Celebrating Adam Robinson's New Skewing of Reality On a Cool Springlike Night

My head and heart are still reeling from the radical 180 degree turn from brutal blizzard conditions to soft spring breezes and consistent weather with highs in the 70s. Inspired by the weather and a new collection of writing by Adam Robinson on Narrowhouse Press called Adam Robison, we were chauffeured blindfolded out to an undisclosed backyard where the overlord of Narrowhouse, Justin Sirois, holds court. There was a fantastic firepit crackling, weenies of average mettle grilling and great music playing. It was all capped off by the author doing a reading from his book, but first he preceded it by shaving off his winter's beard.

Adam's readings are always refreshing and put me in a good mood, so it's great to have a bunch of his stuff handy for everyday reference. The poems of Adam Robison, like the "misspelling" of the title if you compare it to its author, its presumed "subject?", are slightly skewed reflections of their biographical subjects. Well, not always. But almost always they hold that moment of crazy truth that pops out of the nothingness oven.

Here is a portion of his poem entitled "Brahms":

See Brahms only had one hand

But he was exceedingly generous with it

Brahms was the kind of guy

He drove through toll booths

He'd ask the attendant to apply his change

To the fare of the carriage behind him please

And he traveled a lot

He insisted on strict realism

He protested excess

He scorned the work of Magritte

Clara shared with him amusing French anecdotes

Still he disdained the man's paintings

Objecting that they were "too gay"

Or "perhaps interesting but dishonest at their core"

At the time gay meant frivolous

No one knows what frivolous meant

The above photos capture the author beaming with his new book, followed by the various stages of his shaving process - beginning with his self doubt regarding the act and the angst of truly releasing himself from the wintry wall of his manhairs. Followed by Lauren Bender, who had been eating only spiders for two weeks reading Georges Bataille, hunching her shoulders with excitement and vigorously callling for the tall man in the final picture to "Tear them off, tear them off!" Which indeed he did and they are now on ice in a styrofoam cooler being jetted to some sick rich fuck who will slurp them down slowly with great relish like savoring the richest, rarest truffle.

Spring can be frightening in its promises and abundant life and an open face is just as scary with its lips revealed fully like a fresh appendix scar.