Surrealist Lunch




A walk through the Menil’s
world-renowned Surrealist Galleries;

followed by selections from Surrealist poems
read by poets


Joshua Beckman

Joshua Clover

Gillian Conoley

Valzhyna Mort

Dara Wier

Matthew Zapruder



The Menil Collection

1515 Sul Ross, Houston 77006

Thursday, October 12, 2006 ∙ Noon

Free & Open to the Public  

Get on the Bus

Stopping at 50 cities in 50 days the 2006 Poetry Bus Tour, sponsored
by Seattle-based independent press Wave Books, might be headed toward a landmark near you.

Beginning September 4 and ending October 27, the bus tour will visit a variety of venues, including the Space Needle in Seattle, the Naval Academy in Annapolis, MD, the Museum of Natural History in LA, the Green Mill in Chicago, the DiA Arts Center in New York, and a number of bookstores, galleries, bars, prisons and schools all across the US and Canada.

Participating poets include Eileen Myles, James Tate, Cole Swensen, Dean Young, John Yau, Vijay Seshadri, Lewis Warsh, Joshua Beckman, Dara Wier, Juliana Spahr, John Godfrey, Joshua Clover, David Rivard, Noelle Kocot, Matthew Zapruder, Ann Lauterbach, Tyehimba Jess, Dana Levin, Hoa Nguyen, Jeff Clark, Richard Siken, Bob Hicok, Katy Lederer, Kim Addonizio, Arthur Sze, Catherine Wagner, Srikanth Reddy, Matthew Rohrer, Thomas Sayers Ellis, Bhanu Kapil and over 100 more.

You can find out more by sending email to  bus_at_wavepoetry_dot_com, or info_at_wavepoetry_dot_com.

Haiku by Matthew Zapruder


Yesterday for you
I wrote a poem so full
of lies it woke me
stunned like someone
bitten in the middle of the night
or a bird that just
smashed into a very clean window.
Now it’s so early
it’s still night
and this time I’m hardly
trying at all, holding carefully
in my palms
the knowledge that
I don’t know anything about you.
And how could you know
mosquitoes love my blood
because it’s full
of something they love,
or that I like to play chess
in the morning
with a serbo-croatic book,
never getting any better?
Or that to drink
seltzer with lemon in the dark
thinking of Isamu Noguchi
calms me, but only sometimes?
How I’m a blue
vial of delusions.
How on my biceps
I have a star that never
aches when I tell the truth.
How I’m always
in love with someone
I’ll never meet (see,
I can’t put three words
together without lying!).
And all the things
about you I don’t know,
which is everything.
Did you never
want to be a dancer?
Were your ankles
too thin, and you didn’t
even know it?
Did you love
or were you afraid
of horses (one threw me
when I was a child)?
Did your mother show you
how to wrap a towel
around your wet hair
like an arab queen,
or did you just know
how to paint your nails and hold
the telephone like that
between your chin
and shoulder?
The color of your eyes.
Do they change
on a bridge?
When you lie?
It feels so good
to be clear, and free,
not like a buddhist
or a haiku but just sort of
dumb, hardly able
in the middle of night
to speak. Only
enough to say
thank you for the cake,
how it came
wrapped in tinfoil,
newborn, almost
as sweet as the thought
of you thinking
a moment of me.
Most things come
by time and circumstance
separated, waiting
to be repaired.
But not that cake
which I ate
quickly, like
it was about to disappear.
Let’s start again.
I don’t think
that’s a bird out there,
it sounds more like
a person trying
to sound like a bird.
Or maybe a bird a person
didn’t mean
but still taught
how to whistle.
You keep sleeping
and I’ll stop trying
to decide if it’s better
to change other people
or how they see us,
or what’s more
urgent and futile,Pajamaist
to unlock
or to invent the past.

by Matthew Zapruder

from his book The Pajamaist published by Copper Canyon Press