Ghost Town Poetry Open Mic at Cover to Cover Books Featuring Doug Marx and Katharine Salzmann Thursday, September 12, 2013
GHOST TOWN POETRY OPEN MIC
Hosted by Clark County Poet Laureate Christopher Luna
and Printed Matter Vancouver founder Toni Partington
September 12, 2013
7pm
Cover to Cover Books
6300 NE St. James Rd.,
Suite 104B
(St. James & Minnehaha)
Vancouver, WA
printedmattervancouver.com
christopherjluna@gmail.com
LGBTQ-friendly, all ages,
and uncensored since 2004
With our featured readers, Doug Marx and Katharine Salzmann:
Doug Marx’s poems have appeared in Harper’s, Willow Springs, The Columbia Review, Alaska Quarterly, and many other publications. His chapbook Sufficiency was an Oregon Book Award Finalist in Poetry. These days he’s a saloon singer, casino rat, and sole proprietor of Grampaw Dawg’s Daycare Center & Boot Camp for Babies, where he takes care of his grandchildren,
Mr. Mu Goes to the Mall
By Doug Marx
Wandering among the computers
Mr. Mu wonders
could he buy a surge protector
for his heart.
Rather, something in him wonders,
worries.
Barely awake this morning
he succumbs to a roadside plum
blossoming pink under a dry gray sky
and swoons,
light-headed as a dandelion gone to seed
for the evolutionary sake
of being plucked by a child and blown away.
Katharine Salzmann lives in Portland, OR. Her poems have appeared all over town and beyond, most recently in the online journals Slipstream and Salt River Review. Her two chapbooks, Hemopoiesis (1995, persian pony press) and Prayer Ceremony (2007, persian pony press), will be available for sale at the reading for $15 each. According to the Oregonian: “Human limitation and the apparent schism between mind and matter are absent here . . . . Sensual, sensuous, refusing the either-or categories of Western rationality, this is a poet who apprehends the world in its wholeness, its gift, and gives it back in kind.”
Why
By Katharine Salzmann
So my hands don’t lose their soup
my ladle its dip
or my bones fold into their winged pockets
like a lowering tide. . .
So the endothelial multitude
that is my skin becomes
ferocious with light:
The tiger lily’s speckled cry
at the tip of its only stem.