On Sunday October 10th, the amazings Eileen Myles and Anna Vitale will be reading at 7pm at The Project Lodge (817 E. Johnson) in The Lapels’ Spot-Shaped Reading.

On Saturday October 23rd, Geraldine Monk and Alan Halsey, two wonderful and important poets and small press editors from the UK, will be reading in The Xexoxial / Quincunx-Shaped Reading, also at The Project Lodge and also scheduled for 7pm. As indicated by the reading’s name, this reading is co-organized by mIEKAL aND’s fantastic Xexoxial Editions.

First some bios and poems for The Lapels’ Spot-Shaped reading:

EILEEN MYLES was born in Boston and moved to New York in ‘74. Her Inferno (a poet’s novel) is just out from It’s about the poetry of sex and the sex of poetry. John Ashbery calls Inferno “Zingingly melancholy.” Her essays, The Importance of Being Iceland received a Warhol/Creative Capital grant. In November she’s Hurst professor at Washington U., St. Louis. Go …to She lives in New York.

ANNA VITALE is from Michigan and now lives in Madison, WI (about which our hosts say: “Hooray!”. Her writing’s been published in Model Homes, Shifter, With + Stand, The West Wind Review, and online in Wolf in a Field. Brandon Brown’s OMG is gonna publish a chapbook called Anna Vitale’s Pop Poems, so you can guess what that is. She also edits, an online audio mag.

from INFERNO by Eileen Myles

We who write poetry and think about it all the time — who walk the streets that other humans walk, past pizza stands and trees, are citizens meanwhile of a secret country with its own currency that gets exchanged anecdotally, even whispered in the loud thrumming silence of the day, in the galleries the marxist auditoriums jammed bookstores (being jammed with thin and irregularly shaped journals and books and people generally twenty or thirty) the stinking bars where poets meet and read in. In dozens even hundreds of stained and damp diaries the evidence accumulates, notebooks bent from getting shoved in back pockets, or written into during the long nights of the poet’s youth (included here is the bonus time of people who managed to stay young extra long, till forty or fifty, sixty or seventy even, at last croaking then.) All of us whacking back drinks and sipping our beers, smoking of course–several long ones going simultaneously in the ashtray.

The poet’s life is just so much crenellated waste, nights and days whipping swiftly or laboriously past the cinematic window. We’re hunched and weaving over the keys of our green our grey or pink blue manual typewriter maybe a darker stone cold thoritative selectric with its orgasmic expectant hum and us popping pills and laughing over what you or I just wrote, wondering if that line means insult or sex. Or both. Usually both.

P.S. If you don’t make it to the reading, and want Eileen’s new book, please either go to your local bookstore and ask them to order Inferno (a poet’s novel) from or else get it directly from the publishers website. No amazon, no Barnesnnoble. Just these ways!

Breaststa [an excerpt] by Anna Vitale

My breasts in my pillowcase
My breasts in my jewelry box
My breasts in the litter box
My breasts on the bed.

My breasts in my slippers
My breasts in my laundry
My breasts in the window
My breasts on the rug.

My breasts in the lotion
My breasts in the mirror
My breasts in my sweater
My breasts in my belt.

My breasts in my underwear
My breasts in the rubberband
My breasts in the mattress
My breasts in my scarf.

My breasts in the blinds
My breasts in my coat
My breasts on the hook
My breasts in my hat.

One pair of breasts fits in each
drawer and there are two
drawers in the night stand.

Three pairs of breasts fit in each
drawer and there are two
drawers in the desk.

Five pairs of breasts fit in each
drawer and there are two
drawers in the cabinet.

Three pairs of breasts fit in each
drawer and there are two
drawers in the piece in the kitchen.

Two pairs of breasts fit in the drawer
in the kitchen. Ten pairs of breasts fit
in the kitchen sink.

My tits turn
the knob.
My tits turn
the lock.

My tits slide
the dimmer.
My tits slide
the light.

My tits drop
the table.
My tits drop
the radio.

My tits break
a dish.
My tits break
a cuke.

My tits do the hustle
and tag my tits
that do the roger rabbit
that tag my tits
that do the cabbage patch
that tag my tits
that do the MC Hammer
that tag my tits
that do the perculator
that tag my tits
that do the tootsie roll
that step.

Now some bios and poems for the Xexoxial / Quincunx-Shaped Reading:

GERALDINE MONK is an English poet whose first publications appeared in the 1970s with Writers Forum and Pirate Press. Her major volumes of poetry include Interregnum (Creation Books 1995), Noctivagations 2001 and Escafeld Hangings 2005 (both published by West House Books). Her Selected Poems was published in 2003 (Salt Publishing). A collection of essays on her poetry, The Salt Companion to Geraldine Monk edited by Scott Thurston, appeared in 2007.

ALAN HALSEY’s books include Marginalien (Five Seasons 2005), Not Everything Remotely: Selected Poems 1978-2005 (Salt 2006), Lives of the Poets (Five Seasons 2009) and Term as in Aftermath (Ahadada 2009). He is the editor of West House Books and ran The Poetry Bookshop in Hay-on-Wye 1979-1995. ‘With an antiquarian gentility, but a contemporary nous, Halsey mixes his materials until the work is emptied of even a post-modern grin’ (Nikki Santilli).

Geraldine Monk, from Escafeld Hangings


birds crucifly –
blown off course
ina wild
updraught of
heat loss
conglomerate brains –

the fractured
hanging of
butterfly wings
on a grand scale
monitor lizards
take cold-blooded
(with a sound like
red cherries
to swoon to
it is hard to go global
on a bright winter’s morning)

estranged words
fly from
overheated faces
migrating to
on the other side of
smoked glass

A poem of Alan Halsey’s

The Frankenstein Franchise

for Laura Moriarty

Sometimes it helps to rename whoever
it is always writes my poems because
subjects rarely change in the long run.
Let’s eat dinner with thieves and thoughts

assistant assassins unsavoury as sugar.
Why believe there is someone who
believes he can trace every reference?
His broken noise is her envoy’s voice

and envy is its name: definition defaults
when locution confuses and confutes
itself with location. If we’d heard the shanty
the cameras sang when they landed

on Titan we wouldn’t need a changing room
to disappear in. To rename is only
sometimes to recall: description
gives nobody such fun as decryption

because as Philodemus said
words are poetry’s mother. The perspective
funders brought Rousseau and tea,
preraphaelite despair, scenes which should

be senses but longevity or gravity
threw in disrepair. Let’s you and I scribble
in the crucible where losers are lizards
all devilled with their endless questions.


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