Présentation de l'éditeur
Poem from Indiana, by American Poet Francy Stoller. 1993,
Born- N.Y.C.-1948
University of Arizona
1977-Atlanta, GA- Solo, feature, group readings- Little Five Points Pub
1978-1982- Open readings, pubs, bars, festivals, Atlanta, GA
Publications
Local Atlanta, GA Newspapers
THE BOOTLEG REVUE, Atlanta, GA
BLACK RIVER REVUE, 1991. BATTLEGROUND, an epic poem- paid $100
WHITEWATER REVUE- Toronto, Canada.- 1992.
THE FLYING ISLAND- 1993, 2 issues, Indianapolis, IN
Free Peoples’ Press- 1994, Indianapolis, IN
Drumvoices- S.IU.E., Ill. 2 issues, four poems, - 1983- ’85.
EYEBALL- 1999, St. Louis, Mo.
Stained Heets- N.Y.C., ABC NORIO- 1999.
Rockefeller Library- 2008, Take it to the Streets
Numerous small presses have published my work nationally
For the sake of idenity/this elemental life never happened
•Over there at the Westbury Music Fair/ you had the distinct opportunity to smell Goldie Hawn's breasts/she was tall/you had a girlfriend who the guy who I dissed till he took a bride from the Harmon Family happened to be in love with her and could not understand anything/how he coming from the Ted Mack Camp could be rejected by first me and then your girl. Some folks ju
st want people who aren't attracted to them. And so the story goes that in the ghett where we reside/a parcel of words creates an identity all its' own/you find yourself uptight/a broke dick dog/ and the closest item to scratch your fancy and wail out at is an old matchbook with a few words on it in pencil/strong and defined like a treastise/and the the memory game/I'll play till the death/who do you remember my feathers perking uo at/a watchful eye/an inclemate strike at idenity without money/the kind where you have a penthouse on Park Avenue/with red velvet chairs and a piano in the diningroom/overlooking Central Park. Our scratchpad overlooks Barnabas Hospital/the firewagons screetch beneath our window/and we bead rose petals before dawn with the black sky and a sliver of blue over Inwood,it is this crystal bead which feeds my day/Arthur Avenue with Gepetto standing on the corner in his fur hat shaking his head the way so many elders who have encountered the artists have in their glorydays.
Posted by Francy at 4:04 AM 0 comments
Labels: Watch out for the moving doors/we're coming homeand I'm not afraid to speak up
Friday, October 16, 2009
Sitting in the car with the radio on/just thinking about my baby
1.Some times I would duck in to the Center and look at this painting of Times Square/a mural on the west wall/the people are archtype like the pariseinne scenes/I love this work. Along th westElongwall up front people sit and sleep/talk about themselves/it blew my mind the first time I saw this couple up against each other talking about love/as if down'n'outs have no energy for this sort. I sat inside the cafeteria at various intervals/the click/clack of dominoes/the food looked so good that I'll prpbably have to eat there sometime. It was so real and quiet/the Cozy Cole dude in his Sunday Serge/portpie hat/one at a time the people nestled in to see the painting/to offer dad a quiet hurrah. The community was accepting and strong/
Posted by Francy at 5:11 PM 0 comments
Labels: Painting on the street/my man stands for hours and renders a piece standing at his easel/oil on canvas/this work of art presentsa view of godliness
Monday, August 3, 2009
Born- N.Y.C.-1948
University of Arizona
1977-Atlanta, GA- Solo, feature, group readings- Little Five Points Pub
1978-1982- Open readings, pubs, bars, festivals, Atlanta, GA
Publications
Local Atlanta, GA Newspapers
THE BOOTLEG REVUE, Atlanta, GA
BLACK RIVER REVUE, 1991. BATTLEGROUND, an epic poem- paid $100
WHITEWATER REVUE- Toronto, Canada.- 1992.
THE FLYING ISLAND- 1993, 2 issues, Indianapolis, IN
Free Peoples’ Press- 1994, Indianapolis, IN
Drumvoices- S.IU.E., Ill. 2 issues, four poems, - 1983- ’85.
EYEBALL- 1999, St. Louis, Mo.
Stained Heets- N.Y.C., ABC NORIO- 1999.
Rockefeller Library- 2008, Take it to the Streets
Numerous small presses have published my work nationally
For the sake of idenity/this elemental life never happened
•Over there at the Westbury Music Fair/ you had the distinct opportunity to smell Goldie Hawn's breasts/she was tall/you had a girlfriend who the guy who I dissed till he took a bride from the Harmon Family happened to be in love with her and could not understand anything/how he coming from the Ted Mack Camp could be rejected by first me and then your girl. Some folks ju
st want people who aren't attracted to them. And so the story goes that in the ghett where we reside/a parcel of words creates an identity all its' own/you find yourself uptight/a broke dick dog/ and the closest item to scratch your fancy and wail out at is an old matchbook with a few words on it in pencil/strong and defined like a treastise/and the the memory game/I'll play till the death/who do you remember my feathers perking uo at/a watchful eye/an inclemate strike at idenity without money/the kind where you have a penthouse on Park Avenue/with red velvet chairs and a piano in the diningroom/overlooking Central Park. Our scratchpad overlooks Barnabas Hospital/the firewagons screetch beneath our window/and we bead rose petals before dawn with the black sky and a sliver of blue over Inwood,it is this crystal bead which feeds my day/Arthur Avenue with Gepetto standing on the corner in his fur hat shaking his head the way so many elders who have encountered the artists have in their glorydays.
Posted by Francy at 4:04 AM 0 comments
Labels: Watch out for the moving doors/we're coming homeand I'm not afraid to speak up
Friday, October 16, 2009
Sitting in the car with the radio on/just thinking about my baby
1.Some times I would duck in to the Center and look at this painting of Times Square/a mural on the west wall/the people are archtype like the pariseinne scenes/I love this work. Along th westElongwall up front people sit and sleep/talk about themselves/it blew my mind the first time I saw this couple up against each other talking about love/as if down'n'outs have no energy for this sort. I sat inside the cafeteria at various intervals/the click/clack of dominoes/the food looked so good that I'll prpbably have to eat there sometime. It was so real and quiet/the Cozy Cole dude in his Sunday Serge/portpie hat/one at a time the people nestled in to see the painting/to offer dad a quiet hurrah. The community was accepting and strong/
Posted by Francy at 5:11 PM 0 comments
Labels: Painting on the street/my man stands for hours and renders a piece standing at his easel/oil on canvas/this work of art presentsa view of godliness
Monday, August 3, 2009
