[Local events] Sun. 1/10: Schlesinger, Alexander, & Bettridge

David Abel passages at rdrop.com
Sat Jan 2 08:51:14 PST 2010

Spare Room presents
Kyle Schlesinger
Charles Alexander
Joel Bettridge
*Sunday, January 10
7:30 pm

Concordia Coffee House
2909 NE Alberta

$5.00 suggested donation

spareroom at flim.com


*Upcoming Readings*

February 7: Jesse Morse & Allison Cobb

February 21: Bill Berkson

March 21: Canarium Books Reading Tour:
     Suzanne Buffam, John Beer, Ish Klein, & Paul Killebrew


Kyle Schlesinger is the proprietor of Cuneiform Press, recently 
relocated from New York to Texas, and coeditor of the journal /Mimeo 
Mimeo/. His latest book, /What You Will,/ is due next month from New 
Lights Press; /Charles Olson at Goddard College/, which he edited, will 
be out from Effing Press in April. Kyle's writings and research related 
to poetics, visual communication, and artist's books can be found at 

Charles Alexander is founder/director of Chax Press, publisher of 
innovative poetry and book arts editions. His books of poetry include 
/Hopeful Buildings, Arc of Light / Dark Matter, Near or Random Acts, and 
Certain Slants/. He shares a studio and life with Tucson visual artist 
Cynthia Miller. Lately he has been lost (or found) somewhere among the 
poetic waters of Ludovico Ariosto, Walter Ralegh, Marie de France, and 
David Jones. He'll surface sometime soon . . . perhaps.

Joel Bettridge is the author of two books of poetry, /Presocratic Blues/ 
(recently out from Chax Press) and /That Abrupt Here/, as well as the 
critical study, /Reading as Belief: Language Writing, Poetics, Faith/. 
He coedited, with Eric Selinger, /Ronald Johnson: Life and Works/. 
Currently he is an Assistant Professor of English at Portland State 


*There's nothing more*

To it
Than that

The sky is
Broken and

It's making
A mess

*Kyle Schlesinger*

    if I place this word on this page will a /here/ develop
    more than an accidental mark less than destiny or life's calling
    physical fact is a line of verse curving to the right spiraling
    into the air incising itself into a sheet of paper
    sew it closed so that it opens
    throw it far so that it embraces you
    crunch the language of consonants
        so that it sings
    howl the language of vowels so that
        it floats upon matter or with matter or without
    in the red room we sit with straight spines
    in the blue village our ears rise with readiness
    in the white car our hair is blown back by a breeze
    at the end of the road we see a path
        the end is not in sight
        the grass underfoot sighs for lack of love
        we lie down and feel it upon our chests
        for we have been identified, carried away
        into the center that neither holds nor unfolds completely
        into the last curious question
        into the color blue
        into the perilous light
        into folds and fields

    *Charles Alexander

*His theory of becoming having failed, Philolaus seeks an answer to his 
from the Oracle at Delphi who channels Bessie Smith*

At least it's a day distinguished like every other
in knowing in the end that everyone will be in a right damn fix,
a house we can't live in no more
a tongue that echoes, the intelligence only in what encompasses us
a dialectic that can't understand itself
and even still you find enough trouble to make a poor girl wonder where 
to go.

*Joel Bettridge*

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