Lewis Warsh and John Coletti
Monday, March 10, 2014, 6:30 pm
535 West 22nd Street, 5th Floor
New York City
$6 general admission; $3 Dia members, students, and seniors
Advance ticket purchases recommended. Tickets are also available for purchase at the door, subject to availability.
Publications by poets in the series can be found on diabooks.org.
Lewis Warsh is the author of numerous volumes of poetry, fiction and autobiography, including A Place in the Sun (Spuyten Duyvil) , Inseparable: Poems 1995-2005 (Granary) and The Origin of the World (Creative Arts).. One Foot Out the Door: Collected Stories is forthcoming from Spuyten Duyvil in 2014. He is editor and publisher of United Artists Books and teaches in the MFA program at Long Island University (Brooklyn).
Cold silent wind on a quiet
evening. Soda crystals,
boiling water. Let’s make a fresh
All the dead weight, all the
riffraff, the night
Pecos Pete came to town
in a rickshaw and a volley
of hail the size of tennis balls
fell from the sky. You could
buy some pills from the guy
on the bench in the park.
A nose on his face, unlike mine.
Gin and fizz.
It seems like you can be two people
at the same time, or more. The bowels
of the earth are empty and the
movie theater is closed. What have
we here? A story by Poe.
A shark out of water. The first
microwave. Perpetual dawn.
John Coletti is the author of SKASERS, a half-book with Anselm
Berrigan (2012), Mum Halo (2010), Same Enemy Rainbow (2008),
and Physical Kind (2005). Other recent projects include a libretto for
Excelsior (Caught: The Wide Open), an opera composed by Caleb
Burhans, and a forthcoming book, Deep Code.
The Easter egg hunt
“I see one.” “Let me get one.”
tears. like that.
an epiphenomenelogical account from like organisms
teasing @ the homegrown
in a banged-up locker
that convince me, at the end of darknessses
that I want to enjoy being family-kept-spilling
I never understate
& demonstrate daily
the capital shock then “wooed
& won by wireless”
weeds I thought more beautiful tilted
like a panix’ serpent
core doubts. it’s been a little rough.
pancakes at midnight
pancakes at day
that one aria
around your eye. forever closed
the tingling of clean, crystal lights
then laid back down. don’t rot: sayeth Beaker
the tendered non-capital evening
a third wave: Starting fresh!