[Local events] reminder: Spare Room reading with Bettridge, Fisher & Harris, 7pm on 10/26
peachesandbats at gmail.com
Wed Oct 24 18:32:20 PDT 2018
*[I apologize for leaving the time--7pm--off the previous email!]*
Spare Room presents a reading by
TOM FISHER &
Friday, October 26th
Passages Bookshop <http://www.passagesbookshop.com/>, 1223 NE Martin Luther
King Jr Blvd
They all have new books!
$5 suggested donation for the readers; no one turned away
*Jamondria Harris* is a poet & multimedia artist living in Portland, OR.
They use words, sounds, wires, instruments, textiles & what falls into
their hands to engage with blackness, desire, spirit/source,
decolonization, fairy tales, femme supremacy, & body horror. They are a
VONA Workshop Fellow and an artist-in-residence at S1 Gallery, among other
things. Their book of poetry and art,* quaerere*, is available from Magic
Helicopter Press and their music can be found at meroitic.bandcamp.com .
*Tom Fisher* is the author of *Convivium* (Publication Studio), *Writing
Not Writing *(University of Iowa Press), and* Sorsere* (The Cultural
Society). He lives in Portland and teaches at Portland State.
*Joel Bettridge* is the author of three books of poetry, *That Abrupt
Cultural Society 2007), *Presocratic Blues *(Chax 2009), and The* Public
Life of Chemistry* (The Cultural Society 2018), as well two critical
studies,* Avant-Garde Pieties: Aesthetics, Race, and the Renewal of
Innovative Poetics* (Routledge 2018) and* Reading as Belief: Language
Writing, Poetics, Faith* (Palgrave 2009).He co-edited, with Eric
Johnson: Life and Works *(The National Poetry Foundation 2008). Currently
he is an Associate Professor of English at Portland State University.
*a segment from 'quaerere' :*
is lovingly held. is lovingly held
in whatever marks me. is lovingly
held no matter how many arms
are taken into the body. is lovingly held
no matter how much black blood gets into
discrete flesh. is lovingly held while being
split to facilitate. is lovingly held when no
whole is possible from what is left. is lovingly
held to the memory of the living. is lovingly held
by what can grow when a body
is fed upon. is lovingly held in making and
meets no end.
I was finishing a sandwich
and reading a book. I heard a voice
from over my shoulder. This is
what is possible, I thought.
As you took another name you
wrote along the edge of story. I-
t was hard to follow, the twists and
turns of how you plotted an
almost unreadable narrative of witch,
person and boundary.
What little I know is always put
into question. This is the conditional
life of the zero stone,
the swamp dweller,
the poison fruit, the
*The ghost in the machine*
is a real ghost,
a symbol using contrivance
constrained by a tendency toward riot for reasons we don’t
set this knowledge beside the image of Filippo Tommaso
throwing himself under tires to get closer to them
Benjamin Franklin *drawing fire from the clouds*,
*his little anecdotes of our ancestors*
the shared ecstasy of a checklist.
Taken together, the sureness that
there is only the ground—*unconsolidated products of rock erosion*
* and organic decay*; what
waits in the *Fear of the* *Innermost Body*
*Within the Body that We Call the Heart*—no earth packed down
let’s expend ourselves like shell casings, make
us into mechanisms to *contort our mouths* to suck up all the
*wind*—at last signifying
monkeys in the Garden; enlivened gears and wires to make up
launch reading for
Bill Berkson memoir
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