[Local events] Sat. 12/19: Marathon reading, Coolidge's Crystal Text

David Abel passages at rdrop.com
Tue Dec 8 01:38:34 PST 2009

Spare Room presents

*/The Crystal Text/*

a marathon reading

*Saturday, December 19*
12:00 pm - finish (5:00ish)

The Waypost Cafe
3120 N. Williams


Free admission

(Audience welcome to come and go)


/The work of heaven or hell: to somehow
become aware of a howling in the motors./
          -- (Clark Coolidge, /The Crystal Text/, 54)

As the solstice approaches, come in out of the wind and join us to 
listen to Clark Coolidge's compelling booklength poem /The Crystal 
Text/, read aloud by a dozen local writers.

Readers will include James Yeary, Jesse Morse, Sam Lohmann, Maryrose 
Larkin, Rodney Koeneke, Patrick Hartigan, Jen Coleman, Allison Cobb, 
Joseph Bradshaw, Meredith Blankinship, & David Abel.

"A colorless quartz crystal sits upon the writer's desk, still and 
irreducible as a death's head in St. Jerome's study or Cezanne's studio. 
But what would the crystal reveal, if it could speak? How might the 
issue of its presence be brought into language? The poet of /The Crystal 
Text/, by means of a rare stamina of attention and listening 
vulnerability, seeks to become the medium of the crystal's transmissions."

/I began to rise but I could not leave./
/Beginning to see, one leaves the world. Taking it/
/up again and again until the sheets are dark./
/An inlet of the sea sharded with sails. The sun/
/coming up over a blinking multitude, specialty humans/
/provided for this purpose alone. I am the one who/
/stays up to see that they do not leave./
/Cardboard hinterlands of the drained liquid trace./
/Grey distances of chimney and low neighborhood./
/Wet snap./  (85)

/As luck would have it the sun was charring/
/the fiberglass tufts in the yard even from such a great distance./
/A granite shithouse exploded in a cloud of bee odor./
/The very earth was tacked to my wall, a ball of/
/limpid snails. Glass, blown firm, and then the/
/waterfall in the photograph it reminds me of./
/Prose does not care about sharps and flats. It/
/continues to accumulate in the straightest of language/
/keys. I put back on my cap, it says. I lost my things
in the race for the car, it says. I am/
/not interested in the language of my past (my trail),/
/it says. It says these things and then loses/
/my interest. Two blanks, curling in the same sun./  (87)

/Awakened by a bang/
/or sudden rent of room/
/a collision of the thinking with/
/where the thought is not/
/or negative moon spot/
/or release of the chimney from/
/behind the pie tin, night/
/and left partial, face erased/
/prepositions for furniture/  (115)

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