Public Poetry Spring Series 2020
April 4, May 2, June 6 | 2 PM
Meet our featured poets on Instagram Live!
Saturday, April 4, 2020 | 2 PM
Location: Instagram Live
This death is Houston / / at its very worst. More worse even, / than at the death of Carl Hampton, that Panther who curved / like a branch at his end.
From: The Worst Houston
If HEB is sanctuary, / then those low low low prices are scripture. . . . amen.
From: Shopping While Black
A sea with no edge and no borders / Four corners suddenly serene / Heavens covered full of stars / Eyes down, I am taken aback...
You condensed between worlds / refuse to say goodbye raging / against your heart, useless / organ inflicted / with edema drawn to entropy,...
From: Running into slaughter at the upside down coffee shop
Saturday, May 2, 2020 | 2 PM
Nostrils wide in elation, the horses’ / chests heave under the stirruped legs / of mini-men who flash their stables’ / silks in the sun and lurch over the speeding/ animals like crayons scribbling color.
From: Why Do They Run
Hay un fuego adentro/a fire inside / that could only be fueled / by habaneros and carnes asadas/ And yet / I could list the 50 states / in alphabetical order...
From: WHOSE RIGHT? Confession #1
These apparitions / arise between mountain rock, / murmuring something / about the start, /something about /the end— / / their foam-white hair /circles...
From: After the Storm
Yesterday, for instance, on my way to work, I saw / a man in a flannel shirt and bluejeans kneeling. /His shirt was green and it was early morning and one hand/rested on the blackiron stays of a neighbor’s fence, / the other parting them, passing through.
From: YESTERDAY, FOR INSTANCE
Saturday, June 6, 2020 | 2 PM
Sum thangs / is hard tuh write down / thangs like pain / an missin' yuh momma / thangs like wonderin' / why gawd take me through / the thangs she do...
From: sum hard thangs
I’ve missed our calamities, our heave-hos, / the accusations like you didn’t turn /off the stove when the larkspurs and wooden / spatula went aflame.
I didn’t go to church one week & I cleaned my car of everything trash & minute. / / I tried to write something, got stuck & cleaned the trunk.
From: Car Home
I feel limey, like the stew of fruits and greens into which I squeeze a whole small tennis ball. I dream I squeeze a squishy emerald between my palms, a sour, bubbly, watering juice spurts into the yellow colander, dripping like rain from icy tin slats.