Please spread far and wide.......
Who: Aaron McCollough, author of Welkin
and Double Venus
, winner of the 2002 Sawtooth Poetry Prize, manager of the Ann Arbor Martyrs, world champion waffle spinner.
Who: Tony Tost, author of Invisible Bride
, winner of the 2003 Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets, Man-About-Carrboro, statistician to secret set of super smart groundhogs.
What: Desert City Poetry Series October reading, the Bold vs. the Beautiful.
When: this Saturday, October 23rd, 8pm, 2004.
Where: Internationalist Books, 405 W. Franklin Street, Chapel Hill, NC, 919-942-1740.
Why: "As I flew through the windshield I knew being nice did not always work like magic." "dear, if you want to get to heaven on time / lord knows you've got to [ ]"
See you there........
*Internationalist Books: http://www.internationalistbooks.org
*Aaron McCollough: http://aaronmccollough.blogspot.com/
*Tony Tost: http://unquietgrave.blogspot.com/
Contact the DCPS: Ken Rumble: rumblek at bellsouth dot net
Next Month: November 13th, Saturday: C. S. Giscombe & Jon Thompson.
". . .golden address"
physician check my circulation
golden address I mutter more and louder
in this telephone the anchorite
taps barcodes out longshort
the end was coming 'til we missed
the end / is coming
". . .gasstop"
red clay i am on
in red clay i am
coming to account
though track in track out
my place (this was valdosta)
of minor rivers
if i'm too old for this (have been)
then i'm being too old
why in the inlet fiddlers
but the sea
". . .ephphatha"
that is be opened
the second is this
in all this biblical heat
the way likened to a two-lane road
compressor touch and go
. . .I can see people but they look like trees. . .
. . .I believe; help my unbelief!
". . .let man's soul be a sphere"
column of dust
like a thread like orange lips foreshortened
/god laid out
*flapping crowns of skin torn out of the feet
resolve me molecular
converse me electric
let us talk about whatever
lapping the milk on the floor
even as it's water
passing thirsty, friend
as water thinning milk
as said all miracles have stopped
and living is skimmed
take down all curtains
we've nothing to hide
". . .in the house of mary & martha"
in the palmetto state
at the running tap
sands and clays and the source
in the rock that'll follow me
we are in our place
in the ear of mary
the hand of martha
in a glance as it's gone
like an audience in the soul
which contains them
to be made
come in let us in
the sea inside the house
we go across all day
in remembrance of the sink
the hinged face of the holy body
thus we look into the face of god
floating cupboard of each face
let us in come in
let us in, we'll rest
come in, we'll travel together
"Men return from the dead"
Men return from the dead / the mortgage is due / suddenly & it's hard
Harder to sleep with the dripping of ether
Men return from the dead
Not more dead / more silent
What I fear is that I too young have already found
The four or five verbs that I will keep
When I am dead. Men return from the dead
Not more dead but more strange
Spitting (strangely) birds visible to humans / only
We are isolationists tonight & I am unsure why I am afraid
To call you woman. Why I put you under the bed to translate for me
Men return from the dead not more but
Spitting birds & not to the dead who read us / to us
We who say just enough to keep from rising
We whose dead children our women are praising
The impulse is for threading, weaving, making the blanket
The good thing. We whose tubs are full of pissing
Still glad we got out of Phoenix, the cul-de-sac
"the coldest little circle in Hell"
We whose tubs are full of we. Firecrackers
In the tub & now the tub is full of artless glories
Our glories now. I live for __(noun)__
I would die for _(noun)_ if its existence were ever threatened
Our water rising in the tub & drowning in the noise
The firecrackers. We spit / at our women
Who spit onto the children who are also in the tub
Our arms are just sitting there like the sun
For we are also all action / we who do not have to move our arms
About a mile down, as they say / it is wonderful
I live for Mexican food, etc.
Women are heavy, etc.
Nights cold enough for a thicker lover (thank you Paul)
Our women are heavy in our arms, their bellies engorged
Knots of children / wrapped like kites / around a fist or an eye
The _(noun)_ full of the once-dead. Their bellies en-gorged
Knots of children (already dead) unseen therefore human
Angry. These strings that lead an ordinary _(noun)_
Into ordinary light. Children wrapped & baptized, in string
A verb finds form not in their ether but here / in our real- / m, the once-was
A man of action (he who all day traveled
To find his father's grave filled with string) follows a thread all morning
Leads him back home to his daughter's mouth
If ever a string was also a fuse . . . Rolls her into the river
Wraps the string around his finger
When the girl returns from the dead the children
Throw blankets & bones. She paddles backwards / broken wing
The mother weaves a blanket from the children's hair
The father all action. Rubs his thumbs, his eyes
Props the girl (all animal) onto the balcony wall / broken wing
Sets off a firecracker beneath her & then he jumps, with her
Off the balcony into his contemporary bag of skin
My current job : I stand near a long table
With a magnifying glass in my right hand, a latex glove on my left
& I look though you
Years & years for the sun to go down
The children are years & years
We compare their indifference to a machine
A machine is a poem / made of metal. A car races around the hospital
A dog is a poem / made of bones. The children
Each placed on a leash. Lovely, suffering years. Compare the rain
To a machine / made of scissors. To dig is to think
Years: "A machine which does not consider this leash
Will not continue to work"