Julia Gordon-Bramer will be one of three featured readers at the next •chance operations• reading at Duff's, 392 N. Euclid, on Monday, November 28.
The other featured readers will be Chris King and Drucilla Wall.
Doors open at 7:30 p.m., $3 admission.
Advance sign-up for the open-mic following the featured readers is encouraged. Click here to sign-up via e-mail.
Musical guests will be Roy Gokenbach, guitar, formerly of Erin Bode Group, and Fred Friction, host of FM 88.1's "Fishing With Dynamite, accompanying Chris King. Finishing out the evening with a short set will be Rooks, featuring Daniel Eberle-Mayse, Chris Deutekom, and Eric Mueller. Rooks are "three boys making 'indie' music trying not to sound dumb."
When Julia Gordon-Bramer reads next for •chance operations•, she will have just stepped off a plane after a two hour flight, had a three-hour drive before that, and God knows how long in airport security.
Here's what her Playboy Playmate bio would be:
Occupation: writer, Plath scholar, tarot card reader. She also teaches English at St. Louis Community College and Humanities at Lindenwood University.
Turn-ons: Sylvia Plath; cats; Kabbalah; the Buddha; correct use of subjunctive form
Turn-offs: Fascist dictatorships; airport security (same difference); winter
Guilty pleasures: satellite radio (XMU, Lithium, and AltNation)
Achievements in the last month: reading tarot cards on Great Day St. Louis; reading at the Firecracker Press, with a print run of her poem, "Airplane Rules"; turning another year older
Latest passion: weighing the evidence as to whether William Shakespeare was really Francis Bacon
Anti-Gravity
The stars have learned to trust us
moving warily on their course
counting on the last astral
status quo.
But what if we decide
one day to just let go-- Release!
the beat of twenty-one guns!
What if we revolt and explode; blast
raining into space, flak
speeding from every snowy peak,
every curve of the greened
empty Earth?
A great loosening of shoes, doors,
hard cars, flowerpots, lions and keys.
Everything
that wasn’t attached
banded in the red
tie of gravity?
Pennies rushing like the bullety drop
off of the Empire State
Building. Our bodies becoming
missiles – all failing
to do the job of staying put.
Smiles into shrapnel hurtling
through space to puncture the dead
peace; to litter the cosmic clean
with debris. We’d fire and drill
holes of light in whatever we hit,
shooting into that solid, soft dark.
A pom-pom pummel
proving our existence;
An ack-ack-ack of final flash, leaving
trillions of celestial wounds
against a silk purple sash.
The steady nova tread with dread.
They fear us, you know. These souls.
Those holes. We are
full of them.
-- Julia Gordon-Bramer
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