• 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
«
»
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

Scott Inguito

Scott Inguito is a graduate of The Iowa Writers Workshop. His chapbook, Dear Jack, is out from Momotombo Press, and his latest chapbook, The Vernacular Sounds of Dog Noise, a collection of woofs, barks and yelps written in Mexico in January 2008, is something he is working on. His poems have appeared in Shampoo, Fence, and 1913: a journal of forms. His collage-play, Trying to Create Intimacy with a Narcissist was performed at California College of Art, San Francisco, for Small Press Traffic, in December 2008. Scott lives in San Francisco. His paintings and pictures from his play can be seen at scottinguito.com.

Selected Poems

from Where The Desire Goes


Scott Inguito

 

You launch out most days
already drowning, a hand
from the past over your mouth
or maybe it's your own. And

your choice of materials: baitless
senses, thought once thought novel
now a long list of disabuses.
Now camping's cool. It always was, in

in the meantime, which is now averaged time,
regulating the weed takes all day. No
longer embittered against any simple
good offered, shit is kind of funny.
And sex without love isn't. Frugal

apprehensions go slack, wrinkles in
all directions. Bored faces creased
sharp for show on the street for strangers
numb out to outrage radio, the fog and fluff
of spit, open-mouthed breathing. Ring out
your plosive screen once in a while. Yeats

was sort of right: the shopping center did
not hold. At the fairgrounds in summer the
4-H raised hogs smirk: 'It's happening in Soledad.'
State-farmed prisoners pork union pensions, line
somebody's bacon. I see you holding that head, farmer.
I see you cutting that lettuce farm-laborer. The

radio dribbling outrage, looking for the bad guys.
J.P. Morgan? Sure. A little humiliation doesn't
go as long a way as it used to, if it ever did,
depends on the family of man you're from.
How's it taste? Swallow the amuse-bouche of
punishment, the punished playing slapdick
and watching isn't even fun anymore
much less tugging at your own junk. Gossip's

lost its salt, just suet
and flies, elk jerky sucked on.