July 1, 2012

Brandon Brown, Alli Warren and Zosia Rose Wiatr

Sunday, July 1st

The Waypost
3120 N. Williams Ave

$5.00 Suggested Donation

Brandon Brown's first two books were published in 2011,The Persians By Aeschylus (Displaced Press) and The Poems of Gaius Valerius Catullus (Krupskaya.) Poems and prose have recently appeared in Postmodern Culture, Model Homes, Poetry Project Newsletter, Swan's Rag, Try!,and Art Practical.   He has programmed literary series at New Langton Arts, 21 Grand Gallery, several consecutive living rooms, and published small press chapbooks under the imprint OMG!  He lives in San Francisco.

Alli Warren is the author of Grindin (Lew Gallery), Acting Out (Editions Louis Wain), Well-Meaning White Girl (Mitzvah Chaps), and Cousins (Lame House Press). With Michael Nicoloff, she wrote Eunoia (Abraham Lincoln) and Bruised Dick. Recent writing appears in Lana Turner Journal, Saginaw, and Where Eagles Dare. She co-edits the Poetic Labor Project and lives in Oakland.

Zosia Rose Wiatr is a graduate of The Evergreen State College, where she received a BA with a concentration in poetics and French. She engages regularly in salons, sharing and critiquing literary works. Her poems may be found in various publications, among them Slightly West and James Yeary's newsletter, Canned Lumen. Zosia is the founder of Boisson/ Artiste, an online interview column dedicated to a dialogue with fine artists who also work in coffee or tend bar. She always encourages writers to send her their work via post, thus beginning a poetic correspondence. 


I've got $300,000 in speculative futures and this
is my last monster poem.  I'm cashing in, going to Lake Merritt
and laying in the grasses fine with the dog shit on my loafers,
in luv with swan shit on my glasses. I'm surrounded
by the ghostly voices of peasants displaced so Lake
Merritt could be hollowed. Where their huts stood
now loiter pampers. It's tough to be a peasant and try
to camp in the center of financially charged orgiastic development.
J'ai vu le cygnet et il m'a ouvert les yeux. I saw
a swan. I've got shares of British Petroleum and 300,
lyric poems cobbling inside my 
diaphragm and not one is grotesque
or monstrous. Walking away from a mine and squatting
by this gleaming slag of avian shit it's cool.  Clacking kayaks.
Thumping cardiovasculars. the fame of my monster poems
leads me to reflect that I am one of the
top 20-25 monster poets of all of the Internet. I stop to pant,
fix my cravat and stunt by the mob of swans at the lake's edge
Then I read the writing on the sign:

Brandon Brown


"whitney houston athens burning" 
is your boyfriend as wasted as mine?
thru which my subjectivity is enunciated
in the multifunctional administrative city
twenty igloos and a trading post
the reed people, the selfish herdsman
standing motionless against the melee
enchanted by ruins sometimes 
there's free leftover cake
to bid an ear to multiplicity
as one is compelled, deprived 
of what might multiply desire
peat moors on the Penine hills
the draining of the marshes
uncalled helmet to helmet 
on the sack of Smith
Sui Sin Far is my CNN
one machine serves another
the doctors say I'm fine
wherever the regime is laxest
collapse is pregnant
O degenerate utopia
unstoppable great green egg 
help me with this nebulizer
break the squire's gates
people have the right
to put a car in a bra
the Igbo have no king 

Alli Warren

From Sheet Music: A Few Short Pieces    

Part I: Creation Myth
Debussy said, your harmonics
move me, but where is your form,
you deliver no balance?
So Satie placed a round green pear on the table
and it swelled like a woman,
you could smell it like a woman
when it split into three worlds,
which you could tell apart
by discrepancies in dynamic tension
penciled between measures

Zosia Rose Wiatr