wore mantle of exclusive favoritism,
     sans donning beautiful clothes
     perfectly cared for,
     coiffed, and curled hair

     (think Shirley Temple)
     as her older sisters brewed
festered, and steeped with jealousy,
     asper me mother receiving
     lion's share of blatant favoritism
all the while said long since
     deceased maternal aunts got exclude
did from requisite

     (shut heard textbook case) maternal love,
     hence within their cerebral hood
     incubated, evolved, and flourished
     emotional disease affliction
     with changeable mood

and thee Aunt Ruth oblivious,
     while pacing hallway in the ****
whereat verbally abuse sent
     both aunts to mental institution
insanity didst the
     ultimate discordant prelude

resulting viz lifetime
     of baleful, hateful, shameful,
     and worthless venom got spewed,
hence no surprise
     rabid mailer daemons
     courted, thus psychosis easily wooed.
Steven Deutsch May 2016
Mom
I can laugh now,
but for a time
I was so scared
of my shadow;
that I would only
venture forth at
night, or noon
or during an
occasional
eclipse of the sun.
You might guess
that I’d be ridiculed,
what with carrying
a parasol to school
on sunny days in spring,
but my brother was
three hundred pounds
of muscle, hung out
with the Amboy Dukes
and carried, as a
weapon, half a tree
trunk like a third arm.
From the time I was
six years old, the other
children called me sir.

My mother put an end
to it “toot sweet.”
While no student
of psychology,
she took the time to
reason with me,
as she bent over a
steaming laundry tub,
in her ragged house dress,
like something out of Dickens.
She said quite clearly,
“Go outside right now,
or I will ******* you.”
My mother never hit,
but I took my sneakered
feet down the tenement
stairs, so quickly that they
barely touched the steps,
and then bareheaded,
I braved the April sun.

— The End —