Sunday, July 07, 2019

On Monday, July 1st, in Freeport, Maine, I graduated with my Stonecoast MFA class. There were 21 members of the summer 2019 class.  As we crossed the stage to receive our diplomas, a line from our work was read by Justin Tussing, the Program Director.  My line: "Your eye a scar slants bird toward me winging in, and the corner of your eye became a bird" from the song "Birthday" co-written with Dave Tronzo. T. Fleischmann, author of Time is a Thing the Body Moves Through and Syzygy, Beauty was the keynote speaker.  They were also my 2nd semester mentor and thesis advisor. My thesis, entitled, Birdman and other essays and stories, will be bound and placed in the the University of Southern Maine archive. I will receive a bound copy in several months.

After the ceremony, we all convened at the Casco Bay Room at the Harraseekut Inn for a celebration and dance party.  My mother and sister and my dear friend Richard Cambridge and his girlfriend Elizabeth joined in. Good friends from other classes, and a few alums came as well.  I stayed till about 10:30 pm, dancing with T. and Robin Talbott and Emily Levang and Meghan Vigeant, to pop rap tunes and r&b classics. Then I retired to my room and read a novel by a Stonecoast alum I had won at a literary quiz event the night before, a great book called, On Hurricaine Island, an action thriller about a civilian detention center for terrorism on a small island off the coast of Maine.

At breakfast the next morning about six of us decided to form a Slacker site to stay in touch.  Sarah Mack, a pop fic writer, volunteered to set it up for us.  I rode back to Cambridge with my mom and sister.  I left my plastic cap and gown in the hotel room and said goodbye to the Inn which has served us well over the past two years.

I'm now preparing for a poetry reading on Saturday, August 24th at the Green Room in Somerville, organized by Lisa DeSiro as part of her Solidarity Salon, and also creating a map for a class on the lyric essay I will propose to teach in the winter at the Boston Center for Adult Education.

Rolling Nectar's hit single, "Twice a Night." Caught them at PA's in Somerville with my friend, Richard Cambridge.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Last weekend I performed "Dear World You are Courted to Death" at Revels Riversing at the Weeks Footbridge on the Charles. It was a glorious fall equinox night as revelers sang spirituals into a spectacular sunset over the river.

Dear World You Are Courted to Death

It's turning. Turning colors.
Amber slants. The world's turning time.
Cello bellow horny cars. Lavishes
before death. Time sets
savage into white.
Youth of snow. You will rise
into a fame of light.
Now turning.
Amber eyes drift
Looks, like caramel
Brides in milk brooks. Fish
Dry unhook your hooks. Frail
leaves drop as if
could take all day.
As if orange
would remain orange
and decay.
Golden glance like this.
There's nothing as spitting
as turning. Ruins refuming.
Violence is bayed. A whirling whirring
and played. The vortex

Dear World You Are Courted to Death.
by Lo Galluccio

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Lo and Alan Donnet at the Peoplesfest
cook out on June 22nd
What a great jam it was at the Peoplesfest cookout hosted by Nicolai and Jean-Dany Joachim.  We shared wine, grilled meats, poetry and song.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

The Life and Work of Hugh Fox

On Saturday, March 9th at 4 pm a group of seven Hugh Fox devotees will gather to pay tribute to Fox's life and work. A titan of the small press, Hugh was a founding member of the Pushcart Prize and the COSMEP Foundation. A prolific writer of prose and poetry, part archeologist, metaphysician, novelist, with a female alter-ego named Connie Fox, Hugh was one of the most magical and daring poets of his generation. I feel privileged to sit on this panel which will convene at Bloc 11 in Union Square in Somerville, an off-site venue of the AWP conference.

Wednesday, September 07, 2011

My dear friend and prolific poet Hugh Fox passes on

To Hugh Fox

small ephphanies you take me into your secrets
I'll take you into mine, rigid white sprouts of rich
decay....Inside fushia, the world streams, monkeys
across the stone faces of god.”
Hugh as Connie Fox from Blood Cocoon

There we are cheeks pressed against
each other --- your round baby face
and blue eyes crowned by a cap and
me blowing a pink kiss with fake fur
thrown over shoulders. November
and you read at the Somerville News
Writer's Festival about your grandson.
You and I have been affectionate pals
ever since you called me a vampira
from reading my first chapbook
“Hot Rain.”

I think back on all of your work I
have devoured and reviewed with such
pleasure, always amazed at your cosmic
wonderment and lush and clashing
details of earthling
activites. You were enamored of feminine beauty
and dared to become a woman
yourself with lacy tights and lovers. You even
gave her a poetic voice.

We traded music and reviewed each others'
styles....your cat-like playing on the piano,
lifting from each composer the swatches
of genius you wanted to invoke, and then
you writing up my “Spell on You” and
naming me a new Marlene Dietrich for the
velvely smoothness you generously heard
in my voice.

You investigated traces of the ancient
gods, a unique authority on pre-Columbian
American cultures and the green unity
of all things.
Ganesha, Moloch, the Buddha, Yama –
your fascination with the gods sparked
thunder in your verse. You were never
afraid to reach up and outward to over-
turned stars. In “Way way
off the road” your most authentic travelogue
memoir you recounted the “Hippy, Post-
Beat, Flower-Children, Invisible Generation,”
of which you were a member.

In “Defiance” – the book with the howling
fox on the cover you wrote:

“I was more beautiful than Beauty herself,
but more beast than the beasts in the forest,
far from my friends, the poetry that a bird
that never comes to sing in my brain, seventy-four
years of Bach, Holst, The Little Girl
with Honey Hair, now clouds, everything clouds,
and when there aren't any more, the hand of Nothing
touches my shoulder,
“It's time to
become a cloud.”

You are a cloud In Michigan and a star
in Paris and a mountain in the Andes
and a red flower in Brazil.
I remember you with the pigeons around
us at Au Bon Pan in Harvard Square –
you always scribbling poetry and
conversing with strangers to make
them friends. I am grateful the
suffering is over and know that you
dreamed into your death like an oracle.

You are forever in our hearts.

Lo Galluccio

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Leonard Cohen Tribute Night, Part 2

Thanks to Richard Cambridge's Poet's Theatre at its new location at the Somerville Armory, we'll be co-hosting a Leonard Cohen tribute night on April 15th at 8 pm. Local artists will be doing his songs and poetry, like "Tonight Will be Fine," "Joan of Arc," "Halleluja" and "If it Be your Will." We had a really successful night a few years back at Squawk and some of those performers will be returning like Kevin O'Neil and J'me Caroline, plus a host of new open mikers. So if you're free, come on down. We hit at 8 pm and it's $5. If you've never been to the refurbished Armory it's on Highland Ave, near the hospital, and there are two great performance spaces. We'll be in the front room, the one with all the Singer Sewing machine tables.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Books at the Grolier Bookstore in Harvard Square

My three publications: Sarasota VII with a bright red cover and an image of Saturn, Hot Rain, my poetry collection on Ibbetson St. Press, and Terrible Baubles,a small chapbook on Propaganda Press, are all available at the Grolier Bookstore on Plympton St. in Harvard Square.

Sunday, June 07, 2009


An evening of original jazz and blues covers with special guest, the late ee cummings

Lo Galluccio (vocals)
Eric Zinman (piano) At the Outpost, 186 1/2 Hampshire St.
Friday, June 26th at 8 pm
$10 contribution suggested

Sunday, January 04, 2009

The Book of Arrows by Mike Amado
Edited by Jack Scully and Nancy Brady Cunningham
Červená Barva Press, 2011

Accept life
In all its beginnings
Accept life
In all its blooming
Accept life
In all its endings

-Mike Amado, December 2008

This was penned by Mike less than a month from when he left us. In this book we try to show you a picture of Mike's early life in Plymouth and his family (Beginnings). How his poetry evolved from the dark to tell us about things which he believed were wrong and should be changed, especially the wrongs done against "Native Americans" and the warehousing of kidney patients into dialysis units (Blooming). In October of 2008 Mike knew that his time was coming to an end and this book includes seven poems written during the last months before his death (Endings). Mike had almost 500 unpublished poems. In his final months he put some of them in collections on his computer in what he called books. Most of the poems in this volume were under the heading of The Book of Arrows; thus, our title. This collection is fondly dedicated to Michael "Mike" "Spokenwarrior" Amado (April 23, 1975-January 2, 2009).
Jack and Nancy

And if I were to cut the thread,/it’ll be my best act of rebellion./I was brought up to be a fighter. Mike Amado was the bravest of poets. Not only for his writing, but also for the way he lived. He took on his doomed life with poetry of honesty and hope. The few times I was fortunate to meet him he was, outwardly, a happy man, not mutually exclusive from his suffering. Moreover he was a deep thinker and writer of great poetry. He truly was a fighter for those who needed a champion and against the illness to which he finally succumbed. His legacy is that bravery, his poetic career and this book of poems.
—Zvi A. Sesling, author King of the Jungle & Editor, Muddy River Poetry Review

The Book of Arrows. No kidding. Mike Amado filled his quiver, took aim, and let these poems fly like his life depended on it. It did. An arrow for a childhood of poverty where he slept in the living room so he dreamed on the pillow/just underneath a picture of cats on a fence. An arrow for school which he loathed, often sick, embarrassed in pants from the irregular store, so he learned to learn on my own. An arrow for the dad who left him with only his name so he took his Native name Spider Song because Native custom says that name/passes from mother to child. Arrows for an awkward adolescence of denim jackets, tight jeans, mohawks, and heavy metal all beaten on his teenage passion, the drums! An arrow for European invaders, protesting, dressing and dancing in used regalia at the pow wow. Arrow after arrow for the disease that chased him down from the age of seventeen, challenging death, Who says the story ends? Who says indeed and Mike Amado wasn’t giving in without having his say. I never understood when someone called a poet or poem brave. These poems are not acts of bravery, the living of the life of these poems is what’s brave, a life of dreaming, loving, protesting, drumming, writing, standing on stage as the Spoken Word Warrior.
—David R. Surette, poet, author of The Immaculate Conception Mothers’ Club

Mike Amado has left us an astounding body of work that is both insightful and unsettling. Each poem reads like a memoir tinged with an a keen awareness of the unspoken. Michael, from the Hebrew,/Who is like God,/an Archangel with a sword. To call his work compelling is an understatement. Mike’s poems live. Mike’s poems sing.
—January Gill O’Neil, author of Underlife

Saturday, November 01, 2008


Coleen T. Houlihan and I went to Salem for Halloween last night, where over 100,000 gathered to storm the streets as bees, and witches, Plumber Joes, and Jokers. There were men in drag and divine 50's Satin dolls. Coleen and I braved one sure to make you sick ride and then ate a caramel apple and had a class glass of wine at Captain's restaurant on the wharf.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Sarasota VII soon to be released!

Cervena Barva Press announces the release of Lo Galluccio's Sarasota VII, a prose-poem of 65 pages

that was inspired by the works of Paul Auster, Margurite Duras and Elizabeth Smart. In two parts, this

experimental work of passionate memoir explores how death and place and desire intersect in a studio in

Florida overlooking the Atlantic ocean. Part 1 explores one lover's loss of his sister Teres, from "evil winning

in the motives of a handful of boys." The voracious pull of black holes and the pure ice water of Saturn intermittantly

tug at the book, as a deconstructed symphony. In the 2nd part, Galluccio writes of her own father's fade out and

her resolve to become whole.


So this is what Anne Boleyn whispered to the men who took her head—both her husband and her executioner—so this is what the henchman replied; for nowhere has sinner and saint been so exquisitely linked than in Lo Galluccio's Sarasota VII. As the curtain parts, it is not polar opposites that are revealed but a single conjoined child. Traversing Sarasota VII (it has less in common with reading, more so the navigation to heaven or the surrender into hell) is like giving definition to the word 'passion.' This is how to say profoundly simple words with often incomprehensible meanings: Love. Desire. Hate. Birth. Destruction. And who hasn't attempted this— to grasp the single rose in the pit of thorns. And who hasn't, on occasion, failed and been banished? But Lo's beautiful, prophetic prose lulls us, even as we burn, and she tells us to "Fossilize the monster" and "Tend our rings like vain kings." She is right. We must. For something so terrifyingly beautiful should, forever, be.

Coleen T. Houlihan, novelist and poet, "the Human Heart."

Saturn in astrology is often called the planet of discipline, limitations, karma, and boundaries. Lo Galluccio explores these aspects of the human condition in Sarasota VII,, noting: "with every death we're given an opportunity to expand or to contract." Her finely drawn study contains great depth, revealing both simple and complex souls whose crashing hearts echo the breaking waves of the Atlantic; swelling and shrinking, drying and drowning, dying while they still go on living. Like Saturn, these people have had something crash through them, only to create a ring of debris they carry to balance their skewed axis. As in the heavens, there is much beauty and much destruction, where even light cannot escape black holes, and "nothing's pure and nothing's stable." Galluccio takes the reader on a journey from a hotel room in Florida into the expansive cosmos of the soul, revealing a woman caught up between passion and intellect, raging to be free while seeking to merge; loving, losing, dominating and submitting in her evolution to reconnect and be whole.

Karen Bowles, Luciole Press

The first public reading of "Sarasota VII" will take place September 29th at Stone Soup at the Out of the Blue Gallery on Prospect St. in Cambridge. Then on October 19th, Lo will perform with electric guitarist Ivan Korn, adding an improvised score to selections from the work and songs at the Witch City Cafe in Salem, MA.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Hot off the Presses, Stunted Inner Child Shot the TV by Mike Amado

Stunted Inner-child Shot the TV by Mike Amado
Červená Barva Press, 2008

"Crossing the intersections between media, militarization, and post-9/11 consciousness, Amado's Stunted Inner-child Shot the TV, gives us a view of the complicated relationship between society and self, consumerism and identity."
-Edward J. Carvalho (Doctoral Candidate, Indiana University of Pennsylvania and author of solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short)

"Take Mike Amado's red Morpheus pill and follow him down the rabbit hole of America's mad matrix of warped dreams, tabloid icons, chrome-eyed military men and infopreachers....His writing is elastic, vivid and wise. With a heart for an undetermined and undetermining God, Amado's revolution cannot be downloaded. It's amazing any of us make it out alive."
-Lo Galluccio

Sarah Hannah 1967-2001



Laurie Anderson The Dream Before (for Walter Benjamin) lyrics

"Hansel and Gretel are alive and well And they're living in Berlin She is a cocktail waitress He had a part in a Fassbinder film And they sit around at night now drinking schnapps and gin And she says: Hansel, you're really bringing me down And he says: Gretel, yu can really be a bitch He says: I've wated my life on our stupid legend When my one and only love was the wicked witch. She said: What is history? And he said: History is an angel being blown backwards into the future He said: History is a pile of debris And the angel wants to go back and fix things To repair the things that have been broken But there is a storm blowing from Paradise And the storm keeps blowing the angel backwards into the future And this storm, this storm is called Progress."

Laurie Anderson The Dream Before (for Walter Benjamin) lyrics

Tony on Sherman St.

Mary Louise Parker

Mary Louise Parker
Good Witch of "Weeds" TV

Goliath's Head

Goliath's Head

MEMORIAL DAY by Lo Galluccio

I might have stood with my Mother

on Sparks Street cheering the veterans of America’s

just and unjust wars

march past,

weeping for my Dad who died

jaundiced in the infirmary of society

not on the opera bloodied battlefield.

Instead into the cold confines of

film spectacle to see young Scandinavians

wrestle with writing and go mad,

jumping into the cold cobalt sea

off Oslo piers--

Two days ago Caravaggio’s dead Madonna

in crimson cloak crossed my mind as a Reiki healer

pulled my ear lobes. The church rejected

her because she was so heavy and lifeless,

daring to lie there dead,

not asleep for ascension’s sake--

That day I left behind my watch and black wrist band.

Strange, he’d made me undress--

the badboy of the Renaissance who loved his sword

and put his head into Goliath’s -- eyes bulging

with crazed fury, held by David’s victorious angelic fist.

To be today, not to be seen, to swear allegiance

to something else.