That’s right. The coins have must, and the must has a shape, and the shape is the shape of this reading by Nick Demske, Matthew Klane and Nicholas Ravnikar. Ouch. The goodness of it hurts already. Come hear them and hang out afterwards somewhere nearby.
It happens on Saturday, April 30th, at 7 p.m., at Avol’s Bookstore, 315 West Gorham, Madison, WI.
Nick Demske lives in Racine, Wisconsin, and works there at the Racine Public Library. His self-titled manuscript was selected by Joyelle McSweeney for the Fence Modern Poets Series prize and was published in 2010. One goodreads reviewer has said of it, “If I wanted ‘clever’ play with cliche and idiom I’d go watch really bad poetry slam performances on YouTube.” Also found on goodreads, regarding his book: “…reading this feels like watching family guy.”
Nick is a curator of the BONK! Performance series, an editor of the online venue boo: a journal of terrific things and a founder of the Racquetball Chapbook Tournament and Press. He founded it with the incredibly stupid, lame-ass poetaster Nicholas Michael Ravnikar. We all make mistakes.
In his spare time, Nick brands social networking giants in his poet bios. An example of this would be goodreads. This activity is pro bono, though Nick imagines goodreads to be very grateful for the attention.
This is the fifth paragraph in Nick’s bio. How many paragraphs did Nicholas Michael Ravnikar’s bio have? Probably less. Just saying.
So visit Nick Demske sometime at nickipoo.wordpress.com . Your life will be as good as the reads which you find there.
and I’ve attached two poems because you deserve them. they were both published in Action Yes. this is still part of my bio.
i love you,
nick (the good[reads] nick)
Matthew Klane is editor and co-founder of Flim Forum Press. His book is
B_____ Meditations (Stockport Flats, 2008). Recent work can be found in
muthafucka, Harp&Altar, and Word For/Word. He currently lives and writes in Iowa City.
Nicholas Michael Ravnikar lives in Racine, WI with his Carly-Anne and their two cats. He teaches public speaking, composition and oral/interpersonal communication at UW-Parkside and Gateway Technical College. He publishes the irregular zine/chapbook series The Bathroom, has facilitated poetry workshops in prisons and schools and bookstores, and likes to dabble in video.
Nicholas Michael Ravnikar is a real poet. Nicholas feels uncomfortable writing his bio. Bio is weird. It’s not even a recognized word. It’s a root, a morpheme, two freakin’ syllables. Still, bio occupies a place in the lexicon, and Nicholas is pretty sure he knows how to use it.
Balaclava terrorist fist bumps a goggle of cloroxy colleagues. Copywrite cliché, city of that ol’ nasty, the twinkles be spare teeth in syphilitic night. Skeetly deetly deet. The sex video leaked green night vision ecto like a promise like a promise, damn. That’s just a regressive stereotype. Swine love pearls. As much as any any puckersuck DUI, TTYN. The beauty star headlights we deer so thank-God. The world, we all warm our hands over the same blazing trash can. This unity. Smattering o dirty blond, jailbreak heiress, georgics sweep siren candy diddling your stupid cilia. The semi-automatic sunrise splashes bleach on your skin. That’s hot.
The starfucker makes a joke. Looks around to see who laughs. Halo noose pussy o, quench your canines, filed so, upon this furburger meadow. The simple life is death. See there—it flees a swerving limo’s brights. Poor immortal, waxed asshole, burkha designer name as far above your means and still. Through face shines moon as bone as skull. The fires of hell hath no light.
Solitary Confinement – She and I
My – shy
elliptical shell –
shy – white line
An Evening at Home
Dust perfumes the scratch of a comb
Harping down to her shoulder. The moon does not
Rise like bubbles in a flute of champagne.
A boatload of clowns arrives at the docks.
She holds her lovers by their names beneath her thumb,
Slides and adjusts them, arranges them on the screen
Of her smart phone. An auction opens and the bids
Inflate her spirit. Gum snaps a cute pattern
between her teeth and tongue. The spades appear
to her as pierced, black hearts. An orange rind
jigsawed into five rough domes beside some change
on mahogany, kidney-colored, steals her eyes.
This makes her consider how to be more
considerate. They left again
with no place to go. Again, she will muse
at the silence and dust. The comb clacks on the wood.
She makes peace with the shadows of buildings,
the sound of a tide she cannot see.
The hamstrings of the gargoyle across the way
are crumbling; moonlight leaks through an alley
to spill down the curb. Even a yawn feels wrong now.
She needs to vacuum. She needs to make an appointment
To see the doctor tomorrow. Her veins glow
And she twists the plastic knob at the base of the white gazebo
That fits in her hand and twinkles in time
with her tiny pulse. Here comes the bride, toward her
from the only photograph in a gilt frame,
stepping out of the slow sea. She hasn’t the heart
for such eyes anymore. She hasn’t the bones
to stock her soup this week. She hasn’t the groom
to bow his head, nor desire enough to turn
soil in terra cotta pots, drier each day around
this apartment. “Wait,” he says. “I love that song.”
She looks up at the interruption: he stands
In a doorway, wearing the top hat from the photo
And, crossing to her, takes the toy
with hands too cold for summer. Being numb,
They fumble and the trinket shatters. “Okay,”
She says, “it’s okay,” and looks to the broom in the corner.
“I couldn’t take another fucking drinking song tonight.”
Nicholas Michael Ravnikar