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The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from writer Catherine Lacey. Catherine reads her short fiction piece “(Grew),” which appears in issue 12.3 of DIAGRAM.

http://ia601509.us.archive.org/19/items/CatherineLaceyReadingAndInterview/LACEY.mp3

 

The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from writer Woody Brown. Woody reads his short fiction piece “Sillyhead,” which appears in issue 12.3 of DIAGRAM.

http://archive.org/download/WoodyBrownTheEggshellParadeReadingAndInterview/WoodyBrownLouder.mp3

THEATER

I dropped down against the mosque wall

curled my shoulders in

let my feet fall apart

tilting toward the rubble-dusted floor

tried to still my lashes

as rifles came clanging in

their muzzles smelling out scent

heated off a pulse

I was playing dead

between the dead

a beast caught sight of my breath

blew off my face

he said:

“Now he’s fucking dead”

- – -

WATER sign of life: can hold a world of fleets at once: requiring a new OCEANOGRAPHY: useful to mimic waves in an assault and hit shore at same time: see also HELICOPTER WAVE: SCHEDULED WAVE: descends from garden hoses to rinse asphalt of brain matter: to rinse body on steel slab prior to shroud: streams on land: in gutters: excellent solvent: ask child you want a toy: then ask you want a grenade: watch him jump and startle: date fronds shaking with rain

- – -

TELLING

The streets bend toward the Tombs,
a Chinatown of basement doctors,
and funeral parlors, of hell money and paper telephones
for the fire, and LOOK, how the BRANCHes
FLARE with cherry blossoms, how the knees
stay polite in their poetry reading seats.
LOOK, PULSEJET and RAINJET
but no blood jet.
LOOK, my father’s old Econoline, toolbox
for a back seat, his amber ashtray
and undershirts in front of the TV.
LOOK, our worried parents, the drink,
the bathroom with toilet paper chained to a pipe.
LOOK, the girl pushed to the ground
is still lying there, alkali in her mouth.
LOOK, the blindfolded HOSTAGE thinks
of oatmeal and house slippers and
no newspaper in the morning.
I teach myself to say yes
as restaurants collapse
their cold weather doorways and throw open
their windows. Women ride by in shorts,
miles of legs, flanked by bridges
and tunnels, an island
against itself. So often the TELLING
is good enough, is all I have,
the mouth willing to open
to its own surprise. I talk
to strangers on the subway,
even ask about a Dan Brown novel
to keep the face turned toward me.
On the SURVEILLENCE tape
the woman rides down the elevator
with her killer, watching the floors light up
until ground level over and over.
LOOK, the murderer is beautiful,
cheekbones and a white tee
and shoulders he hasn’t grown into yet,
slouched over the interrogation table.
I am the bully in the swivel chair
getting him to confess. I want
to MOUNT him without removing the gun
from his inside his head.
LOOK, my father HOLDs my floppy neck, worried
he’ll break me in those road-laying hands.
My mother brings me home to an Istanbul motel.
I see now how young she is,
how certain, already done
with writing and architecture. It will have to be me
who lives.


Solmaz’s first publication found in here:
A World Between: Poems, Short Stories, and Essays by Iranian-Americans

DOD Dictionary of Military Terms Highly encourage you look up all the all caps words Solmaz uses in her poems

One of Solmaz’s sources of inspiration Our Lady of the Flowers

Three of Solmaz’s poems at The Association of Iranian American Writers

Solmaz in DIAGRAM

Rugama’s Epitaph

All poems printed or reprinted with permission from the author.

Photo by Bianca Stone.

Posted in tandem with www.scatteredrhymes.com

Part 1

Part 2

Monkey Heart

Pick it up.
Consider it a machine.
Put it down.
Remember you need it.
Go back to where you left it.
Airport terminal, donut shop
seventh grade. Are you scared?
It’s ok. So am I.
Take a wet rag. Put it on your head.
Let’s retrace your steps.
Do you love your wife?
Is she made of dolphins?
I love my fucking life.
Even my secrets
and the terrible things I’ve done.
They’re like small smooth stones
in a green plastic bottle
with no label. What were we doing?
Driving down a long dark street?
Does it feel exactly right?
Little fist that pumps the blood.
The flicker in your empty.

WAVE MACHINE

We go out for drinks and attack a dumpster. D takes off his pants and tries to have sex with J. My lighter is busted. I run to catch the 22. “The next step is to think like Brian.” D escapes through the kitchen. I forget to lock up the knives. Her drawer is full of strawberry condoms. I look for the green bunny poem. She drops me down the building’s side. It’s sober day. Thanks for coming to the show. There is no origin. Your emails wince. I wish they were something else, not alone. J calls me shitface with tears in his eyes. We meet at 8 and grab a bite to eat. Someone says my name is Booth. She gives me my third drink for free. Z laughs whenever a kid starts a fight. There isn’t enough sex to go around. “I can’t believe they killed-off Bodie.” I manage to see three shows a week. I’ve decided to stop sleeping you. It’s a bag of baseball bats I hand the kids. Most of the day is spent on the floor. I never open the envelope marked C. I walk down Valencia over a grate.

When Time and Space Collapse Return This Poem to its Source

Do you ever think about love?
I believe love is Michael Burkard.
There are many disturbing facts

about the nature of reality. Burkard
takes the L to Lorimer St. and transfers
to the G. He is meeting friends for dinner.

All matter is just empty space revolving
around a pinhead of energy growing
more and more tired each moment.

Sadness is a kind of purity that Michael
Burkard uses to drain the darkness
from his fingertips. When droplets of rain

fall from the branches into the water
below it creates concentric ripples moving
outward into everything and cannot be stopped.

Michael Burkard is thinking about this poem
he won’t write until seventeen hours
in the future, while he sits alone in his apartment

feeling like a ghost. Purple light passes
through curtain after curtain until it reaches
the retina and escapes. Michael Burkard

is eating spaghetti with friends. He is rewriting
a line of poetry again and again in his head.
He is writing the Selected Poems of Michael Burkard.


POSTSCRIPT
Links to things mentioned in the interview; they will all open in a new tab so you can indiscriminately click without interrupting the show:

Mirov’s Blog

Books
I is to Vorticism by Ben Mirov
Collected Philip Larkin
Kasmir by John Leon
Envelope of Night: Michael Burkard Selected and Uncollected
Ooga Booga by Frederick Seidel

Music
Archers of Loaf
Islands
Bibio
Bill Evans
All this stuff is thanks to Mirov, but here’s one tune I’ve been obsessed with recently:
Bill Callahan