• 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
October 6 -28

Exhibition - Ugly Duckling Presse: 25th Anniversary Celebration

performances
October 18

Formations Series for New & Improvised Music

readings & workshops
October 20

Poetry Reading: Soham Patel and Lauren Russell 

readings & workshops
October 25

Poetry Reading: Urban Echo Poets + Open Mic

readings & workshops
October 28

Poetry Reading: Kathleen A. Dale, Louisa Loveridge Gallas, Judith Harway, and Bill Murtaugh

special events
November 17

We Exist to Prove the Living Artist: 38th Anniversary Gala

readings & workshops
November 30

Poetry Reading: Anna Vitale and Daniel Owen

film & video
December 14

Film Screening: Riverwest Film & Video by Emir Cakaroz

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.