July 27 – August 2, 2015: Adel Souto and Woodrow Hightower

Adel Souto and Woodrow Hightower

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Adel Souto
adel.156.souto@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

I am a Cuban-born artist, writer, and musician, currently living in Brooklyn, NYC. I have written for my own fanzines starting in the early 90s, and have contributed pieces to numerous magazines, fanzines, and websites since. I have released several books, including a “best of”, as well as a chapbook on the subject of a 30-day vow of silence, plus I have also translated the works of Spanish poets. My work, both art pieces and photography, has shown in galleries in NYC, Philadelphia, and Miami, as well as in Europe. My music videos have been screened at NYC’s Anthology Film Archives, and I have lectured on the subject of occult influences in photography at NYU’s Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development’s Department of Art and Art Professions. As side projects, I produce the public access tv show, Brooklyn’s Alright, and am heavily involved with my musical outfit, 156, which has a handful of releases on several labels across the U.S. Visit Adel on the web here: http://www.adelsouto.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Adel Souto and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

North Cut

Retract claws.
Purr right alongside.
Build a barrier of sense,
and always land on all fours.
Pet me until it’s time to feed.
After a run,
let’s hide in the grass,
and roll on our backs to enjoy the sun on our faces.
Meow, indeed.

 



Woodrow Hightower
woodrow_hightower@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Woodrow Hightower is a native of West Point, California. He is a poet currently producing a first book of verse to be titled “So Low.” A self-described “word muralist,” his work has recently been accepted by a multitude of literary zines including IthacaLit, Olentangy Review and The American Aesthetic. Hightower resides in Sacramento’s Midtown District with photographer/co-conspirator Twyla Wyoming and their two Tibetan spaniels.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Woodrow Hightower and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Issues

With a boatload of bravado
I Looked up from my laptop and announced:
“Hey everybody,
Goats have gotten loose
In the cabbage patch!”
(I should have been an actor)
My doomsday warning a siren song
Loud enough to be heard
Across state lines

Both customers and hired help
Sprinted past the exit sign
Climbing into rusted F-150’s
And soon-to-be-totaled CRV’s,
Racing away
Leaving Blue Lulu’s Ice Cream Shop empty
Accept for me

Feeling as much guilt
As a Cro-Magnon man could muster
On a blistering-hot summer day
I slipped behind the cash register
And stainless steel frigidarium
To get a closer look at the 42 flavors
Unguarded,
There for the taking

Too many choices:
Grease-Pit Peach, Revolver Rocha
Sunset Strip Sorbet, the list went on
I grabbed a white plastic spoon
Digging in before the novelty wore off

Within seconds I was surprised
By the sound of a flushing toilet
And a door opening in the back
Larry “In-one-ear-and-out-the-other” Morris
Was walking towards me,
Puzzlement plastering his face
“Where’d everybody go?”
“Didn’t you hear the sirens?” I said
“There’s a motor home full of jihadists
Headed this way”

Larry sat down to the two scoops
Of Cherry Compulsion he’d left behind
Before forgetting to wash his hands
“Didn’t you hear me man?”…
“Jihadists!”

He and I have known each other
Since the pubescent gang days
Acquaintances not friends
He ran with the Saber-Toothed Sultans
I was in the Department of the Damned
Polar opposites
He never sweated the whys and wherefores
I sweated everything

“Don’t you drive a red Focus
With a Social D bumper sticker on the back?”
He was looking out the window as he asked
I nodded my head
“I just saw someone in a jumpsuit
And a hockey mask
Get behind the wheel”
“No way!” I screamed running outside,
Rattled but relieved when I found the Ford
Still sitting next to a light pole
Where left earlier
Doors locked, no one inside

I have this recurring dream
In it I have wings and I’m trying to fly
But straining with maximum effort
I can’t get above the tree line
Articulation sticks in the throat
The muddy language of loose ends
I wake up shaking
I believe somehow Larry knows this

Hustling back
For some polyamorous pecan swirl
I saw a sharpie note
Scrawled on a napkin
Taped to Lulu’s front door
Predictably, Larry was gone
As was my new laptop

At that moment
The rube posse, led by Lulu herself
Came roaring back,
Re-positioning cars and trucks
In front of her business
The anger on their faces
Proof they had discovered
The cabbage untouched

“Damn you Morris”
I was trapped

Desperate,
Pointing towards sky,
I turned and faced the locals
“Hey look everyone,”
Halley’s Comet!”
Vengeful eyes stayed on me

It was then I noticed Larry’s scribble:
“Dear Stupid,
An unreliable narrator
Can never be trusted”