A hundred thousand hymns of praise to everyone who helped make last night’s reading such a holy moment: Anthony, Francine, Leland, Leonard, Ron, and Deirdre for performing your flappy lits; Alibi for your exquisite singing & fantastic photography; Pacific Standard for once again being our favorite place to read; and all you smart & sexy people who came to catch the show. Let’s do this again on February 15…
photos by Alibi Jones
Anthony Cappo shares poems of music & memory from his chapbook My Bedside Radio.
Francine Witte warns us of “Things to Watch Out For” in one of her poems from our new issue.
Leland Cheuk performs his brilliant short story “League of Losers” from his new collection Letters From Dinosaurs.
HELLO, HELLO, JAMES JOYCE HERE, but briefly, yes, the voice, yes, I know it doesn’t sound so very good, no, the voice does not fare well here in the dead zone — 0, and I used to be a tenor, such a beautiful tenor that they told me, more than once, yes, that I could have been a contender but don’t take my word for it, listen to the record, do they still have records?– it was a Finnegans Wake rap sort of thing, yes, as you can see I try to keep up — should have used more bass, a little sampling, be ok on the boombox then — but I’m pulling your leg, as if a shade could pull anything — because, now that I’m dead, I don’t have to protect the image I worked so hard to create — I’m finally free, I tell you — though I still rejoice at the number of academics who toil in its shadow — who till the field I manured so well — the me they think they know is a construct, only part of the story — James Joyce as Jesuit — James Joyce the aesthete — going slowly blind — grinding out the great creations in the face of insurmountable odds; misunderstanding, penury, censorship, the lovely chains of Ireland past and always present but, shit, what else could I do? — I was as trapped by the iron logic of my own work as any Joycean scholar — forget modernism, the fetter that bound me and, yes, broke me, was the notion of progress — I started small, a few poems, then moved on to short stories, well-crafted they were, too, and finally graduated, with my Portrait, to the novel — all well and good – I was on an upwards trending line on the graph of life, steadily ascending, and seeing the sense and shape of my literary output I made the big jump, the quantum leap, to ur-novel, the novel as encyclopedia, and the result was, of course, Ulysses — but that particular jump from the novel we all know and love to the thinner atmosphere of ‘Great Book’ is a tricky one, because where do you go from there?
An endless universe of thank-yous to everyone who helped make Reading #9 such a gone gas: Abigail, Billy, Ron, Jack, Leland, and Jessie for performing your flappy lits; Alibi for your groovy singing & luscious photography; Pacific Standard for being such gracious hosts as always; and all you bang-tail cats who came out to watch. Let’s do this again on September 21…
We’d like to stir a big bubbling cauldron of gratitude for everyone who helped make Reading #7 such a bewitching evening: Kailey, Mary, Shawn, Darley, Dorothy, Ilana, Ron and Luis for performing your flappy lits; Pacific Standard for continuing to be the best bar in all of New York to host a reading; Alibi Jones for your scintillating singing & lovely photography; and all you gorgeous cats & kittens who came down to get spellbound. Let’s do this again, say, around the next Solstice…
(photos by Alibi Jones)
Kailey Tedesco reads some of her magical poetry, including “How Often We Confuse Ovens for Rabbit Holes”
Mary Breaden keeps the witchy vibe alive with some spooky short fiction