mellowtone has it: that sweet, sad softness that is musically and lyrically congruent; the bittersweet sound that moves from triumph to defeat to joy and pain in absolute stillness.

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Ed Roman isn't relying on classic rock, folk, or pop sounds. Rather, he's creating an intricate kitchen-sink fusion of pop, rock, folk, reggae and country that gives us energetic, spontaneous, even gleeful fun.

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All the spare parts to rarify
They really ice the migraine dead
Doozey up and explode coffee earrings
Superstitions and the perfect Rorschach bandage
Breathtaking, route-faking, peace-making

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The days of slavery are passé, which signals the end
to empires & all their indentured servants called
CEO’s (yes), plus housewives, teachers,
& duly elected politicians, plus blood diamonds
& bank notes tied to the bomb, the bomb squad,

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Guilty hands hold
non-poetic pens.
The mind narrows
to the cover story:

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Tell me about the heft of righteousness
in the hand, the percussive wish

to draw blood. Recount the wince
savored on the palate, the sob

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My childhood was spent in my mother’s studio, watching her adhere little objects to shapes formed in clay. She took me on guided tours through art books, from the sculpture of Louise Nevelson, with whom she’d gone to art school, to Georgia O’Keeffe, into whose paintings I’d drift.

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Where the meat left the hat
without divots of gesture
slapping the pantry walls

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The last thing I remember before coming to at Mt. Sinai was lying on my belly on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by five cops, enormous from my vantage point. They talked among themselves and on their radios, ignoring me. Finally, they cuffed me behind my back; I begged them to tell me what I had done, but I was not worth a word.

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One Trump supporter prays to a 6' cardboard cut-out of his hero each morning as he leaves the house. No one can pinpoint when this happened. They are hyphenated anti-Americans.

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you are quivering
in sanitary hostility
on a red red face.
You are a vanishing drain
of attention.

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His eyes filmed over. She reached across to hug him.

It’s my own fault, she said. I’m abandoning you, aren’t I?

Late stage?

She nodded. I should have complained months ago.

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The men who don’t do it, don’t buy it. Do they talk about it? Proud as gods looking down on the people they say yes, we understand, we feel your anger and pain, we’ll just throw down some thunderclaps, smite a few people with some lightning, and we’ll all feel better?

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They were coming into town, past the casino and the rodeo grounds both sparkly as rhinestones, past the cemetery dark as death is, the espresso shop which closed at noon and the shop which sold homemade sausages and the Christian bookstore, all dark.

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