8:00pm,
Anna Vitale is the author of Detroit Detroit (Roof Books), Different Worlds (Troll Thread), and several chapbooks including Unknown Pleasures (Perfect Lovers). Recent writing has appeared or is forthcoming in BathHouse Journal, Columbia Poetry Review, Jacket2, and Supplement. She lives in Brooklyn and hosts the Tenderness Junction on WFMU.
Roberto Harrison is the author of Os (subpress, 2006), Counter Daemons (Litmus Press, 2006), bicycle (Noemi Press, 2015), culebra (Green Lantern Press, 2016), Bridge of the World (Litmus, 2017), Yaviza (Atelos, 2017), as well as of many chapbooks. He is also a visual artist.
Anna Vitale from Casey Play
I call yr name
Pretty Girl
the Street You
is
Ugly
I say Titty
real loud
and it ends
the dream
where
we share
everything.
Don’t even
answer it
but let it
ring, its turquoise
cradle brushback
my hands back
up the pulse
two knobs
know being.
A poor ding
cracks shells
the flood
releases the poor
“I was here”
on the wall
against yr face
against me
in my drive.
Our good hair
in this shit
neighborhood
your shit
by our coming.
Our spectacle squad.
I don’t know who
she is but that’s
me I hear without
a name for feeling. A car goes
by with god bless the dead
playing. Shouts
at the mall where
everyone steals
keychains. Let me give you
the feeling of your name,
she says, give me that feeling.
Roberto Harrison word pictures
i see live things escape the oceans of my pen
as they settle in the dust to cut into the night
and heave our safari to the home in the home
of the Sea, as the insects complete the plans
in their attentions. as the simplex of 4
makes a simplex of 14 as two sevens
scar the first seven to war with the ground
they were night by the male as the corpse
bred their seams to return the intent of the tapirs
and resume what the hunt by the human makes
animals small. but to grow with the camp as the feet
mark the Sea with the cannibal wound on the path
as the bison marks skies in the earth as the dark
and she marks us with nets made to hunt in the eyes
as the frozen protection proceeds. but give me your
death in a complex of forms as i insect the force
of our womb and arrive to the plants as they bleed,
and i wash out my blood with the fire as i hold you
in light that the friends of the lion resume with a heart
of the death by the memory saved to the feet of the sea
i am the wound of the earth
i am made of our wandering