Our recent event at the Howmet Playhouse was a huge success. A special thanks goes out to all of the artsits and all who attended. We truly appreciate those who support our endeavor and believe in the importance of artistic ventilation. I’m sure Ben has more to say about the event, but for the time being, have a look at my photos from the night. ...

An Evening with the Clarity Saturday, June 25th 2011 – 7:30PM Howmet Playhouse, Whitehall MI Music: The Great Unknown Singing in the Abbey Fred Thomas Readings: John Hemingway Michael Tyrell $2 Microbrews Tickets are $10.00 and are available here or by calling 231.670.7033   Credit Cards Accepted Single Ticket (1)...

Order the print collection of poetry, fiction, and visual art two years in the making featuring the work of Benjamin Percy, Joe Meno, Terese Svoboda, John Hemingway, Bruce Smith and many others. “The work in Fogged Clarity doesn’t stomp its foot and shout look at me, I’m so clever and inventive and fresh, it just is clever and fresh – and extremely moving … Let me make it perfectly clear: this is the first, but...

Michael Tyrell Continually, as October weeds out the majority of false Edens, the hollow Eve finds us sweet teeth bobbing for apples. Scratch us so we can start over, so we can turncoat through iron-maiden turnstiles. Crosstown ride where the Lord give uth and take uth away, flasher whose jimson got jammed in slamming doors. We might miss an apocalyptic eclipse, but the river-frontiers burst in the Eerie Canals. House and Garden...

Michael Tyrell With you, hushed pal, in hideous library atrium in winter. Your winter not my hypothermia, your changed-topic hush not my silent treatment, your engine not my station. Thank you, powerless chum, maybe I’m sorry? Only a leather couch we sit on, not the blood ox skinned for it, only the army of bookworms murmuring through metal detectors and not a pack for a lover to cut a rival from. Returned volumes thud in their...

Michael Tyrell I’m stuck again, not bleeding like a stuck pig but waiting for results in the HMO waiting room, stuck where praying is more counting than praying. The mother puts her finger to her small lips, quieting her small boy. Her small boy locks his lips with the invisible key, drops it to the floor. Keep your eyes peeled, my mother once told me. Bug-gut smeared on the leaves of Prevention, the crossword done. Rolled up my...

The two NYC poets discuss poetry, language, and the city they love.

Fogged Clarity brings five sets of music and two poets to The Living Room in NYC.

Michael Tyrell The tuxed-up drunk, trembling the dorm’s lobby window when a bottle tipped him over. His squint not at me but past me to the one hundred keys glittering behind my post, the check-in desk, where all summer, I worked the Saturday insomnia shift. The ruse of looking down at the marble notebook, one-one thousand, then looking up: the drunk gone, like a movie ghost. The prank caller, the phone a bee-sting sound. The paper I...

Michael Tyrell I was born the summer of his disgrace. That’s always been my claim. And it’s a trait I despise in other people: hitching the intensely personal to the historical, making Watergate a lame pun for passage and delivery. But my mother insists on scandal. An unmarried mother, middle-aged— she swears her pregnancy didn’t show, even that morning she locked herself in the toilet and told her own mother to call...