will take place (and time) this Saturday, February 18th, 7 p.m., at Avol’s Bookstore, 315 West Gorham

and will be enacted by Chicago’s LUKE DALY and MICHAEL SLOSEK, and by Madison’s ANNA VITALE.

They are all amazing writers.

(Incidentally, Luke and Michael also publish ARROW AS AAROW, a series of some of the most gorgeous (as objects and as words) chapbooks around. There may be some there…)

Sample poems coming soon!

See you on the weekend!

Andy and Lewis


Luke Daly co-edits the arrow as aarow chapbook series with Michael, and co-curates a monthly series for noise and experimental music in Chicago called Kaleid Series. He is the author, most recently, of VATS and AV/AV.

Michael Slosek co-edits the arrow as aarow chapbook series with Luke Daly.  He is the author of The Sequel and Holding Place, and the forthcoming The Blond Notebook.  With Eric Unger, he makes up the other half of the drone duo KLØP.

Anna Vitale‘s recent writing can be found in P-Queue, Abraham Lincoln, The Brooklyn Rail, and Vanitas 5: Film. Her first two books, Breaststa and Anna Vitale’s Pop Poems, were published in 2010. A few poems based on Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” are forthcoming in Compost. And an autobiographical project about growing up in Detroit and its suburbs is in the works. It’s currently called Anna Vitale’s Autobiography.

Anna Vitale’s Autobiography

. . . Dave was so angry, he hurt his hand throwing a television. I wrote a poem about him in college inspired by staring at this cute boy’s crotch in Spanish class. The boy was from Minneapolis and that was where Dave had moved sometime while were both still in high school. I’d imagined truckloads of long beautiful mothers arriving at 5715 Zenith with red arms, red faces, and red wrists. I’d imagined Dave or myself putting our fingers into his bedroom wall and the wall being on fire and the paint bubbling across our chest. He was, for a time, the mother that I never had, and I was certainly something equally important to him. He ran away and came to the place in Berkley (MI) by bus in the middle of the night, all the way from Minneapolis. He was in a school there for druggies. But he, like many others, myself included, was smart, interested in culture, wanting to make sense of what was around him, and music and books and writing and art helped, sort of. I’ve written Dave many times (I called him a lot in college, unwelcome calls filled with crying. I’m sure he had no idea what to do). It’s hard not to want to go back all the time, but the pureness of that love (and it was pure, or at least the memory feels untouchable) had so much to do with what I’d never had. It’s also clear to me that that kind of love was unsustainable because it was embedded in the remarkable and beautiful fantasy of the total and of infinity. It seems like it’s difficult for people (who? in grad school? in academia? I’m not sure, precisely) to appreciate fantasies of totality, but it’s not difficult for me. I want to be absorbed. Charles Bernstein says something in the Artifice of Absorption about thinking it’d be really nice if people wanted to read things that they didn’t understand; oh, I’m so happy I don’t understand this; it’s different from me, etc, etc. I totally appreciate this pedagogically and ethically, but at many moments, in my heart of hearts, I think, oh my god, I know we’re related and I’m so excited. Charles Bukowski has a book that Dave gave me (which I got rid of a long time ago) called You’re So Alone Sometimes It Just Makes Sense. I can imagine a lot of positions against this kind of . . .

from Luke Daly

Like the studied and insincere multiplying of the piles of perfect shirts, eliminating space between the next one „till the pulsations of the air are also square somehow to register the everywhereness of the message. I wondered why, when it was written down rather than commissioned, filmed from above like some frothing, forceful God. Did the story being told seem more attractive. One interfered with their biology when they commissioned trucks and cranes to fly the wildlife in that would replace the human form. That would appear eternal from inside its stillness even after the trucks called off and everybody had gone home. Down there, amongst the growing, stated structures and the moisture, the permanence of brushing up against another sort of permanence—the shouldered as the geographical in body. And always from above you tipped your hand and registered the non-plastic flash of ego in the grain of what was being listed as eternal. Nevertheless it made me question my own motives. If the height of the various structures made one value one‟s impermanence or remind one that at the base of one was rock. I‟ve started crossing over, crossing off the memoratic, seasoned parts of calling town. And when the weather coincides (as with the water, as with the buildings) it is stifling, as if coming in from far off. Entering left frame and the film consisting of the reels and reels it takes to cross to the center and enter the scope. By this time the landscape has been memorized, recited and recompressed uncountable times, bounced backwards and bounced forwards in decadic rhythm. “It‟s not for people, but there are people there.” Until the unique sense was memorized and held above the head of the limiting language. As if what was beneath was just a stream, or was nothing rather than the bed of rock that all of the stitching of Floridian animals has created us to come to believe.

from Michael Slosek


This will be my self-exception; suppressing the tin-bath
That I detect through the smell of combustion chambers.
A pantograph of lazy tongs martials at my legs,
Light jumping and rouge.

The rabbet invasive for which I have lain in wait
With spotless exposures, enrouted through mail systems in anger.
The breadth of equity sharpens in exact scarcity. Black border
Of white gloves with tourlourous keys.

Swarm clouds where another stiff adhesive should be
Without minting orders of auto-poles
But it comes to similar visions, further differing of heighten dangers
To certain analyzed samples that reclaimants have pressed upon me.

Slicing through the flooding earth, contrasts quivering in a nettled book,
Unfastened from control, relying on sympathetic feats.


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