October 12, 2003

Andrew Joron & Edward Bell

Sunday, October 12, 2003, 7:30 pm
Mountain Writer's Center
3624 SE Milwaukie (5 blocks south of Powell Blvd.)
Portland, Ore.

Suggested donation $5

About the readers:

Andrew Joron is the author of three books of poetry: Science Fiction (Pantograph Press, 1992), The Removes (Hard Press, 1999), and Fathom (Black Square Editions, 2003). He has written reviews and critical essays, most recently the chapter on "Neo-Surrealism" in the Talisman House anthology The World in Time and Space. Joron also is a translator of German poetry and philosophy; his translation of the Utopian Marxist philosopher Ernst Bloch's Literary Essays was published by Stanford University Press in 1998. Andrew Joron lives in Berkeley.

Edward Bell was raised by anthropologists at Oregon State University. He was discovered in the Spring of 1961 in a test field by a graduate student from the Agronomy Dept. Later, Doctors Czyczy and Smith were attracted by the murmurs that Edward would emit (even when eating). They determined that the murmurs were a complex pattern of ever evolving sound-fractals; but it was the PhD candidate, Bardot, who realized that Edward was repeating everything that he had ever heard. On reaching emancipation from the University, Edward published his murmurs rarely, reluctantly, and with some regret. He has learned his three R's, and hopes to mitigate them.

THE POVERTY OF FACT

One lizard is less than one word.
Whose tongue unscrolls to taste the dust?

The walls of the mind are painted
Hot pink, the color of electricity.

Either aether or ore, the barrens accumulate.
Forgive me, I have not eaten today.

I am a talking picture, nothing more
Than a tissue wedged between ages of silence.

Frame by frame, the bus window
Animates the still desert.

By the roadside, the skull of Taurus whitens
Beaconwise --

Correspondent to the unspilled sky.
His horns are garlanded with wandering planets.

This evening in the plaza
Heaven is the guitar that plays itself.

Old church, a rubble patch. Stop here to venerate
The bloody stumps of the black cactus.

Canyon I call for no answer.
To be accurate, a man goes back to his ghost.

As the militia guards the volcano, so
Is necessity measured, against the will.

Andrew Joron
Hecho en Mexico, Mayo 2002


#10 from Untitled Series

desert
sand
spinning the
parenthesis

the radiant sphere of thirst

Edward Bell