Plant the Seed: A Generative Workshop and Reading


Saturday, March 31, 2018 - 3:00 PM  6:00 PM

The Black Labrador4100 Montrose BoulevardHouston, TX, 77006 United States 

Presented in conjunction with FuenteCo

Co-led by Franciszka Voeltz and Jennifer Morales, "Plant the Seed" is a workshop designed to break writers through barriers that keep them from creating the work they are meant to write.

Together we will practice moving forward in our writing—without apology. Writers of all levels and genres are welcome (including those who don't call themselves writers) to join in the work and play of cracking open our writer-hearts, busting out of our stuck practices, and harnessing the power of what emerges. After working through a series of generative exercises designed to help you create fresh work and break you out of habitual patterns, we will close the session by naming new commitments to our writing—planting the seed for future work.

The workshop session will be followed by a reading featuring our facilitators, Franciszka Voletz & Jennifer Morales, as well as an open mic. The reading and open mic are free and open to the public—if your inspired to read brand new writing from the workshop or something finished you brought along, we'd love to hear you!

Sharing your work and reading at the open mic is always optional. Facilitation will be in English, but you should feel free to write in any language.


3 pm- 6 pm


7 pm - 8.30 pm

featuring Franciszka Voeltz & Jennifer Morales
Open to the public

This event is supported in part by Poets & Writers.

Franciszka Voeltz

From the crossroads of writing and social practice, Franciszka Voeltz writes poems-to-go on a portable typewriter for magnificent strangers in public places, curates a collective poem to the entire planet, and has two decades’ experience facilitating community writing workshops and readings in living rooms, at universities, and everywhere in between. Writing together is her favorite way to be with people. Voeltz’s chapbook POETXTS is available from Imaginary Friend Press, and her work has appeared in journals including Dark Mountain, Analecta Literary Journal,and Adrienne. Voeltz is the recipient of various poetry fellowships including those granted by the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation, Santa Fe Art Institute, and Art Farm. She earned an MFA in Writing from the University of California, San Diego.

Jennifer Morales

Jennifer Morales is a queer Latina poet, fiction writer, and performance artist whose work across genres wrestles with questions of gender, identity, complicity, and harm. She has led writing workshops for all ages—1st-graders through adults—and has been called (by the adults, not the 1st-graders) “a natural-born teacher.” She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University-Los Angeles in 2011. Jennifer’s first book, Meet Me Halfway (UW Press, 2015), a short story collection about life in hyper-segregated Milwaukee, was Wisconsin Center for the Book’s 2016 “Book of the Year.” Reviewers called it “a compelling debut” (Booklist) and Jennifer “an impressively gifted writer” (Midwest Book Review). Excerpts of her unpublished novel, Junction, appeared in The Account (spring 2017) and in Happy Hours: Our Lives in the Gay Bars (Flashpoint, 2017), edited by S. Renée Bess and Lee Lynch. Recent publications also include poems in MAYDAYand in "Pulsamos," a special issue of Glass Poetry dedicated to the Pulse nightclub victims. She’s the president of the board of the Driftless Writing Center, building literary community in rural Southwestern Wisconsin.

"[A]s a thriving branch of capitalism, contemporary art is adept at transforming such critiques into saleable content. Because contemporary art’s driving brand-identity is criticality, reproaches like Hopkins’s are often incorporated into contemporary art’s vision of itself. Old patterns of domination are thus reproduced, under the guise of self-reflexive progressivism."

- Mitch Speed at MOMUS


In The Human Condition, Arendt borrows a phrase that she takes from Herodotus called isonomia, which is the principle of equal liberty. And she says you need to have a political community which is capable of responding to isonomia, or this principle of equal liberty. And it’s — basically, the principle of equal liberty says, “Well, how come I’ve got total freedom of movement and you haven’t? How come my child gets a really good education and yours doesn’t? How come my mom can grow vegetables in her garden, and your mother’s garden’s just been blown to bits? That’s not good enough.”And she says we need to have — there needs to be enough in the way we think about political democratic life to allow citizens and people to act on the principle of equal liberty. And on the one hand, the situation we have now is a kind of phobic repudiation of vulnerability, everyone’s vulnerability, which is very, very bad.


The public discourse is not hospitable to complexity and restraint, which makes it fraught territory for academics. The fruits of their labor often are demanding texts that few people wish to read or careful lectures that rely on the patience and good faith of a captive audience. Politics is a different game: Pick up a megaphone and your voice may carry. But the message can get distorted, and the feedback can be deafening. - From an article on Seth Abramson

Ten Tiny Dances

CounterCurrent17: Ten Tiny Dances® was beautiful last night. And also sad. To see such movement, such rage and joy, pleasure and pain in the bodies of the performers on that tiny box of a stage was moving. Watching all of it happen in the shell of what used to be a grand mid-century post office was the sad part. Sad because I couldn't help but read that shell of a building as the physical incarnation of state disinvestment. What had been a dream of the 1960s, a modernist dream at least partially based on the idea that government has a role to play in taking care of its citizens, in providing services in elegant public spaces. Now, as this president threatens to launch new wars and continues the myriad US-sponsored wars around the world and fills the coffers of the military, supposedly we have no money for something as simple as a beautiful downtown post office. Last night, it felt like those people on the box were dancing inside of a grave of some sort. And many of the dances felt rageful, broken, angry, on edge, mournful. I'm happy the building has not, hopefully will not, be demolished. But I'm sad about what that structure now represents: a lost idea about what a State might be able to accomplish when it actually cares about its citizens.

A Letter of Openness for Brian Blanchfield and Eric Magrane

Dear Brian and Eric,

I just listened to your joint episode of Speedway and Swan. At one key moment, I was sitting out in my backyard with the sun splashing me and the wind whipping through the shirts and pants and towels hanging on the line. I heard you, Brian, read a line from one of my poems about the difficulty of drawing wind, of writing wind, exactly at the moment that that same wind blew my underwear and socks to the grounds. And there was a shiver that traveled up my spine.

Maybe poems are signposts on a path out of the disaster all around us.

Maybe there is a way we accompany each other. These little things: these “maybes” and these “accompaniments.” There is something there, a land, that is not the word for it. There is something there, a land, that is not the map for it. There is a presence there, or an absence making itself known in a steady, constant hum. There it is again, that hum: among us, buzzing a quiet demand to be heard. Or maybe not demanding, maybe that hum in its presence / absence is an ask or maybe a constancy, ignorant of the wily ways of humans and the (anti)worlds they have wrought.

Maybe whiteness is a disease and maps are a symptom. Maybe symptoms can be beautiful things: a perfect cough, a delicate sniffle, the way a young child has to be taught to blow the mucus through a nose. Maybe a stomachache that reminds a mind to slow down or a headache that floors a body for an entire day.

Maybe there is no way out without two people, at the very least, two people, a holding of hands, a recital of words. Maybe it’s another day again and poems are a kind of solace for the symptoms

Hearing the two of you with words from one of my poems in your mouths, rattling around: now that made the sun a little brighter, the day so much more bearable and warm.



A new site

I've moved my blog from its old home on Blogger to this new Squarespace page. We'll see how it goes. :)

A Letter of Openness for Ayanna Jolivet Mccloud

Dear Ayanna,

Last night, I attended Hear Her Ear: Women in Sound at Art League in Houston. Here are some words about what I heard (or attempted to hear) through the rushing stream of constant thoughts I attempted to divert, dam and slow.

There are still small things in the wreckage. There are still sounds. Ephemeral bits of language and noise, and something rubs against something else and it's making a sound out of the universe. Vocal cords rub up against their own. An object rubs up against another.

I've been thinking a lot about dying. Maurice Sendak in an interview talk talk talks about dying, talks about those last months before he died when he recognized the trees and the flowers for what they were, for their brilliance, for the way they shone in the sun and soon, he said, he wouldn't be around to see them. Sound is like that. How it shows up and then disappears, how it occupies a space temporarily. What is held in the space once the sound has moved on? How do the vibrations linger in the reds and greens and oranges? How does sound impregnate the color and the color impregnate the sound? What do our bodies leave behind?

I've been thinking a lot about our bodies being sick or being well. About bodies, about my body getting older and about all of our bodies getting older. About the bodies of our kids getting older. I've been thinking about writing letters to artists and writers. I think a letter can be an act of generosity or a letter can be a love letter or a letter can be a way to reach out across the bounds. The bounds aren't always complex. Sometimes they are as simple as the distance between here and FM 2234 or the difference between seeing a photo of a party and being able to attend the party or seeing a person unwell in a photo or a post and being able to attend to that person. The bounds.

Tonight as I first start writing this note, maybe I'm thinking a lot about dying also because so many plants will be dying tonight. It's the first time in some years we've had a real freeze on this stretch of the Gulf Coast and the brief period of a few hours when the temperature gets below freezing seems so small and yet those hours are going to kill off years of work, years of slow-growing bananas and scheffleras and all the other tropical plants. Now, it's the early morning hours of the dawn, and the weather says it is 24 degrees. So many plant cells are freezing outside. What is the sound of so many living things freezing in the cold?

Is Houston a trick? A trick to make us think this is a hospitable place for tropical things to grow. Then down from the north sweeps the cold front erasing years of growth. Who was meant to grow here? What was meant to grow here? You read from an interview that Pauline Oliveros gave, in which she said, "Now the earth sounds that I experienced in my childhood were really dense and beautiful canopies of sound that came from all of the insects, birds and animals around. I lived in Houston, Texas. I was born in 1932 and grew up at a time when humans had less impact on the environment than they do today. I mean, now the frogs are leaving and vanishing. The frogs in my childhood could be heard loud and clear. Then of course, now so much is paved over with asphalt and cement that the cicadas are trapped and can't get out. But you can still hear wonderful stereophonic cicada sounds in Houston as you walk or drive down the street." 

Pauline Oliveros grew up with the sounds of cicadas and frogs, and you know what, she was right to leave. She was ready to leave. Like Gloria Anzaldúa up and left and went to California. Like Forrest Bess took paints out to a small house off the coast of Bay City. Like John Biggers picked up his pencils and went off to Ghana to write and to draw. It's a righteous thing to leave a place that was never meant to shelter you.

The focus is still on the small things. Pauline's cicadas couldn't get out of the dirt, sealed underground by the vast blanket of concrete laid out on the gulf plain, on this prairie, upon this swamp. A nation of cicadas trapped underground, unable to emerge. A horde of cicadas. One cicada living forever under the concrete. Pauline's frogs were vanishing. But I wonder how our children will remember all of this we are living today. Are they ever lulled to sleep by the croaking after a heavy summer downpour? Will they recall it? The croaking so loud it is troubling or so loud it seems like the house might shake with their mourning. Yes, Pauline, the wonderful stereophonic cicada sounds. And even as the frogs vanish, the kids hear the frogs and the cicadas or at least see the frog that was run over by the car in the subdivision or at least observe the shell of the cicada left after its molting. Maybe finger that shell with curiosity.

Sound lingers in the space, it must. How do the ones who are left keep track of the remains? Against all the odds? How do you keep track of the remains? What is left after so many years in such an inhospitable location? What is it that makes the sounds go on? Or at least what might a silent bell sound like? Is it ever silent really? How can we hear an un-ringing bell? How can we hear her ear? What is the sound of that dried, flattened frog or the cicada shell? What is left of the feelings?



"Storytelling does not begin with inventing, it begins with listening.”


“I’m all for the diffusion of what I’ve written,” Berger says, “but my own story doesn’t interest me.” He pauses. “There’s a risk of egocentricity. And to storytellers, egocentricity is boring.”

- John Berger here


"Opposition is seen as confrontation, confrontation as aggression, aggression as a will to suppress." - Michael Silverblatt

"I've kinda let go of trying to name things and put things in boxes and just let it be multiplicities of me creating different types of work."

- Ayanna Jolivet Mccloud

Sometimes I think that there is no poetry written without the intervention of the dead. It’s their voices speaking to you that allow you to find words from nowhere; they are the muse. I’m from the Mojave Desert; there are a lot of cranks there. I don’t usually tell people, but every once in a while I feel like telling them. Because everything else that’s said about poetry is so boring and trivial. And if I say I represent the dead, your head has to kind of turn, and you have to think about something besides poetics. Poetics! As if how people say poetry should be written is of any consequence at all or any importance. Critics create value. We don’t need any value, we need poetry.

- Alice Notley here

No one talks to a white poet and says, “How do you feel about your complicity in indirectly fucking so many people over?”


It's all personal for me. It’s the refusal to accept subjectivity as pretext for subjugation.


I don’t find the need to declare Gaza, to name a place. Even Gaza now becomes a safe reflex for those of us who prefer to sigh. Gaza becomes a logo of suffering to be consumed by the “witness” poets of the western world, if and when the poem that mentions Gaza is not frowned upon for its “politics.”

- Fady Joudah in this interview at Divedapper