Alli Warren & Lindsey Boldt 3/30 7:00 p.m. IPRC

The Switch will host two poets from San Francisco: Lindsey Boldt, author of Overboard, from Publication Studio of Portland, and Alli Warren, author of Warm Jets from City Lights Books.

When: Sunday, March 30, 7 p.m. FREE

Where: Independent Publishing Resource Center (IPRC), 1001 SE Division St., Portland

Lindsey Boldt is the author of Overboard (Publication Studio Portland) and the chapbooks, "Titties for Lindsey" and "Oh My, Hell Yes." She also writes and performs plays in the style of "Oakland Poetic Realism" with Steve Orth, with whom she also co-edits Summer BF Press. Lindsey works as a teaching artist in Bay Area public schools and is an editor with The Post-Apollo Press. She lives in Oakland, California.

Alli Warren is the author of Here Come the Warm Jets (City Lights Books) as well as numerous other chapbooks including Grindin (Lew Gallery), Acting Out (Editions Louis Wain), and Well-Meaning White Girl (Mitzvah Chaps). She edits the magazine Dreamboat and co-edits the Poetic Labor Project. Alli lives in Oakland.







By Lindsey Boldt
  

Hey,

But did you really never eff up?

or did you remain ineffable?

Sigh.

Great job, thank God

Someone managed to evade it

I, unfortunately, effed up in my efforts

it seemed inescapable and almost effortless

like I and my friends would always

inevitably drop the F-bomb

everyone of us dropping these effing bombs

all day long

We were intelligent, aware, effete and effective

wearing good garments

listening to the other on KPFA

confronting our fears w/ culture

Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa far better

than most fair folks

XXL-ent readers

but kind of always effing up somehow

trying too hard to be just ok.

By Alli Warren

CALIFORNIA COMPLIANT

walking slowly across the colony

cups on the lawn & a champagne cork

my favorite water storage district

the watery milk of established fact

who here thinks a woman is soft

who persists in entering

a mismanaged idea of linkage

the star system and hit parade

giving rhythm to the round dance

operational beyond its own syntax

dread-drenched in the backseat

meteorites strike the sky & the abyss

opening in four directions

the morning light never looked so

fourteen kinds of melancholy

& you think the ocean is a drift

they come in such numbers

open your eyes, blue