Thursday, June 23, 2011

Will Kyle to Read at Duff's in the C.W.E. on Monday, June 27

Photo by Colin Michael Shaw

Will Kyle, veteran of several •chance operations• open-mics, will be one of three featured readers at the next •chance operations• reading, at Duff's, 392 North Euclid, in the Central West End, on Monday, June 27.

Doors open at 7:30 p.m.; admission is $3.

Also appearing with Will Kyle will be Nicky Rainey and Phil Gounis.

Musical guest will be jazz guitarist Tom Crammond.

Advance sign-up for the remaining open-mic slots following the featured readers is encouraged. Click here to sign-up via e-mail.

A native of St. Louis, Will Kyle earned his BA in English at the University of Iowa and is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Will also performs as a singer/songwriter at open microphones around town. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Barbaric Yawp, Great Lakes Review, Earthwords, Big Muddy and elsewhere.

In St. Louis Before A Concert

I walk down
Delmar past
Vintage Vinyl.
A man standing

on a wooden box
is a statue. I toss
him a quarter.
For early

March the day
is warm
and orange.
Students laugh

and smoke
perched on
planters outside
Blueberry Hill.

Near the Market
Pub, a drum
circle pounds
entranced by rhythm.

Two women
in flowing floral
skirts sit outside
Brandt’s and barter

the romantic
business of life
over matching

They ignore
the waiter as he
serves a bowl
of penne

in white
wine sauce.
Further down
the street,

teens crowd
Iron Age. They
crave same day
tattoos. For

the artists
crave an
on-sight notary,

their lips
snap off
beartrap fucks
debating the pros

and cons
of such a thing,
their guns
buzz over

flesh, a funky
sewer smell,
a browned
apple core

and a kissing
on a scrap
of burlap

as I pass
Skinker is always
shit to cross.

I jump out before
the light
and almost
get popped

by the extended
mirror of a baby
blue, fifty-seven
Chevy with

a beige bed cap
and Yosemite
Sam mud flaps.
At six PM,

The Pin Up
Bowl seats
exactly six
douche bags.

When I arrive
at The Halo
Bar, I receive
the inevitable

pat down. No,
my Moleskine
notebook is
not a camera,

my ballpoint
not a Sharpie,
yes, that is my
prick. They

return my ID
and stamp
a black five
with a braided

circle around it
on the top
of my hand.
I grab a seven

dollar Bloody
Mary and wait
in the queue for
early entry

to secure
the best spot
to witness
rock music

slide through
St. Louis
like a serpent,
or a maybe a never

ending parade
of black
and white
tour buses.

-- Will Kyle

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