Monday, August 29, 2016

Barbara Brinson Curiel, SUMMER HIGHWAY, A Bunchgrass Press Chapbook




Summer Highway

 poems

Barbara Brinson Curiel




Bunchgrass Press is proud to publish a new poetry chapbook by Barbara Brinson Curiel, Summer Highway.

The poems included are:

Highway 5: Winters to Lodi, California.
Drought Year

Poem Written in the Shadow
of the Longhorns for Christ Campus Center
at the University of Texas at Austin

Driving Highway 290, Going West,
Houston to Austin

Oaxaca, 2015

Praise



Barbara Brinson Curiel


Barbara Brinson Curiel won the Philip Levine Prize for her book Mexican Jenny and Other Poems (Anhinga Press, 2014). Summer Highway is her second chapbook with Bunchgrass Press.  Curiel teaches English and Creative Writing at Humboldt State University.


Sunday, August 28, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #251



Hawk Season Notebook # 251

Play. Or Film. She leaves home at sixteen to waitress in Reno, never a further thought for the suburbs of Boise. She calls her breasts teakettles, I am visually appetizing. A dog comes along with its leash unattended... a liver-brown Australian Shepherd-Chocolate Lab mix. It answers to Boomer. Her apartment lease has a No Pets clause. She moves into the garden, hangs a tarp over playground equipment. The landlord soon chokes-to-death on a fast food chicken bone... is not discovered in his apartment for six weeks. Marginalia: selfies get sent to far-off movie studios, there are dates with chino-wearing sporting goods salesclerks, plastic coin-filled mayo jars get buried below the swing set. The spirit lives on isolation. She walks her Boomer to Fallon that winter, buys a canvas tent and a small wood stove, squats to the north on a 40 Acres for Sale lot. A realtor stops by... comes by again... leaves canned meat and carbohydrates from the third visit onward, but it never eases into love. Peyote. An antique store burglary for a pair of moth-eaten bearskin rugs. Chemically-induced changes in starlight. Old Testament orange clouds. Solitude as an American Dream.

Hawk Season Notebook # 249

Red Shuttleworth


Hawk Season Notebook #249

A man walks into a ghost-filled barn. Border town. Smear of blood on a cafe counter. A man's horse walks into a saloon and orders a shot of tequila. Some kind of Saint Mary Saint walks the wooden sidewalks of a desert town, sells quick-wilt roses from a stainless steel pail. Faith always arrives twenty years too late to matter. A waitress in a border town cafe mops off half a dozen Formica-top tables. A man's horse throws back a shot of tequila and orders another one. A hard wind comes up, blows a couple of hay tarps through town as if the world is but shadow.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #248



Hawk Season Notebook #248

Four-leaf clover, roadkill venison sandwich on Russian rye, a cube of pistol-grip hardwood from Bat Masterson's early twentieth century desk at the New York Telegraph: you are not getting what  you asked cosmic room service for.  Next request: a long Wild Bill suede fringe jacket.  You can't learn from experience... not if all the precedents of your life have been dragged bloody into a badger hole. 

Hawk Season Notebook #247



Hawk Season Notebook # 247

And towards a truly handmade poetry.... Out of rawhide and wood. Out of self-inflicted curses.... You wish to collaborate with coyotes, because the dead speak with coyotes. It is 2:19 a.m. and you are less sure there is a church where photography and poetry break bread. That is a daylight concept. At night you hope for lines gifted from hypnagogic voices. Or Wolfhound song-howl. The dance is temporary. Perhaps that is why there are railroad stations... night trains. For those who cannot sleep without placing an ear on a long steel rail.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #234



Hawk Season Notebook #234

Six years gone from something. Like waiting for the bang-crack of a falling cocoa mug hitting a tile floor. Inner layer of blue sky and a hawk tormented by a trio of small birds. It's a shrub steppe morning... not up to ninety degrees. You push back  your straw Stetson, watch the hawk wheel over an irrigation canal, over a stove-hot rock pile, over oily sagebrush... maybe over a kangaroo rat overly attentive to your stopped car.  Your car's CD player is half-loud: Jason Isbell positioned honky tonk... a love deadline looming. You are six years gone from something... and it probably never mattered... whatever the fuck it was. A cinnamon-brown hawk... a spread-wing glide... a flat-blue mosaic of August sky. You accept all this as a happiness.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #233

Red Shuttleworth


Hawk Season Notebook #233

Subtitles for a motel afternoon movie posing as a foreign film attempt at a contemporary Western by a European orange-cheeked auteur cinema director. I lurk in the blues. Also: Your tropical legs, baby, and the years so overlaid with Amarillo poignancy. Wyatt Earp's last days come to mind, his prostate cancer, the first Hollywood starlets not quite getting it... not quite getting that Wyatt.... So: Yes... volcanic bedsprings, please, yes, and a Tombstone-like sidelong glance, baby. Subtitles for....