May 16, 2010

David Wolach, Jen Coleman, & Cara Benson

Sunday, May 16
7:30 pm

Concordia Coffee House
2909 NE Alberta

$5.00 suggested donation

David Wolach
is founding editor of Wheelhouse Magazine & Press, & curator of the series devoted to the intersection of experiments in texts & radical politics, PRESS. Wolach's most recent books are Occultations (Black Radish), Prefab Eulogies Vol 1: Nothings Houses (BlazeVox), and Hospitalogy (Scantily Clad). His work is often often collaborative and uses multiple media. Wolach is professor of text arts & poetics at The Evergreen State College, & visiting professor in Bard College's Workshop In Language & Thinking.

Jen Coleman is a Portland poet transplanted from Minnesota by way of Wisconsin, DC, and then New York. She's the author of the chapbook Propinquity, and her work has appeared in many excellent journals including Chain, Ixnay and Tangent. She co-edited the former literary journal Pom-Pom and co-hosted the In Your Ear reading series in DC.

Cara Benson is author of (made) (BookThug) and Protean Parade (forthcoming from Black Radish). She edited the interdisciplinary book Predictions for ChainLinks. Poems: A Manifest(o)ation (BookThug) won the 2008 bpNichol Prize. Benson edits the online journal Sous Rature and teaches poetry in a NY State Prison.

{eulogy for ultra red}

after mazen kerbaj

                       Debris in the silence


                        What we say about our-
                        Selves a past has yet

                        To come a dog

                        Punches every air


                        After each successive laser-

                        Timed blast incessant quest-

                        Ions into a morning no body

                        But shrapnel

David Wolach

from Prefab Eulogies Vol 1: Nothings Houses

New Year

Unshaven afternoon and angry cats.
A storm sky, a barn left to winds
a carnival of danger a slackjaw miracle.
Beaks shine like a skull
Across the landscape.
Best ways scream into focus.
In absent exhaustion, to sleep
as fish dip noses into the air.

Bony moss snouts tip the surface.
The passing year looks on
The birthing clock, does its best to turtle
there, a wooden judge, a cop,
a mewling monster born
a realistic chance devouring
the air and anybody loitering.

Jen Coleman

Burned earth, the fire can travel through dry underground roots and spring up hundreds of feet from its source. Garden beseeched. Prayer gods kneeling over the victims. Evisceration of locals. The perimeter is secured by the usual means, though it is evident the event is so unusual. The ringing in the ears fades for some, in others, remains. What they hear is projection of what they have heard with constancy to date. This may be solely the function of their aural mechanisms; likely it is the mind registering its vote in the process. A collaborator. These survivors will re-experience the screaming at night. Florence will hear casino bells. Henry, the washing machine.

Cara Benson