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Subject: Desert City Poetry Series

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  • From: Ken Rumble <rumblek AT>
  • To: Desert City List <desertcity AT>, Ethan <ethan AT>
  • Cc:
  • Subject: [DesertCity] Jarnot @ Selch, This Saturday, Apr. 23rd, 8pm -- Internationalist Books
  • Date: Tue, 19 Apr 2005 12:05:40 -0400

Please spread far and wide.....

Who: Lisa Jarnot, author of _Black Dog Songs_, _Ring of Fire_, & _Some Other Kind of Mission_, star of _The Time We Killed_, knitter of hats, keeper of cats, sometimes says "That's that."

Who: Andrea Selch, author of _Startling_ & _Succory_, president of Durham's Carolina Wren Press, founder of everyone's favorite season: Spring.

What: Desert City Poetry Series, deep in the heart of Poetry Month.

When: This Saturday, April 23rd, 8:00 pm, 'oh5 - ohyeah.

Where: Internationalist Books, 405 W. Franklin Street, Chapel Hill, betwixt the mountains and the seas.

Why: "you the atm of longing, the longing for the atm machines, you the lover of the banks and me and birds and others too and cabs, and you the cabs and you the subtle longing birds and me" "I watch you swim. Silently, you practice surface dives / and flips—a thumb-sized Esther Williams, / minus the bathing suit. // We are both waiting / for the music to begin."

See you there.....

Next and LAST reading of the 04/05 Season:

April 30th: Lee Ann Brown & Carl Martin

*Internationalist Books:

*Desert City Poetry Series:

*Lisa Jarnot:

*Andrea Selch:

Contact the DCPS: Ken Rumble, director
rumblek at bellsouth dot net

"The Specific Incendiaries of Springtime"
by Lisa Jarnot

Inside of my inspection house there are
things I am inside of lacking only linens
and the tiniest of birds, there are small ideas
of tiny birds and things they are inside of,
in the middle of the small ideas of genius
we began inside of sundown,

I am hiding from relationships of springtime
in the tiny rooms with tiny birds, and there
are functions of relations, there are springtimes,
there are tiny birds and checkbooks and some

I am wanting only lemons where you have
wanted only linens in the center of the room,
I am waking up in long corroded rooms,
near Bakersfield and farmteams, in the vivid
dreams of rain, having dominion over these
animals and the salesmen on an island in
relationships with shepherd girls who carry
soft umbrellas,

Toward sundown, let me say that I am in
your absence forced to read a smallish book,
to read ideas of farmteams in the twilight
in the spring, where on an uninhabited
island I strangled all the shepherd girls and
then became a smallish book, and doused
the bed with kerosene he sleeps in doused
with birds and twilight books I dreamt of in
relations of the springtime that I dream,

Of farmteams, clearly let me say of sheep
and clearly let me say of spring in Bakersfield,
where I have strangled all the sheep and
several shepherds, where to read ideas
of twilight in a book, today, to a new love,
where in briefly retouched currency, functions
of inspections in the house now lacking lemons,
here I strangled all the shepherd girls and birds,

Where I read ideas of twilight to a newer love,
where the genius of liberty we began in the
middle toward sundown was a smallish bird
in spring outside of Bakersfield, where,
on an uninhabited island, to the twilight
of this genius in the book, to the mouthpiece of
the smallest sunlit bird, of the farmteam in
corroded blue relations, of ideas and in
inspection blocks, of occuring in the middle
of the twilight, of the dreams of smallest books
and salesmen inside Bakersfield, of wanting
only linens having wanted only wicker in
the center of the room,

I am a soldier of this wicker chair, I am
brandishing a welding torch and drill,
I am the island with the shepherds and the
sheep, I am waking up in Bakersfield in
rain, in a long corroded room, near the
farmteams in the vivid dreams of rain,
and in turning in the kerosene being slowly
doused in fire, I am, toward sunlight,
strangled by a shepherd girl, I am a salesman
of the islands of this currency,

Of rain, let the farmteams in relations
with the springtime in the checkbooks
find the rain, corroded I am, wanting only
lemons, only linens and then you, let me say
that you are on an island with umbrellas,
that we are woken in a room of springtime
birds, that nowhere is a smallish book,
and in the twilight reach dominions of our liberty.

by Andrea Selch

Because I spent all night
dancing with you
I said last night's prayers
this afternoon

And then this evening
when you were—who knows—
at your home? and I
was here alone, thinking could this love
be true? I found myself

with folded hands, praying anew:
what should I do? what should I do?
After the one-two one-two
of all night dancing with you,
what else could I do?

Oh you honey dew
come back soon. Who cares
if it's true but while it's new
I'd rather my two hands
were full of you.

  • [DesertCity] Jarnot @ Selch, This Saturday, Apr. 23rd, 8pm -- Internationalist Books, Ken Rumble, 04/19/2005

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