• Address 720 East Locust Street | Milwaukee, WI 53212
  • Phone 414.263.5001
  • Hours Tue-Fri 11-8pm | Sat-Sun 12-5pm | Closed Mon
  • Hours Tue-Fri 11-8pm, Sat-Sun 12-5pm, Closed Mon
Event Calendar
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exhibitions
August 25 - Oct 1

Exhibition: Vicki, with an i, organized by Michelle Grabner

special events
August 30

Milwaukee Shines: Solar Group Buy

special events
September 8 -10

Indian Summer Festival: Language is Culture

readings & workshops
September 17

Poetry Reading & Talk: Julie Carr

readings & workshops
September 28

Poetry Reading: Stacy Blint, Rebecca Eland & Mark Tardi

readings & workshops
October 5

Poetry Reading: Feliz Lucia Molina

exhibitions
October 11

Exhibition: Jen Bervin, Tactile Lanuguage

Archived readings & workshops
Sep 17 Thursday, September 17
6:00pm, FREE

Join us to celebrate the publication of Daniel Khalatschi’s Tradition (McSweeney’s, 2015), and Marc Rahe’s On Hours (Rescue Press, 2015). 

 

Daniel Khalastchi is the author of two books of poetry, Manoleria (Tupelo Press, 2011) and Tradition (McSweeney’s, 2015). A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop and a former fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, his poems have appeared in a variety of publications, including Colorado Review, Fence, Iowa Review, jubilat, Ninth Letter, Octopus Magazine, and Best American Experimental Writing 2014. He lives in Iowa City and is the co-founder and managing editor of Rescue Press.

 

 

Marc Rahe received his M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He is the author of The Smaller Half (Rescue Press, 2010) and On Hours (Rescue Press, 2015), and his poems have appeared in iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, jubilat, notnostrums, PEN Poetry Series, Petri Press, and elsewhere. Marc lives in Iowa City and works for a human service agency.

 


Jew and I Travel to the Beat of a Different Drum

 

The conversion Rabbi takes me to a remodeled Clinique

counter and tells me to enjoy the samples. I use the scruffing

 

lotion, the intense hydrating moisturizer, and after a few

minutes of informative blackhead discussion with two elderly

 

female aestheticians, we tweeze my eyebrows and thank

everyone for their time. You look rested, the Rabbi says as we

 

situate our gift bags in the trunk of his Lincoln. You look fierce

and assertive and that’s going to help when we get to shul. For the rest

 

of the afternoon I am treated to hand-jobs and head

massages. We go to a Russian bath, a suit-fitting, and end

 

the day stripped of our shirts, discussing flattering wet/dry

hairstyles with a barbarette we call “Tina.” I ask for a hot

 

shave but the Rabbi shakes his head. We need to show you have

the soul of a carburetor. Shaving, he continues, is the mark of a man

 

who still has a mother. The Rabbi tells Tina to put the day’s

services on his tab, and we take a rough road back to the

 

synagogue and park. While I futz with the radio, the Rabbi

reaches into his breast pocket and removes a thick manila

 

envelope beating with cash. Get out, he says, and we walk to

the rear exit of the building and position my body to look

 

naturally negligent. It is hard to stand with my feet facing

each other, but I am assured with confidence this is how

 

things must begin. Before he leaves, the Rabbi stuffs my

pants and mouth with crisp new money and a Sinatra

 

cassette. When the ladies come out of Maariv, they will fight to see who

gets to take you home. But I already have a wife, I mumble through

 

the paper. These women won’t care, the Rabbi says. They will make

you apricot kugel and strong babies and the whole time they’ll only be

 

thinking how much they are lifting themselves to the Lord.

 

                         —Daniel Khalatschi 

                        originally published in Jubilat

 

 

Fixed

 

I am the windows
that look out on windows.

I am the gaze. I am the unreal

bodies behind the drapes.

Mine is the black counter
wiped down again and again.

I am a caretaker;
I worry from afar.

 

I worry a sore.

 

Where
do you go, after?

Between privacies is the dark

of a key-filled lock.

From inside my gem my look

 

is hidden, each face

familiar when facing away.

 

                         —Marc Rahe

                         originally published in PEN Poetry Series