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May
2007
F. Keith Wahle
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F.
Keith Wahle is a Cincinnati, Ohio native. Wahle’s
poems have appeared in a diverse array of literary
journals including “The Paris Review”, “Ellipsis” and
the “Cornfield Review”; this feature
represents the first collection of Wahle’s
writings and performances presented in the web medium.
Off the page, Wahle worked in the mid 1990's to help
develop the now annual Cincinnati “Performance
and Time Arts Series”, Wahle is also a three
time Ohio Arts Council Fellow, first, in 1984, in
1990 and again in 2003. On stage, Wahle is known
for his memorable collaborations with dancers Judith
Mikita, Cheryl Wallace, any many others, to bring
physical form to his incisive use of vernacular.
Seven books of poetry in all, Wahle's last three
books, “A Choice of Killers” (1998), “Farewell
to Happytown” (2004) and "The Invitations" (2006),
feature photographs by Brad Austin Smith and Amberlyn
Nelson. Feature
includes work from "A Choice of Killers", "Farewell
to Happytown" and includes video perfomance
of "Secrets", and an exclusive "Secrets" broadside
poster.
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| f.
keith wahle, cincinnati, ohio, poet, performance artist, performance
and time art series, dancing to poetry, iowa writers workshop,
secrets, paris review, ohio arts council fellow |
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The
Shadow
from "A
Choice of Killers" (Morgan Press, 1998)
When I was with the police I had
to follow a man. His habits were
filthy and cheap like the part of town
he lived in. But I stayed with him. I’d
watch him for hours as he played pinball
in a bar with ugly pine-green walls.
I’d
sit a few rows behind in the
dingy theatre with cracked chairs as
the gaudy women peeled their clothes off.
His room was up four flights of stairs that
nobody ever swept. He took his
girls up there, tall Negro girls, with long
brown legs and skirts so short they would show
their privates whenever they would move.
By this time I knew his every move.
Wherever he went I’d be a few
steps behind, wearing my disguises,
pretending to be interested in
the old storefronts. He never caught on.
But finally he died-not while I
was following him, but in his room
while I was waiting down in the street.
By now it didn’t matter, though. I’d
learned enough. I knew I could put on
his clothes, and be followed, and be loved.
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