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issue 4


a poem by
Jason Visconti
> bio


Now the buses are transparent
And the windows that go on are transparent
And there is a naked beauty among us
For the museums that invite us in
The ones that breath straight through a dinosaurs windy pipe
The ones that have taken Picasso and hauled him away
Let him settle in his dream state in a neighbor's attic
These are almost transparent
The droning of the professor's voice has become transparent
What resonates late its mystic news to the ear
And a touch of Saturn
And a spin of Jupiter.

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