March 27, 2011

Barbara Henning & Will Owen


Sunday, March 27
7:30 pm


The Waypost
3120 N. Williams Ave.
503-367-3182

$5.00 suggested donation


Barbara Henning is the author of three novels, seven books of poetry and a series of  photo-poem pamphlets. Her most recent books are a collection of poetry and prose, Cities & Memory (Chax Press); a novel, Thirty Miles from Rosebud (BlazeVox); and a collection of object-sonnets, My Autobiography (United Artists). Looking Up Harryette Mullen is forthcoming from Belladonna Books.  Barbara is a member of the Belladonna collaborative board and an advisory board member for POG and Chax Press. Born in Detroit, she has lived in New York City since 1983, and is presently teaching for Naropa University, as well as Long Island University in Brooklyn where she is Professor Emerita.

Will Owen has been putting much of his energy into the Seattle Autonomous University, a general research group made up of other research groups which presumes equality and avoids the internet. Thus far groupuscules have concresced on the topics of Soccer & Political Economy (PE class); Affect, Aesthetics & Ethics in 2666; and Feminist Science Fiction; and briefly held regional polity seminars on public transit buses. An Evergreen graduate, he has written on spite houses and automated erotica translations, published work in Peaches and Bats and Off Koot, and worked with Subtext. At the moment he is trying to see the tenants of classical economics in poetry.


BAYPORT, LONG ISLAND  
 -- from Twelve Green Rooms
 
A shock of black hair, little cleft chin, round face, little feet like a fish. Pelican. Pelican. Pelican. Two weeks later he is more than one-third larger. One day he'll be over six feet. With a ten foot wing span and a layer of webbed fibers. Throat pouches full of  water   fish   oceanic     ripple   spill    sentient   brim over    full over   The terns are fragile little birds, one dive into the oily water and they don't resurface. I take the baby into the kitchen, and then in the red glow of the night light, we sway that baby sway. Pelicaniformas, ancient symbol of      spill out   spill over    Later I come down the stairs for a glass of water. In the dark, the tv is on with no sound and Greg is stretched out in the chair, his big line-backer body and the infant curled up in his armpit, both sound asleep. Half a mile south, the Atlantic tide laps against the shore.

Barbara Henning


Eye bag teas
shitbag
[include but don't attach]

All that is
is pyramids,
scheme milk,
descent:

"we care"
whereas I modular oil,
making it here
a gas a glass an engine.

   -- April 16th 8:49PM

Will Owen