March 8 Matthew Hendriksen is publisher of Cannibal Books, co-editor of Typo, and author of Ordinary Sun.

March 15 Nicoloas Lopez is a local regular who consistently impresses with his intensity and invention.

March 22 Jerry Garcia is an accomplished poet, photographer, and filmmaker, and was selected by the LA Poetry Festival in 2006 for the prestigious Newer Poets reading.

March 29 Peggy DoBreer curates the superb LMU Extension poetry reading, and is the author of four chapbooks.
Find us at Redondo Poets on Facebook, and visit www.redondopoets.com for links about the poets and samples of their work, plus schedule updates, directions, and general information about the reading.

The Redondo Poets reading takes place Tuesdays at Coffee Cartel, 1820 S. Catalina Ave., Redondo Beach (310-316-6554). The reading starts at 8:10 PM and is free. Open mic before and after the feature. For more info: lcolker@gmail.com or 310-480-4047. Occasional live webcast, 7:30 - 10:30 at www.blogtv.com/peopel/diogenesclub.

Your Hosts, Jim Doane & Larry Colker
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Some Emmy Hennings:

Jetzt muß ich aus der großen Kugel fallen.
Dabei ist in Paris ein schönes Fest.
Die Menschen sammeln sich am Gare de l'Est
Und bunte Seidenfahnen wallen.
Ich aber bin nicht unter ihnen.
Ich fliege in dem großen Raum.
Ich mische mich in jeden Traum
Und lese in den tausend Mienen.
Es liegt ein kranker Mann in seinem Jammer.
Mich hypnotisiert sein letzter Blick.
Wir sehnen einen Sommertag zurück...
Ein schwarzes Kreuz erfüllt die Kammer...

Ether Stanzas

Now I have to drop out of the big ball.
This is a great party in Paris.
People gather at the Gare de l'Est
And Waller colorful silk flags.
But I am not among them.
I fly in the great room.
I mix in every dream
And read in the thousand faces.
It is a sick man in his misery.
Me hypnotized his last glance.
We long for a summer back ...
A black cross, the board meets ...

für Hugo Ball

Oktaven taumeln Echo nach durch graue Jahre.
Hochaufgetürmte Tage stürzen ein.
Dein will ich sein -
Im Grabe wachsen meine gelben Haare
Und in Holunderbäumen leben fremde Völker
Ein blasser Vorhang raunt von einem Mord
Zwei Augen irren ruhelos durchs Zimmer
Gepenster gehen um beim Küchenbord.
Und kleine Tannen sind verstorbene Kinder
Uralte Eichen sind die Seelen müder Greise
Die flüstern die Geschichte des verfehlten Lebens.
Der Klintekongensee singt eine alte Weise.
Ich war nicht vor dem bösen Blick gefeit
Da krochen Neger aus der Wasserkanne,
Das bunte Bild im Märchenbuch, die rote Hanne
Hat einst verzaubert mich für alle Ewigkeit.

Octaves to stagger Echo by gray years.
Towering days a crash.
I want to be your -
In the tomb to grow my hair yellow
And elderberry trees live in foreign nations
A pale curtain whispers about a murder
Two eyes wander restlessly around the room
Gepenster go to the kitchen board.
And small fir trees are dead children
Ancient oak trees are the souls tired old men
The whisper the story of the failed life.
The Klintekongensee sings an old tune.
I was not immune from the evil eye
Since Negroes were crawling out of the water jug,
The colorful picture of a fairy tale book, the red Hanne
Had once enchanted me for all eternity.

[Those crazy Gepensters!!!]

Ich gehe morgens früh nach Haus.
Die Uhr schlägt fünf, es wird schon hell,
Doch brennt das Licht noch im Hotel.
Das Cabaret ist endlich aus.
In einer Ecke Kinder kauern,
Zum Markte fahren schon die Bauern,
Zur Kirche geht man still und alt.
Vom Turme läuten ernst die Glocken,
Und eine Dirne mit wilden Locken
Irrt noch umher, übernächtig und kalt.
Lieb mich von allen Sünden rein.
Sieh, ich hab manche Nacht gewacht.

I am going home early.
The clock strikes five, it is already light,
But the lights are still at the hotel.
The Cabaret is finally out.
cowering in a corner for children,
To drive the farmers market already,
You go to church still and old.
Seriously from the tower to ring the bells,
And a girl with wild curls
Err still around, bleary-eyed and cold.
Love me pure of all sins.
Look, I've watched many a night.

Wir warten auf ein letztes Abenteuer
Was kümmert uns der Sonnenschein?
Hochaufgetürmte Tage stürzen ein
Unruhige Nächte - Gebet im Fegefeuer.

Wir lesen auch nicht mehr die Tagespost
Nur manchmal lächeln wir still in die Kissen,
Weil wir alles wissen, und gerissen
Fliegen wir hin und her im Fieberfrost.

Mögen Menschen eilen und streben
Heut fällt der Regen noch trüber
Wir treiben haltlos durchs Leben
Und schlafen, verwirrt, hinüber...

We are waiting for one last adventure
What we care about the sunshine?
Towering days collapse
Restless nights - prayer in purgatory.

We no longer read the daily mail
But sometimes we smile still on the pillow,
Because we know everything, and torn
We fly back and forth in the chill.

People like rush and aspire
Today the rain falls even bleaker
We drive through life without foundation
And sleep, confused, over ...

Dir ist als ob ich schon gezeichnet wäre
Und auf der Totenliste stünde.
Es hält mich ab von mancher Sünde.
Wie langsam ich am Leben zehre.
Und ängstlich sind oft meine Schritte,
Mein Herz hat einen kranken Schlag
Und schwächer wird's mit jedem Tag.
Ein Todesengel steht in meines Zimmers Mitte.
Doch tanz ich bis zur Atemnot.
Bald werde ich im Grabe liegen
Und niemand wird sich an mich schmiegen.
Ach, küssen will ich bis zum Tod.

You is as if I had already drawn
And stood on the death list.
It keeps me away from some sin.
As I slowly erode life.
And my steps are often anxious,
My heart has a sick beat
And it gets weaker by the day.
An angel of death stands in the middle of my room.
But I dance to the shortness of breath.
Soon I will be in the grave
And no one will hug me.
Oh, I want to kiss her to death.


This Friday, March 4
Kristi Engle Gallery

8 pm

Third in our poetry series curated by Carolie Parker

Mathew Timmons is a writer, curator and critic in Los Angeles. He is the General Director of General Projects at various locations including Outpost for Contemporary Art and The Ups & Downs, an installation series, at workspace. He also co-edits/curates Insert Press (w/ Stan Apps), LA-Lit (w/ Stephanie Rioux), Late Night Snack (w/ Harold Abramowitz) and he is the Los Angeles editor of Joyland. A chapbook, Lip Service is recently out from Slack Buddha Press. His first full length book, The New Poetics (Les Figues Press), his micro-book collaboration with Marcus Civin, a particular vocabulary (P S Books), and a chapbook, Lip Music (By the Skin of Me Teeth), are forthcoming. His work may be found in various journals, including: P-Queue, Holy Beep!, Flim Forum, The Physical Poets, ND,
PRECIPICe, Or, Moonlit, aslongasittakes, eohippus labs, Area Sneaks, Artweek and The Encyclopedia Project.

Harold Abramowitz is a writer and editor from Los Angeles. His books and chapbooks include Not Blessed (Les Figues Press, 2010), A House on a Hill - Part One ( Insert Press, Parrot Series, 2010), Sin is To Celebration (collaboration with Amanda Ackerman, House Press, 2009), and Dear Dearly Departed (Palm Press, 2008). He has contributed, alone and collaboratively, to various literary publications and anthologies, including Fold Appropriate Text, P-Queue, Ixnay Reader, Area Sneaks, The Physical Poets Volume 2, Moonlit, sidebrow, Aufgabe, and Sand. Harold co-edits the short-form literary press eohippus labs. He also writes and edits as part of the collaborative projects, SAM OR SAMANTHA YAMS and UNFO.


March 3, Thursday 7:30 PM
681 Venice
Venice, CA 90291 Phone 1-310-822-3006
March 3, Thursday 7:30 PM

Join Will and special guest readers as well as musicians.
Enjoy music with WILL ALEXANDER on the piano and ANDREW JORON on the theremin.
ANDREW JORON is the author of Trance Archive: New and Selected Poems (City Lights, 2010). Joron’s earlier poetry collections include The Removes (Hard Press, 1999), Fathom (Black Square Editions, 2003), and The Sound Mirror (Flood Editions, 2008). The Cry at Zero, a selection of his prose poems and critical essays, was published by Counterpath Press in 2007. From the German, he has translated the Literary Essays of Marxist-Utopian philosopher Ernst Bloch (Stanford University Press, 1998) and, most recently, The Perpetual Motion Machine by the proto-Dada fantasist Paul Scheerbart (Wakefield Press, 2011). Joron lives in Berkeley, California, where he theorizes using the theremin.