Notes From The Overground » los angeles

Adam Bresson Featuring At Rapp Saloon (6/11/2010) – Part 2

heyadam — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 08:26:30 +0000

On June 11, 2010, I featured at Rapp Saloon, a reading at the hostel in Santa Monica, CA. It was titled “Somewhere / Someone.” This is part two “SOMEONE.” I read six pieces: “Running like hell The El kicks out trash & dust down the dirty streets of Chicago…”, “I say we, displaced by my own motives…” (by Eric Steineger), “I wonder how Baltimore is…”, “Greatest trouble caused by me leaving before you…”, “To the guy with the haircut where it’s short & spiked on top with buzzcut sides…” and “I am a deserter without you…” Please visit www.adambresson.org for more poetry and writing. Hope you enjoy!

Razing the Mausoleum: To Live in Los Angeles BY Eric Steineger

heyadam — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 08:21:31 +0000

I say we, displaced by my own motives.
Blood, the most powerful scent.
Sitting in an antique shop, Landrum, South Carolina
drinking coffee, writing in Dave’s Argentinean notebook,
Adam’s poem, remembering the drive into
the basin an hour early, mausoleum up on the hill.
I say we because evidence is not confined to
celluloid, the balcony we came from,
whispered vows. For me unrecoverable
after the screening, choice pushing me out
Colorado’s door. Open spaces. Open once
dotted with elk n’ snow, then cool flow of commerce,
palms angling in sublime weather. I say we
because energy needs no cylinder,
manual on the wall for workers to study–
As freeways ripen, in all directions, under purple night…
In this sense, Los Angeles, more than New York,
stays up. What Hemingway meant:
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in LA…
it never leaves you…” I say we: ajar, runaway, to catch
the pure and ghastly rising, exposure, energy of the
unbound, boundless women, non-ironic in the streets
gauging heirloom tomatoes. Sunday, and
we are all out bothered by a lack of hotrods
on jacks, relieved. Surfing on buses, taco truck,
specter of Bukowski rampant after 5pm.
A certain music that is tough to render
here. The plate on my car… expired but still
California, the cursive red mud
I leave to harden, warping the minds
of a few, set-in-their-ways alumni.
I say we because faults reveal real cities,
squeezing the last atom of water for
the orange grove. Forced us to speak
up in a crowd when we didn’t elsewhere.
Don’t talk to me about Los Angeles.
You, in the insular townships, smug as a spoiled child.
Return to the refuge of the self-help book
you let drop between pillows, culture you assume,
then unequivocally dismiss. Angels are a naked shoreline:
cards, bucket, sheen…left out on a blanket,
because sunset only drives us on into the next day–
The only stricture we impose is not having any.
Angels hurl themselves at distance.
Angels wear stains and glow in the dark.
© Eric Steineger

Adam Bresson Featuring At Rapp Saloon (6/11/2010) – Part 1

heyadam — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 08:19:36 +0000

On June 11, 2010, I featured at Rapp Saloon, a reading at the hostel in Santa Monica, CA. It was titled “Somewhere / Someone.” This is part one “SOMEWHERE.” I read six pieces: “Running like hell The El kicks out trash & dust down the dirty streets of Chicago…”, “I say we, displaced by my own motives…” (by Eric Steineger), “I wonder how Baltimore is…”, “Greatest trouble caused by me leaving before you…”, “To the guy with the haircut where it’s short & spiked on top with buzzcut sides…” and “I am a deserter without you…” Please visit www.adambresson.org for more poetry and writing. Hope you enjoy!

Adam Bresson Reading At Rapp Saloon (4/9/2010)

heyadam — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 06:50:32 +0000

On April 9, 2010, I read at Rapp Saloon, a reading at the hostel in Santa Monica, CA. I read three pieces: “Put it away, tuck it in, tuck it down…”, “Ari thought flowers were a gracious exchange…” and “The ax or the slide is the evil in the eyes & you will make your way across the country…” Please visit www.adambresson.org for more poetry and writing. Hope you enjoy!

“I wonder how Baltimore is…”

heyadam — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 06:25:24 +0000

I wonder how Baltimore is
when asked by VISA or MasterCard
if I’ve ever lived in Baltimore.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

I would think that the barrels of live crabs
stack claws & tentacles vibrating with
that little red chatter like teeth.

I would think Inner Harbor shines urban bedazzled
with storefront come-ons & museums that house
the worlds’ kept but battered treasures.

I would think there are stories of fisherman who
came in from a stormy night & were given salves
made of beeswax & talc for sore knees.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

I could imagine it has red-brick row homes
with porch steps & front doors with
tiny stained glass windows so no one can see in.

I could imagine the local market
doesn’t have saladitos (salted plums)
or free apples for your grandmother.

I could imagine that on sunny days
women tan with aluminum foil reflectors
& kids bang off the fire hydrant bolt.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

I should assume it doesn’t have
the massive fortissimo sunsets of Santa Monica
& beaches that disappear into the vanishing point.

I should assume it doesn’t have
a 100 year old library that perished in the great fire
leaving only a holy-luminescent arch.

I should assume it doesn’t have
Sunday afternoon barbecues of carne asada,
roasted coffee & one-eye blind dogs.

I have never lived in Baltimore.

In Philadelphia the pizza was bigger
than three of my heads, cheesesteaks seethed provolone
& I kissed a girl with my tongue for the number one.

In Los Angeles I forgot about your
address & phone number marked “past” in
my directory but privy to hang-up calls, your breathing.

In Seattle I learned how to go uphill & downhill
through snow tracks, cook dinner on gas by candlelight
& what becoming like the person you’re holding on to is.

I never lived in Baltimore.
© Adam Bresson

“I asked her, ‘Who will get the bullet & who will get the blank?’…”

heyadam — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 21:40:15 +0000

I asked her, “Who will get the bullet & who will get the blank?”
And staring into those green eyes like the glass surface of an isolated lake
Waiting for the tears to squeeze their way out of her inlets & dive down her face
I thought of the sleepless, dreamless nights I’ve been having
The hum of the orange L.A. darkness substituting for a soundtrack
And the SUV’s I imagined flying by on the freeway with their bumper sticker logic
Video flicker makes it easier to feel sicker, cock my gun, drop off the safety
Bet no bullet this time on awakenings & flop sweat Russian Roulette

Bang bang, hollowed-out stem leads lead from dark to light
And I’ve been waiting days, weeks & months to ache, shock & stun her like a gun
Seduce her by the trick click in succession of me loading the bullet into the chamber
White noise surroundings & the boyish good looks that make her, break her like a hired killer
Nothing like daylight between us but rather that hornet’s nest hum of dust
Making figurines & backdrops for a setting sun, almost feeding time
Do YOU catch your own food? Would YOU kill it just to survive?
Take it down with a few hard shots that move quicker than the eye

With my shotgun blast inside her thighs I hope to shake her
Get rid of that moving target on her head, red spot chasing her around
With shocking accuracy, it would fall right on her heart & burn through her shirt
Through her skin, past her ribcage & into the part she hides in the camouflage
Of lungs & muscles that snake her anatomy, laying low to the ground & invisible
Only lasts until she kills the innocence that makes her second guess things
Call late night out from Los Angeles freeways to other cellphones
Cry herself to sleep with the words she doesn’t ever say out loud

Like agony, honey, loose cannons never seem to shoot straight
Miss their target but leave her with legs generally shaky & out-of-step
Sounds funny but I wish it were just a seven-day waiting period until she invites me up to
Whichever apartment has her homemade dresser she keeps the bullets locked up in
That match my gun for caliber, diameter & tip & the trip it will take
Popping up with tension from the cartridge to the chamber to the barrel
Pull the trigger on this one, don’t wait, let the flint spark & guess
What do you get from the mouth of the gun
© Adam Bresson

“Chicken by the pound put down…”

heyadam — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 05:18:16 +0000

Chicken by the pound put down
Plate put together with chicken parts
Drink down white wine, listen to the whine.

Beat Up Eye Woman says:
>She keeps the heat from the attic from the living room with insulation that comes from space.

Tan Face Curly Hair Man says:
>From the space station, I think. I got a little color. I work in motion pictures.

Beat:
>She’s so cute & he’s, um, a trician. The cabinets will be walnut.

Tan:
>An obstetrician. Shes’ so cute. We went to Gabby’s & I had some salmon which was absolutely delicious.

Mirror U-turn No Hair Man says:
>It wasn’t 18 inches! So, no go. We needed more space so poof! Stopped.

Tan:
>Felix the dog, not the cat! Went to Toledo with the van.

Mirror:
>Stick your finger in it & lose a finger.

Beat:
>Hour & a half, I don’t know. $6,000 for the tools to take it apart.

Mirror scoops French fries into his lawnmower mouth so no more conversation.

Adam Bresson Reading At Velvet Guerilla Cabaret (10/29/2008)

heyadam — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 05:33:13 +0000

On October 29, 2008, I read at Velvet Guerilla Cabaret, Michael Slobotzky’s reading at Unurban Coffeehouse in Santa Monica, CA. I read two pieces: “Two buttons up…” and “A box full of things…” Please visit www.adambresson.org for more poetry and writing. Hope you enjoy!