The UnderoneroushipShaped Reading

That’s right!

Flaunting and taunting superstition,
this Friday, May 13th, we proudly present
reading poems at Avol’s Bookstore, 315 West Gorham, at 7 p.m.

Noah Gershman travels frequently.  His occupations are tenuous.  Right now he’s touring the country with his new poetry collection, The Enthusiast (Snail Press, 2011), of which Rachel Glaser writes:

“In these poems it’s as if each snow globe has its own society.  Gershman reveals the private moments of the players in a weird history.  His monsters have style.  To read these poems is to imagine all new occupations.  These are twisted old tales, written in 1708, but found recently and published.  Step inside them and rejoice.”

Ron Czerwien is the owner of Avol’s, a used and out-of-print bookstore in Madison, WI. Most recently his poems have appeared on-line at Moria, Nth Position, Qarrstiluni, Right Hand Pointing, and Shampoo. Ron hosts the monthly “First Thursday Open Mike Poetry Readings” at Avol’s. His latest project involves constraint-based writing. For more details attend the damn reading.

Aviary–Noah Gershman

This morning I opened my mouth
and a sparrow flew out.
It had something in its talons,
but before I could protest
it was gone.  I ate a second bowl of cereal
to fill the added space.
Brushing my teeth, it happened again.
A magpie absconded
and nearly crashed into the mirror.
At work I was asked for an opinion
and a crested thrasher made the break.
Business calls were a disaster,
the office filling up with birds.
On the train I coughed a meadowlark,
a warbler and a thrush.  Then she appeared
in her cumulous white tunic.
“Today I lost everything,” I told her.
She took my hand.
A partridge landed on her hat.

Stone Banjo–Ron Czerwien

What he came home with
was never revealed.
Curious hands across
the ocean of talk find
their journey is over,
one song learned
from singing along.
All kinds of hints
got repurposed
when not absorbing
outsiders. His prayer
winded the world
sleeping on a goat,
never learned
to cue the mythic sky.
The unquestionable maps
no place. Our people
on the ground
are down to earth.
Maybe the cab driver was
inexplicably profound?
The hours of lost swirling
blur the walk.


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