• 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
December 15 - Jan 28

Text, Textile, Exile: Works by Maria Damon

film & video
January 24

aCinema Presents: Call for Morning // Cradle to the Floating World

special events
January 27 -28

24th Annual Poetry Marathon & Benefit

exhibitions
January 31

Book Launch: Poor and Needy: an exhibition on art, migration, and debt

Frank Lima

Frank Lima was born in New York City in Spanish Harlem, 1939. His parents were Mexican and Puerto Rican. He received a Master's from Columbia University in 1975. During the '60's and '70's he published three books of poetry: Inventory, (Tibor de Nagy Gallery, 1964), Underground with the Oriole (E. P. Dutton, 1971), and Angel (W. W. Norton, 1976). In the late '70's Lima dropped out of the poetry world to devote his time to his family and pursue a career in the culinary arts. Trained in his youth in classical French cooking, he worked at the White House during the Kennedy Administration. He later became a teacher at the New York Restaurant School. His Inventory: New and Selected Poems, edited by David Shapiro appeared from Hard Press in 1997. Frank says he will always remain an apprentice to Frank O'Hara, Kenneth Koch & William Shakespeare. His next book of poems is scheduled to be published this winter by John Yau: The Beatitudes. He currently lives by the ocean in Lido Beach, NY and writes everyday, no matter what.
 

Selected Poems

01/01/2000


Frank Lima

 

We found the words in a box and gave them indescribable
Attention. We studied their habits and became recklessly
Enamored with them. As we watched, they smoked
And blew sacramental rings in our faces. We were

Blind old men, unzipping our lives and trembling at the
Touch of naked marble. Pigeons were the wild fingers of
Statues. The future sacrificed our soul for the erotic
Stillness of poetry. The words arrived in the kitchen

Through the nail hole of the last century wearing the
Faces of the past. I fit myself into anyone that will have me,
So be gentle to me in your memories and they will
Stop looking over my shoulder in the subway. Ill collect

The tickets at the door, wipe the dust off the seats
And make it perfectly clear that writing is as lonely
As a pile of shoes. Heaven is wingless and far away,
And there are no books that mention your name or mine.