• 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

film & video
September 22

aCinema: // In Silence Arrives the Tempest // Waiting on Paradise //

exhibitions
September 23 -23

Reception: Vicki with an i, organized by Michelle Grabner

readings & workshops
September 28

Poetry Reading: Stacy Blint, Rebecca Eland & Mark Tardi

readings & workshops
September 30

100 Thousand Poets for Change MKE

readings & workshops
October 5

Poetry Reading: Feliz Lucia Molina

exhibitions
October 11

Exhibition: Jen Bervin, Tactile Lanuguage

readings & workshops
October 12

Offsite Event: Justice for All: Selected Writings of Lloyd A. Barbee

readings & workshops
October 13

Poetry Reading: Caitlin Scarano, Paula Carter & Freesia McKee

performances
October 22

Alternating Currents Live: Tom Rainey & Devin Drobka Percussion Duo

readings & workshops
October 26

Urban Echo Poets

special events
November 3

Join us on Friday, November 3rd for our 37th Annual Anniversary Gala!

 

readings & workshops
November 8

Poetry Reading: Matt Cook

John Beer

John Beer is the author of The Waste Land and Other Poems (Canarium, 2010). Associative and imaginative, his work has been compared to that of John Ashbery. Poet Lewis Warsh wrote that The Waste Land and Other Poems "embraces and distills 'the bad dream' and all 'the muck' of the recent past, but the momentum of this book is full speed ahead." Beer's criticism has appeared inVerse, the Denver Quarterly, Chicago Review, and other magazines. He is a theater writer for Time Out Chicago.

Selected Poems

from Sonnets to Morpheus


John Beer

 

What did you have to hope for? A single sun
reflected in swamp water, in
a building's silver skin. "You don't know
what it is, but it's there, like a splinter
in your mind." Blank checks
pile up in the mailbox. Lunchtime:
singers in grey hats, ambling past
the statue from your first dream. Don't look back.

It's the same exact sun you saw as a kid.
I looked it up already. Everything else
starts slithering across your field of vision.
My flight to Bangkok leaves at 5:15.
I pack a pair of scissors in my bag,
a photograph, an apple, Leaves of Grass.


**


Unveiling, that's the stuff. I leave
a glass of wine on the table. Ten days later
it's still a glass of wine. I'm not myself.
A glass of wine the color of nebulae.
"Your men are already dead." We were warned,
elsewhere, and shouldn't blame the objects:
blue bottles, skin, your hand without a ring.
I traveled to Bangkok for business purposes.

A truck could snap his spine in half. Still he'd rage
to whisper the truth in a last gargling breath.
Nothing stops him: insidious drugs or robots run amok.
Out-dreaming the ones who dreamt being into being,
he hopes us along. In Bangkok, I'm trying to say,
I looked in a mirror and nothing looked back.