[Local events] Sun. 2/7: Jesse Morse & Allison Cobb

David Abel passages at rdrop.com
Fri Jan 22 22:35:57 PST 2010

Spare Room presents
Jesse Morse
Allison Cobb
*Sunday, February 7
7:30 pm

Concordia Coffee House
2909 NE Alberta

$5.00 suggested donation

spareroom at flim.com

*Upcoming Readings*

February 21: /Bill Berkson
/March 21: /Canarium Books Reading Tour:/
     /Suzanne Buffam, John Beer, Ish Klein, & Paul Killebrew/
April: /TBA/
May 15: /David Wolach & Jen Coleman/

*Jesse Morse*, for the time being, lives and writes out of Portland, 
Oregon. His work, most recently, appears in Peaches & Bats, Vanitas/,/ 
and Page Boy. He curates the Smorg reading series. He's been writing 
sonnets, with a revolving acrostic, for the last half year.

*Allison Cobb* is the author of /Born2/ (Chax Press) and the 
just-published /Green-Wood/ (Factory School), which chronicles her 
experiences in Brooklyn, New York's famous nineteenth-century Green-Wood 
Cemetery. She was born in Los Alamos, New Mexico, as were the first 
atomic bombs, and she now lives in Portland, Oregon.


Alibis aren't needed to mitigate the confusion of
Veins, Eric. This parking lot romance shot stick through the
Evening's curtained heart. Attraction's fleeting pull as
Zelig, the chameleon, adrift from one week to next. How to hold these
Explanations in lieu of your support? I can't. I miss the
Reality of our past superstitions, their myths an
Inconceivable destination at this point, the whole thing caught in
Crossfire, your stubborn need to tauten the bow. If you
Cared enough you'd be consistent. All the trophies you
Held dear now lost, Eric, in the rotating field, night's omnibus
Against the committed future. So leave the superfluity and
Vitriol to its minor key, not in imagination nor
Expectation, but presentation, putting dreams on hold the
Zone you often navigate to build your ideal.

*Jesse Morse*

*from /Green-Wood/*

LITTLE WONDER leaf blower   /Hi daddy/

in black marker on a pumpkin partly

eaten near no grave   poised today

above the Astroturf   the flag

draped coffin of a soldier    bowed head

honor guard beside the road   bus horn

blast from Jackie Gleason depot    I skirt

the mourning circle almost stumble

on a soldier standing in the trees   waiting

with his trumpet to play taps     the sun

floods out from clouds     hands lift to eyes

to noses     warm I stand in changing

light   muscles tensed like the intruder

that I am   two white-gloved soldiers

work to tuck the folded flag ends in 

peaked hats pressed together   

in the subway sings a guy

with few teeth in clear bell voice

/I ain't gonna study war no more/

but I am   more and more

*Allison Cobb

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