Earlier tonight I headed over to Logan Square to Elastic Arts, where Tres Colony (Krista Franklin, Sandra Ivelisse Antongiorgi and Shirley Alfaro) hosted a book party for poet John Murillo, whose new book, Up Jump the Boogie has just been published by Cypher Books (New York). The collection's cover features one of Krista's collages, and the great Martín Espada pens a foreword that gives real insight into what John's poetry is up to., As the title suggests, hiphop flows through these poems like electricity, though soul and soul's spirit is also here, la alma de vida, and life here takes on tremendous textures in these lyrics, these lyric voices. As Martín says in his intro, John is "young and urban," "African American and Chicano," a "wordsmith and a song-maker": he's a true musician, operating on multiple levels, mixing and breaking, taking his crossfader sensibility to the very edge. These are powerful poems, whether the sequence for Etheridge Knight, or the crown of sonnets about growing up and breakdancing, or the poem, which made me go "whoa," in which John rolls up, for real, like a gangster. Tres Colony brought together a hot roster of poets and performers, including Toni Asante Lightfoot, Kevin Koval, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, Avery R. Young, Randall Horton, and Roger Bonair-Agard, who not only offered their words but set things off live, for John to bring to a fitting conclusion with his very live and alive poems. Congratulations, John, and what follows below are some photos and one of John's poems. John Murillo reading
John Murillo reading one of his poems, "Hustle"
MC Krista Franklin One of Krista's collages, which were on display (I think this one is titled "Baking Wonders Never Cease" (2008) Poet Randall Horton reading Poet Toni Asante Lightfoot, who performed John Murillo taking in all the good words
Sandra Ivelisse performing her song
And now, one of John's poems, a love poem.
Round Midnight
Some nights I watch you sleep, the eyelid's jig
and beg, the blue rise of memory and moon.
When you drift, I snatch a machete from behind
a bedpost, stalk the night, plot the rise of infidels.
Before dawn, maybe you whisper the six histories
of river and rain, rise like steam from an open wound,
wrap yourself in ash, blood and honey.
Maybe you navigate stained glass streets,
havoc the avenues, ransack basilica in search of me.
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