January 17, 2015

Dream Salon: Cobb, Yeary, & Dunn


Saturday, January 17
7:00 pm

Mother Foucault's Bookshop
523 SE Morrison

Join us to celebrate the release of Dream Salon, a journal of poetics edited by Chris Ashby and published by Couch Press, and hear readings by the three contributors to the premiere issue. Drinks will be served, and copies of the magazine will be available for the first time.

Allison Cobb is the author of Born2 (Chax Press), about her hometown of Los Alamos, New Mexico, and Green-Wood (Factory School), about a nineteenth-century cemetery in Brooklyn, New York. The New York Times called Green-Wood "a gorgeous, subtle, idiosyncratic gem." She works for the Environmental Defense Fund, and lives in Portland, Oregon, where she co-curates The Switch PDX reading series.

James Yeary is a poet, and the publisher of c_L books, which makes handmade books of poetry in limited editions. He made visual work in the collaborative inquiry known as 13 Hats, and has shown visual work in galleries and in The Last Vispo Anthology: Visual Poetry 1998-2008 (Fantagraphics Books). 

Jordan Dunn is the author of the chapbooks The Land of Little Rain (Well Greased Press) and Form 32 (Cannot Exist). Along with Anna Vitale, Andy Gricevich, and Lewis Freedman, he helps run the reading series Oscar Presents. He lives in Madison, WI, where he enjoys moveable type, canoes, and bourbon.


Arc 

god we created
all without 
form and void--a sea
of zombie haute
coo--here comes all
the flesh you ever ate
in living form with eyes
to look you back--to look
you god we chemists
in the face gleam stitch
the sickest thread though
every earth
born body Mt.
Angel monks display
their taxidermy means
arrange the skin
for war--the single 
tree of every
rose room crying
birds--she said please
mention us your
body sailing past
the factory lights
at night all lives
outside this arc un
-branded sink

Allison Cobb


Five Lines from Sartre's Sunglasses

I think about knocking over that motorcycle everytime I walk past it

Move this way and that,
Trying to keep the money flowing

If the crime is productive, your jurisdiction will absorb all of the violence

Imagination breathes in crowded rooms, its productivity curtained

Friendless, the silence is screaming

James Yeary



from The Land of Little Rain by Mary Austin, With an Introduction by Robert Hass. Houghton Mifflin & Company, 1903.

The voice, when properly equipped, is slow. It cannot go so far as the horizon, or down further into stillness as the old cracked risings in the ash heap. Sunlight will dry the mellow-wetted body of the field mouse approaching its own whereabouts with pacification and the index of tiny dealings with other land travelers. Every year discrimination is applied. The woodpecker befriends lonely buckets and the keepers of wakeful pauses go back safely into moonlight and the hollow network for their gossips. It may be that recollection's clamor is preserved by death and its requisite night-songs, the tribute of my imagination and the dumb creature of my own whereabouts. This mistake is like the mourning dove's power to rot in ghastly sinks of passion. Consistently, the remembrance of St. Jerome baffled by his own perquisite wanders through the recesses among basket-ribbed cattle surviving their own middens by tapping away in the clearness and stillness of mesa afternoons. He feared nothing to prick the even-breathing submission of the first agony, which is rare among so many remainders. At least spring announces itself without self-pity, considers itself well down like the love of the hummingbird, since one might not help another, it is the nearness of the harness chains which confuse them. In the scheme of things, only the place in itself is preserved. Even the scavenger falls off from fear in the lonely land. Be it the highest place, or the lowest instinct one inserts around the woody skeleton, the vine will still tangle and choke the perfectly accepted recess. This is a nice reminder to renounce death even when the glare of it has a well-defined growth and an area that carries beyond exhaustion.

Jordan Dunn