zach blackwood's guest appearances

zach blackwood

VOICEMAIL POEMS

Happy Hour on the Fringe

Catherine Weiss

Melissa Lozada-Oliva

Thaddeus Phillips

Kelly Jones

Nathan Davis

R. Eric Thomas

Sam Henderson

Tony Brooks

Andy Powell

Chrissy Martin

Miguel Gutierrez

Raja Feather Kelly

James Barrett

Alex McDonald

Donald Nally

OwlTail

Katy Dammers

In this episode, Tenara and Raina clink glasses (and a mug of hot chocolate) to FringeArts’ Artistic Producers, Zack Blackwood and Katy Dammers.  Zach and Katy will discuss some of the exciting presentations for the 2019 in the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, including the the Festival Bookstore and this year’s Late Night Programing. The Fringe Festival teaser is now available, and you can expect to see Fringe Festival Guides circulating this August!  Plan your days to view groundbreaking performances in the City of Brotherly Love this September.

In this episode, Tenara and Raina clink glasses (and a mug of hot chocolate) to FringeArts’ Artistic Producers, Zack Blackwood and Katy Dammers.  Zach and Katy will discuss some of the exciting presentations for the 2019 in the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, including the the Festival Bookstore and this year’s Late Night Programing.  The Fringe Festival teaser is now available, and you can expect to see Fringe Festival Guides circulating this August!  Plan your days to view groundbreaking performances in the City of Brotherly Love this September.

S3:E11 Zach Blackwood and Katy Dammers

Aziza Barnes

my head is full of blood steamed like latte foampressing open the seams in my skull, burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge.my head is the generating station in the delaware river,developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes.my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains inthe corners of the ceilings and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stainsand that is disappointing in an expected way.and i'm laying in my underwear in every single bed,rolling and sighing in the sheetsand taking noteshow do i feel herewhat did i do herehow was the bouncemaybe a man is there smelling sweaty or like flat champagne sticky about the napeand i like to feel wantedor at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted.or at the very least, i'm shoveling black sand into some deficit,punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am.i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do,i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputsand i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss meand i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomenessand they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don't even feel it anymore.and i am naked looking out a big window in a luxury condowhere my spirit is hung on a bamboo hanger like a bathrobe.of course it is the 4am hour where nothing is provocative any more. i read a magazine article in some design ragabout the fire hydrant pumping station across the river.without it, they'd never have built the station or turned the station into condos.the fire would have burned in the middle of the river and the lights would all ball-gag themselves.i feel very bad for the factory. does he like to gorge himselfin big sucks and swallows from the river just so thatpeople can tap it from hundreds of holes miles away?---------------------------------------SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

my head is full of blood steamed like latte foam pressing open the seams in my skull, burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge. my head is the generating station in the delaware river, developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes. my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains in the corners of the ceilings and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stains and that is disappointing in an expected way. and i'm laying in my underwear in every single bed, rolling and sighing in the sheets and taking notes how do i feel here what did i do here how was the bounce maybe a man is there smelling sweaty or like flat champagne sticky about the nape and i like to feel wanted or at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted. or at the very least, i'm shoveling black sand into some deficit, punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am. i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do, i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputs and i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss me and i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomeness and they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don't even feel it anymore. and i am naked looking out a big window in a luxury condo where my spirit is hung on a bamboo hanger like a bathrobe. of course it is the 4am hour where nothing is provocative any more. i read a magazine article in some design rag about the fire hydrant pumping station across the river. without it, they'd never have built the station or turned the station into condos. the fire would have burned in the middle of the river and the lights would all ball-gag themselves. i feel very bad for the factory. does he like to gorge himself in big sucks and swallows from the river just so that people can tap it from hundreds of holes miles away? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: <a href="http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems</a> <a href="http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines</a> <a href="http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems</a> <a href="http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems</a> <a href="http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast</a>

"whelp" (after aziza barnes) by zach blackwood