Please join us at the Project Lodge (817 E. Johnson) at 8pm on Friday, March 5th for this month’s installment of the ______-Shaped Reading Series. This month’s reading is shaped with prawn or simply shaped as with prawn.
When you arrive you will hear the stimulating poetry of Michael Bernstein, Andy Gricevich, Matthew Guennette, and Steve Timm read by said poets in their own voices.
Feel free to bring snacks to share for our potluck intermission where as of yet unanticipated conversations will take place.
A $5-10 dollar donation is appreciated. Directly below you will find some biographical information pertaining to our readers and some recent work.
Michael Bernstein is the author of the chapbooks cinderbook (Gold Wake Press, 2009), the rot to light (Gold Wake Press, 2010), 8s (Scantily Clad Press, forthcoming 2009), imaginary grace (Recycled Karma Press, forthcoming 2009) from “a heap of swords and mirrors” (Bedouin Books, forthcoming 2010), the transit illuminate (mudluscious press, forthcoming 2010), nanostars (greying ghost press, forthcoming 2010), and the Fire District (Differentia Press, forthcoming 2010) . His poems have appeared in magazines such as Puppy Flowers, milk, Moria, BlazeVOX, and New American Writing. He currently co-edits the online literary arts magazine Pinstripe Fedora. Michael lives and writes in Wisconsin.
Andy Gricevich lives here. His poems have been published here and there; some will soon appear in Pinstripe Fedora (his favorite online journal). He edits Cannot Exist magazine and, with Lewis Freedman (who has been kind enough to invite him to read tonight), facilitates this reading series. He has toured internationally as a performer of strange chamber music, theater and satirical cabaret songs with the Prince Myshkins and the Nonsense Company. Andy is uncomfortably writing this in the third person.
matthew guenette’s first book, sudden anthem, won the 2007 american poetry journal book prize from dream horse press. his poem sestina aguilera has gotten around, but no word yet from ms. aguilera’s estate. he lives and works in madison.
Steve Timm is the author of most recently the chapbook ‘n’altra storio which is available online in agile readable/downloadable format at http://bathroommagazine.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/timm_naltrastorio.pdf
he is also the author of 2 other chaopbooks, Averrage (2004, Answer Tag Home Press) and Stragetics (2006, Bronze Skull) and a book Disparity (2006, BlazeVOX Books). He teaches English as a second language at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, which for those who come to the reading may very well seem relevant.
SOME POEMS TO READ BY OUR READERS:
the rot to light
from FLIES TALKING
There is an imperial moment
In the way
To your dog
Eared favorites. It shatters
Bones to write
It wrong, assumptions
It is the late morning of the little poem
It is the forget-me-not of cordage
winding upper gum looks out on and above
Somehow the trail has turned
into a trial run, a leaf of panic
that returns, somewhere
between the voicebox and the diaphragm.
This is the wrong songbird, innate tremolo.
This is not sumac, not pinnate, not spiral.
What I want to say
is hidden in your ear.
They tell me it would take an axe
to get me there. Thank goodness
for the hour of delay, the day
Howl, wood, you know we are glazed in copper rain.
The cuffs are sharp and lack tact.
The answers are ridicule, compromise, established
in glass and steel, towering like big cop shades
behind which eyes, I guess, stare down the economic
sphere. I don’t like that. Something about it
after Bernadette Mayer’s “Ode on Periods”
The waitress in her grace had agreed to get naked so
I was trying to keep
a straight face but in the poem my hands smelled like fried food
& her neck where my mouth should have deliciously fit
also smelled like fried food & as this was happening at the beach
the subject for awhile became sand, which was getting
in my crotch, and in the poem’s crotch too, and when there’s sand
in your crotch it fucks up your world, completely, complicating
your keeping a straight face abilities, & forget about the fog
the usually philosophical fog blowing in
not sublimely from the salt
marsh across the road smelling like fried clams.
Even the traditionally confessional
moon seemed beer-battered at best & the tide
the peripatetic tide…Friends, if you want to hear
the formless sizzle of poem with
everything in it, go work a double shift then listen
to the tide.
A cheap one
the living and the dead
cutens the life of a Hawaiian shirt
e.g. laid en EEG
is that milking stool gilded, answered nigh
deep dolloped backwards tastes as sweat and some whistle
buy ’em by the acrid
an acquired bite
it’s all in the muzzle, the upnuzzle