May 13, 2020

Mike DeCapite on Poets Pandemic Podcast

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 6:44 am

Mike DeCapite reads outtakes from Jacket Weather on Maggie Dubris’s totally charming Poets Pandemic Podcast here. With Klezmatic Lisa Gutkin playing songs as fresh as spring.

We also highly recommend the episodes with Elinor Nauen, Sanjay Agnihotri, Mimi Lipson, and Max Blagg, though any episode will provide you with a welcome break from the computer screen or TV and transport you as completely as listening to a radio on a porch.

Maggie recorded Mike DeCapite reading other excerpts from Jacket Weather on February 16, 2020.

April 4, 2020

Coming in Fall 2021: Jacket Weather

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 11:11 am

Soft Skull Press made the following announcement in Publishersmarketplace on March 25, 2020:

Author of THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD and RADIANT FOG Mike DeCapite’s JACKET WEATHER, about a couple who meet in New York City’s downtown music scene in the ’80s and then reunite in the present day in their fifties and fall in love, which contemplates art, community, mortality, and the textures and patterns of time, to Yuka Igarashi at Soft Skull, for publication in fall 2021 (world). Rights:

January 26, 2020

Local Knowledge: DeCapite/Masters/Agnihotri @ Parkside, February 9, 2 p.m.

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 8:44 pm

Mike DeCapite will read from his novel Jacket Weather with friends Greg Masters and Sanjay Agnihotri as part of Sanjay’s Local Knowledge reading series, on Sunday, February 9, at 2 p.m., at the Parkside Lounge, 317 East Houston (at Attorney).

December 1, 2019

December, for Carla MacDonald

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 10:06 am

One night after work, more than thirty years ago, in Cleveland, I took the Rapid Transit train downtown, a Friday night in early December, that’s how I remember it, right after work, in the dark. For some reason, maybe by mistake, I took the train to 25th Street instead of downtown. I was going to the record store, Record Rendezvous, where Jimmy Jones presided, maybe it was payday, and after mentally paying all my bills and figuring and refiguring my budget for the next two weeks, maybe I had an extra twenty to blow. I could usually manage to buy a record or two every couple of weeks. Anyway, I got off the Rapid at this deserted station, this deserted platform across the river from downtown, and it was snowing. I was a little lost but not completely lost, because I could see the Terminal Tower across the river, through the falling snow. I was just lost enough. And since I had nowhere to be that night and didn’t have to work the next day, which opened my imagination or dropped my defenses against it, and since I was accountable to no one, I started walking toward downtown. I must have dared myself to do it—just walk there—and started walking down the hill toward the river. Not that it was a long walk or anything. It was a challenge to routine, to the idea that I had to get right home or explain myself to anyone or to myself. It was a challenge to established routes. And so I made my way downhill and then, in the dark among the weeds, I found an unused road along the river, and I followed it. The snow was falling in big flakes and ticking into the weeds, and through it I could still see the Terminal Tower. I was lost but not too lost, and because it was Friday and payday I was free but just free enough to know it. I think of this as the time of Sandinista, the Clash record, but it could have been a year later. I don’t remember what I bought at the record store, I don’t remember being there, I don’t remember downtown or by what bridge I crossed the river. What I remember is walking on a road that wasn’t quite a road, through tall dead weeds, with the Terminal Tower visible through the falling snow, in the early dark of a Friday in December, having what turns out to have been one of the happiest nights of my life.

October 27, 2019

November 27: Mike DeCapite and Zena Smith at Visible Voice

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 8:55 am

Zena Smith is the author of the poetry collections Fracture; Take No Prisoners, Pull No Teeth; Shake Hands; Siding with Desire; and Ticks.

Mike DeCapite returns to Cleveland’s Southside, the setting for his first novel, Through the Windshield, to preview his latest, Jacket Weather.

November 27, 2019, 7 p.m.
Visible Voice
2258 Professor Ave.
Cleveland 44113

July 23, 2019

New Readings

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 4:59 am

We’ve added video of two recent readings. At Dani Leone’s author page, you’ll find her July 2, 2019, reading at Jim Ruggia’s Backroom Broadsides series at Fox & Crow, in Jersey City. On Mike DeCapite’s author page, you’ll find his appearance on the same bill, plus a reading he did in Cleveland at Guide to Kulchur on November 26, 2013.

May 16, 2018

Flash Boulevard

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 6:12 am

Francine Witte has chosen two short Mike DeCapite pieces for Flash Boulevard, “Rockefeller Center” and “A Deeper Shade of Soul.”

January 29, 2018

Palaima on DeCapite on Dylan

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 11:20 am

Here’s something nice that happened. University of Texas classics professor and MacArthur fellow Thomas Palaima sent this link to a panel he took part in at Case Western in November 2017, cosponsored by the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Go to minute 32 for the part that relates to Mike DeCapite.

Why Bob Dylan Matters
Baker-Nord Humanities Institute Case Western Reserve University and the
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Cleveland November 16, 2017

December 23, 2017

“Christmas Eve”

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 7:18 am

A short piece called “Christmas Eve” is up at the Howl! gallery site. Happy Holidays, everyone, and here’s to a brighter year to come.

December 11, 2017

We’re Back

Filed under: Uncategorized — Mike @ 7:12 am

This updates page has been out of commission, and in repairing it, we lost all the entries since 2012. We’re thinking of updating the whole site in the new year, but in the meantime, here’s something never-before published that I read yesterday at a holiday reading at Sanjay Agnihotri and Jeff Wright’s Local Knowledge series at Swift’s Hibernian, NYC.

Rockefeller Center
for David Loy

I lit a cigarette actually in the revolving door, so my first draft of smoke came mixed with a deep winter-night cold as I stepped outside. It was the night they lit the tree at Rockefeller Center, about 9:30, and I cut through the crowds of people who were milling around Radio City and shuffling up and down Sixth Avenue and wondering what to do now and whether they’d had the experience they came for, and the souvenir tables and food carts that were there for the occasion, and the cops, and the metal barriers they’d set up for crowd control. Big snowflake lights were playing on the buildings across the plaza. I stood at the corner looking into the uptown taxi headlight stream of Sixth Avenue, waiting to cross. A white cloud was gushing from an orange-and-white-striped steam pipe in the middle of the road, and a streetlight was hanging in the midst of it like a little nothing moon. I made my way to the subway, carrying a bag with a pair of boots I’d had heeled, and helped a woman carry a stroller with a baby in it down the stairs while her little boy came cautiously down beside us clutching the rail. The turnstiles were jammed and backed up with people who were less hurried and less with-it than the usual crowd in that station, and there were more people on the train than usual on a Wednesday night, and they were in a different mood from the people who were usually on the train at that hour, in better spirits because they were out late in that part of town and they’d done something different tonight. They were tourists of their home city. Some schoolgirls were laughing and passing a plate of cupcakes across the aisle, and there were kids in puffy jackets with hoods and winter hats. The passengers thinned out at the downtown stops, 42nd, 34th, 23rd. At 14th I changed for the L and listened to a guy on the platform who was playing a six-string bass through a little amp and singing through a headset microphone. I got a seat on the L and finished the chapter of the book I was reading, and then found myself watching a family with two little girls in black coats and black knit hats. They were a South American family, maybe Indians. The mother got the girls in front of where she was sitting and the father stood watch over them. He was wearing a black overcoat and a black suit and a white shirt and a tie as though they’d been to church or he’d dressed for the tree lighting, and he’d said excuse me to someone with a depth of courtesy which caught my ear. The girls were bundled up like little old ladies. I was watching them, just watching them with no thought of myself doing it, and then I noticed myself watching them in this way of pure human curiosity and affection and simplicity, and then of course I was watching myself watching them—in other words, it was half an act at that point, but that was okay because there’s no way out of the hall of mirrors once you’ve noticed yourself, and it had started in earnest and was still half real anyway. It felt good to be alone and unattached. I liked the feeling of time on my skin, time and chance. I felt like anything could happen. I felt a lightness I could never feel when I was attached to someone. Freedom of movement, I guess. For me, love is either particular or it’s general, it’s one or the other. I love one person or I love the world. Now I was part of the world. It’s like all my life I’d failed to take advantage of my membership in a family, or to avail myself of some vast resource that was right there for me, if only I could get out of myself, or stop thinking of myself as separate from it. I hoped it would last—it seemed too good to last. It all seemed too good to be true.

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