Contributors to City College of San Francisco’s FORUM literary magazine will read works published within its pages during its 81-year history. Emceed by Jackie Davis Martin.
Saturday October 20, 2018 6:30pm – 7:30pm
Held at Adobe Books & Arts Cooperative, 3130 24th St, San Francisco, CA 94110, USA
Born and raised in Sacramento, Matthew Andrews moved to San Francisco almost a decade ago by way of Ann Arbor. He is a student at CCSF where he is pursuing a Creative Writing Certificate.
a native of southern New England, bloodflower has been publishing his singular yet provocative poesy since his teens, leading to publication in The New England Anthology of Poetry. bloodflower is an accomplished composer and multi-instrumentalist and has exhibited his photography… Read More →
Vincent Calvarese was born and raised in the Bay Area and has lived here all of his life. He has worn many hats in the Bay Area—barista, salesperson, journalist, graphic designer, union representative, deputy sheriff, homeless advocate and published writer and poet. After a long… Read More →
Matt Luedke was the Fiction Editor for CCSF’s Forum in Spring 2018. You can often find Matt either hiking through the nature of the Bay Area, biking up a steep SF hill in the easiest gear on his beloved, sticker-covered hybrid, or bundled up at one of SF’s cold beaches with a notebook… Read More →
MK Chavez is an award-winning author, co-founder/curator of the reading series Lyrics & Dirges, co-director of the Berkeley Poetry Festival, a fellow with CantoMundo, and a Fall 2018 guest curator of the reading series at UC Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive.
Join us September 19 for a free and open to the public poetry reading poetry reading on Mission Campus in Room 107-108 from 6:00pm-8:00pm.
MK Chavez Writers Series PDF Flyer
The origin of my misery lay dying in a hospital bed. As I entered the room, I was overcome with the competing emotions of compassion and anger. A natural urge to embrace the suffering was rapidly suppressed by the anger that had burned inside me for so many years. He was dying, finally, but only after he had damaged the souls of those who came close to embrace him. In fact, he actually did not appear to be suffering enough, all things considered. He lay there comfortably, all doped up, resting on crisp white sheets, smuggled in warm white blankets, an array of white pillows framing his head like a halo.
He reached out to me. “Eshe” he pleaded, using my African name. “Come closer, I want to tell you something.”
The sorrow in his eyes again reached out to my compassionate nature. Which was immediately slammed again by the anger. Just because he was dying did not mean he was a changed man. He was in fact still the abusive asshole who ruined my life and scarred the emotional development of our children. It was not so long ago, this year I think, that he had physically assaulted our son in a dispute that began over steamed vegetables. His death could only bring relief. I looked over into his swollen, yellow eyes and almost felt pity. But then I saw just a glint of that old, nasty flame that deceitfully invites you to be burned. Instinctively, I began to back away. It’s a trick, one last swing to bruise my psyche before departing to face the consequences of his choices. No way will I give him the opportunity to inflict pain on me, even if it is his dying wish.
“Eshe, please…!!” he begged as I turned my back and exited the room.