June 20, 2018

Bradley King, Rose Swartz, & Ally Harris

Wednesday, June 20
7:30 pm
please note later-than-usual start time

Passages Bookshop
1223 NE ML King Blvd.

$5 suggested donation; no one turned away

Bradley Ray King was born to a farming Christian family in Altus, Oklahoma. Since obtaining graduate degrees at the University of Texas, he has taught writing, journaling, and literature to middle school through college students. His chapbook Slow Leaves is just out from Abandon Press.

Rose Swartz is a poet, photographer, and union carpenter. Originally from Michigan, she has been calling a renovated garden shed in Portland home for the past few years. Her latest collection of poems is a chapbook from Abandon Press entitled Panhandle.

Ally Harris runs the Submission Reading Series in Portland, Oregon, in which readers are selected by blind online submission. She has poems in The Maine Review, Denver Quarterly, TYPO, Bennington Review, and more.

Abandon Press (est. 2008) publishes short-run letterpress editions of literature. Located in a barn outside Nehalem, Oregon, the print shop operates by way of dumb luck, cheap beer, meticulous finagling, and pacts with spiders. Dead mice were recently discovered in a case of the dullest fonts (think Cheltenham, Arial, Comic Sans).


We said something
into an arrangement
It builds to what
I can't hear
any way out of
that you might offer
                or want

So let's talk more
about space

Let's try separate
breakfasts, bus routes,
          intentions, injuries,
                       et cetera

Let's talk about bed
and where to lay
and with it
some space
              for rest

"Or let's just not say anything,"
               adds a persistence
to make good
with saying
which paves me
                             in roads

Bradley King


Alone on the bridge with huge bruises on my legs
strips of sod flap on the slanted horizon
fields flung aside, kaleidoscopic. I jump
in the river and it flies through my esophagus
my body downs silt, coughs clouds.
A living thing: that river. The shadow
which is with me does not belong to me.
In the current is the sound of another. Shouting
low over the orchards, laughter still gathers
in the lungs' sloppy deltas, wicked creeks.
Bloodstop the sky lest the sun get out,
Wild One, hear the trees snap, come running.
Great Plains, river gone, the church walls whistle.
I stand still and watch the tornado come in.
I set some of the daydream down.
Dry light resides in dirt
damp dark gives way to stars.

Rose Swartz