from, Haunted Forest

X. So They Winked And Were Glad as the Day Grew Late

Gone beyond becoming, we filled
the house with phantoms & called
up monsters from the deep.

Buried the dagger, illuminated
the windows. Choked
the blinded alley with most
exquisite filigreed leaf
& vine. Making sense
of another dark night, I’m learning
to unwait.

from, Haunted Forest

IX. A Part of This World, and a World of Its Own

It was time as a color, or my
life, in miniature.

It was sunrise & my feet got wet
in the dew. It was all the moon
did, it was my hair, full
of secrets.

A pocketful of frogs, the girl who
gave birth to rabbits, the happiest
crocodile, & party hats for all.

Chris McCreary & Christian TeBordo: Book Launch & Reading

Celebrate the release of new books by Chris McCreary & Christian TeBordo!

Chris McCreary‘s book of poems, Undone : A Fakebook, is new from Furniture Press. According to Garrett Caples, “McCreary brings a tender swagger to his line, from popsong semiotics to lyric sequence to the mysterious ‘The Black Book’ mirroring the urban poet’s soul.”

Christian TeBordo‘s book of short fiction, The Awful Possibilities, is just out from Featherproof Books. George Saunders says, “Christian TeBordo shows that it is possible to be, simultaneously, a wise old soul and a crazed young terror.”

Saturday, June 5, 2010
7:00pm – 9:00pm
B2 Cafe
1500 E. Passyunk Avenue, Philadelphia, PA

There will be readings by both authors, & there will be free snacks & wine &/or beer. A good time shall be had.

from, Haunted Forest

VIII. From Toys and Treats to Cages and Towers

I thought he said home
is other people. A gilt-edged
childhood, a currency
of tulips, a charm
of goldfinch, & so many
ravens— a conspiracy,
a constable, an unkindness
of. Too clever by half, we
invent it, & then
put it into practice.

from, Haunted Forest

VII. She Made a Place to Sleep Inside My Ear

The walls of the house have become
the world all around & everything
an excuse to do
nothing & she is fading
from the margins & we become
inconceivable to eachother.

Despite common appearance, our words
have roots in different sources. Exercises
in mis-reading. The way moths fly
like they’re broken.