June 8, 2019

Alan Bernheimer & Seann McCollum

Saturday, June 8
7:00 p.m.

1223 NE Martin Luther King Jr Blvd, Portland

$5 suggested donation for the readers (no one turned away)

Alan Bernheimer's latest collection is From Nature (Cuneiform Press, 2019). Recent work has appeared at Across the Margin and at SFMOMA's Open Space and in The Equalizer, The Delineator, and Hambone. The Spoonlight Institute was published by Adventures in Poetry in 2009. Born and raised in Manhattan, he has lived in the Bay Area since the 1970s. He produces a portrait gallery of poets reading on flickr. His translation of Philippe Soupault's memoir, Lost Profiles: Memoirs of Cubism, Dada, and Surrealism, was published by City Lights in 2016. More information is at The Electronic Poetry Center.

Seann McCollum is an art-school dropout from Philadelphia and the author of twenty-odd self-published books of poetry and prose.  He is currently at work on a book-length apology for helping to ruin Portland. Despite appearances, he does not, in fact, hate everything.



Where did existential leave its beret
Attracting us like monks to fame

The world is run over by angry
Men with ambiance units

Tremors in the awning
Extending ovals into space

Whatever intervenes is artistry
Someone says you have nice hands

Reality has a transparent center
Inside layers of shiny candor

The beach looks good today
Like spraying ether 

But your empty eyes see
So many smoke rings     

Alan Bernheimer


I had a staring contest
with a girl with a lazy eye
She was deep and dark like you

Her hand was cold and dry
against my face
Her mouth a zipper

Her skin was the color of the sky at dusk
cut by the black line of a rope
strung across the river.

She asked for my notebook
opened it to a blank page
whispered into it
and handed it back

When she was gone I opened it
and heard the sound
of gently lapping water

Seann McCollum

June 16, 2019

Will Alexander & John Beer

Sunday, June 16
7:00 p.m.

at Passages Bookshop
1223 NE ML King, Jr. Blvd.
Portland OR 97232

$5 suggested donation for the readers (no one turned away)

Will Alexander
--Poet, novelist, essayist, playwright, philosopher, aphorist, visual artist, and pianist, who has authored over 30 books and chapbooks. He is a Writing Fellow, a California Arts Council Fellow, and a PEN Oakland recipient. In addition to the above he is also an American Book Award winner for his book of essays Singing in Magnetic Hoofbeat in 2013. In 2016 he was awarded the Jackson Prize for his body of poetry, and in 2018 he was honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award by Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center. Currently he lives in Los Angeles and is on the Cal State L.A. Advisory Writing Board and is poet-in-residence at Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center.

John Beer is the author of Lucinda and The Waste Land and Other Poems, both from Canarium Books, and the editor of Poems (1962-1997) by Robert Lax, published by Wave Books. He teaches creative writing at Portland State University.

from Concerning The Henbane Bird

...yet I seem as one unlinked 
consumed by parallel disorder 
being he who dwells by self-haunted demeanour 
by numerical force claimed by bewitched injustice...

Will Alexander


Chapter one: We didn't understand the sequence,
So replayed it continually, Eliazar in his darling jacket,
Ms. Swampsinger singing, in blister-worthy fashion,
The swamp. "Come join us," the advertisement read.
Maybe when it's done, the harvest protocol
Will shake the many-headed beast to pieces,
I mean the lifeguarding staff, who administer demerits
Like they were the boss of the world. Night heat
Remains the best heat, I could have been that leaf,
And then deluge, then everything rendered slightly
Chocolate and bitter.

                                    Right about now the recap squad
Hurls reduplicated insults at the tiny pages floating
Lightly down from that horrible man's window,
Turning the Rocky Mountain dusk into carnival,
Indifferent to the screams that issue from under
My favorite piano bench. Kiss today and all its secret
Arrangements goodbye. The audience sat on its hands.

John Beer