June 2010

Tim Z. Hernandez and Jason F. McDaniel at the East Harlem Cafe

by:  Daniel Dissinger

On June 9th, 2010, Tim Z. Hernandez read at the East Harlem Cafe along with fellow writer, and friend, Jason F. McDaniel.  Closing out the last leg of his promotional tour for his new book, Breathing, In Dust, Tim Hernandez wowed an attentive audience on 104th street and Lexington Avenue.

This is Tim’s second book. In 2004, Tim’s first book, a collection of poems called Skin Tax, waspublished and won the American Book Award.  Breathing, In Dust will be his first published full-length novel.

A master storyteller, Tim Hernandez mixes emotionally filled details with a poetic rhythm missing in most prose and contemporary poetry, which also comes out strongly in his live readings.  Here is an excerpt from the introduction of his book entitled “What it means to say Catela”:

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Events

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Psychopomp

by:  Seth McKelvey

Music by:  Chelsea Rice

 
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when you say that the most effective method of reducing the number of elderly people diagnosed with cancer is to stop diagnosing it altogether

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Poems

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North Pole & Loose Thread

by: Daniel Hales and The Frost Heaves

 
icon for podpress  North Pole [3:48m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

 
icon for podpress  Loose Thread [3:07m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download


Daniel Hales is a writer and musician living in Western Massachusetts. His poems and flash fictions have been published in Conduit, Bateau, Verse Daily, Shadowbox, and elsewhere. These tracks are off “Frost Heaves,” the latest album by Daniel hales, and the frost heaves. His home page is: http://www.home.earthlink.net/~djselah

Music

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House of Compassion, House of Memory, House of Change

by:  Sarah Cooke

 
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icon for podpress  House of Change [0:28m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

House of Compassion

a diamond in the flesh –

flash of light that

mingles with the sunrise or

set.

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Poems

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WATING FOR THE FIRE TO GO OUT & SELF-PORTRAIT OF THE WOULD-BE CARTOGRAPHER

by:  Harold Whit Williams

 
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WAITING FOR THE FIRE TO GO OUT

Each day we give our words to wind.

Watch them disperse among the wood smoke.

Words like yes, no, maybe, ornithology,

And the Spanish word for owl, which is búho.

The owl I saw as a child is long dead

But that doesn’t stop me scanning treetops at dusk.

Tonight, our dying star sun lingers in the live oak

And grandfather’s rifle is a twelve-hour drive from here.

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Poems

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[ ]

by:  Brandon Arthur

it was beginning in the attic. air gulped. but we forgot and pushed me out. smoke pulled into the ashtray. months ended it lifting dirt into walls. sparrows squatted into burnt out bulbs so scabs would harden and there’d be growth. wind circled houses pulling minerals from pores. thunder stopped and there was something green. veins. you poured water in. it erased itself from you. geese blank in the sky. the flood fell out of it. a black  raft above. mud was mud again.

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