PROLOGUE
It’s Sunday, January 25, 2026. Snow sweeps across much of the United States. We are collectively cold. We huddle together inside with the people and pets we love. In a time of inwardness that this deep winter produces, I pause. The tranquility of a snowfall does nothing to disguise the utter crisis America is in right now. Citizens are being terrorized in the streets of the United States by a heavily armed, masked, legally immune force directed by the hand of the President and the current administration. Alex Pretti was disarmed, second amendment rights torn away in an instant, pinned to the ground by several armed men, and executed in the streets of Minneapolis. Not long ago, Renée Good was murdered in her vehicle while unarmed and attempting to avert a clear threat to her life. Countless law-abiding immigrants, the backbone of this nation, have been swept up and disappeared by this masked force without due process for the crime of not having their “papers” on them, or simply for appearing non-white or having an accent. And all the while, top government officials have been blatantly lying about what we can see with our own eyes and slandering those they have captured and killed. We’re way past many of the social media protest tactics and cute signs of the past few years. Justice must be served for this administration and those who choose to suit up in camo uniforms and hide their faces to carry out this state-sanctioned violence on their fellow citizens. I don’t have answers. I feel only anger and hatred. I need to be near people I love. We need to stick together and we need to always be ready to fight back so that this version of our country does not have the ability to take further root.
I’m pausing again. I’m making a choice to write about art right now. About a poetry event I went to on a Friday night. It’s difficult to redirect the energy. Maybe this isn’t okay to do at all. But I sincerely believe it does matter. Community, as proven by Minneapolis, is important and caring for one another is important. If we stop doing that we become easy targets. AI emotional support chatbots, billionaire funded social media algorithms, the destruction of public spaces not tied to commerce, etc. etc. We are being trained to be docile. We are being told to stay inside and worry only about ourselves: That fight isn’t your fight. Insulate. Protect yourself. Don’t leave your house.
Obviously, fuck all that. It’s essential to come together to celebrate and support one another, whenever the moment arises.
A COLD FRIDAY NIGHT IN PHILADELPHIA
I’m at the Spring Garden El station. Wind slices through me as I climb the grimy stairs to the train platform. A kid forces the handicap entrance doors open so a woman with a walker can enter without paying a fare. We share a smile as we let her pass, then slip through ourselves. I wait for the train. Watch as cars whisk by to and from Jersey across the nearby Ben Franklin bridge. The reading tonight is at a bar, a sober bar, in Fishtown. The train arrives and I enter. It’s just one stop up to Girard station. I exit, head down Front Street, and enter Bar Palmina.
I’m immediately embraced by warmth. The space is full of people. Dimly lit, the bar is lined with conversation and laughter. I’m welcomed by one of the night’s readers, Kate Catinella, and the group of friends she’s here with. We discuss the non-alcoholic drinks they are indulging in. I’m impressed by the cocktail options, but decide to stick with the still undefeated non-alcoholic beverage: water. I settle and warm up, taking in the space some more. Spot a few regulars in the Philly poetry scene. I moved here from Bangor, Maine this past May. It’s been an adjustment for sure. But I love Philly and the grounding unpretentiousness of its people. There are incredible working artists here and they love to gather. During this past summer I was going to several readings a week at small bars, bookstores, and other spaces around the city. Things slowed down during the holiday months but January has seen the event flyers return in full swing.
Dustin Wright approaches me. I love seeing this dude. Great energy, a great writer, and the kind of glue-guy that keeps this scene humming. He’s home-baked some cookies for the evening. He directs me toward two pyrex glass containers lined with parchment paper sitting on the bar filled with chocolate chip cookies. Next to them sits Jessica Scicchitano, another regular of the scene here who hosts the innovative reading series ‘At What Cost’. She’s got a cookie in hand and it looks very tasty. “They’re gluten free!” I turn and see Francesca Kritikos. She’s here for the month visiting from Chicago, where she writes poetry and runs the small press SARKA. I’m already bought in and the gluten free acknowledgment does little for me, but the enthusiasm is so real I stop the anticipation and immediately snag a cookie. “Oh man, you got the best one,” says Jessica. Dustin agrees. I take a bite. Fucking melt-in-your-mouth.
A strong but gentle voice calls out through the bar. Directing attention to a large open area that the bartop spills out to. It’s Nikki Volpicelli, our host for the evening. I don’t know Nikki too well, but from the interactions we’ve had I sense a deep kindness. A genuine person who seems to really care. She’s active in the literary scene, posting about events and hosting writing workshops. She held a reading at 2nd District Brewing down in South Philly late last year. I missed it unfortunately but heard it was equally packed as tonight. She knows how to get the people together. Everyone sitting at the bar turns their heads to attention, and the buzzing crowd fills in around the space where the readers will soon take the stage.
A NIGHT OF SIX READERS
Nikki stands before a stark white wall. There’s no microphone for the evening. Readers will recite from their phones or printed pieces of paper directly to the dozens in attendance. Of the different setups I’ve encountered, I feel this is generally the best. Attendees huddle close and lean in to catch words floating through the space. You can more clearly hear the range that each reader’s voice brings to their performance. There’s an extra sense of hushed silence during each reading - interrupted frequently tonight by loud roars from the El train passing just outside and the bartender shaking up concoctions.
“Fuck I.C.E.”
Nikki officially opens the evening. Cheers and applause from the room. Everyone in attendance understands the assignment. We came here tonight to support each other.
Nikki dives into a piece of her own fiction. It’s dripping with a comforting nostalgia. Descriptions of a childhood bedroom and the *NSYNC posters that lined her walls. The crowd appreciates the slow rhythm and hyper personal intimacy that somehow still feels universally familiar. There will be more of that to come.
Nikki introduces Lauren Martin. She takes the stage before the white wall. Small table with equally small lamp giving just a bit of extra luminance to each reader, focusing the crowd’s attention further. She reads a detail-rich story about a woman’s experience with an older boyfriend and the all-consuming fishtank in his apartment. Pirranhas and other exotic fish star.
As Lauren wraps up and returns to the warm huddle of the crowd, Nikki mentions that this is her first time reading her work in public. The audience amps up their applause. People in this room, whether they are writers themselves or not, recognize the courage all this takes. A thousandth time or the first - reading in front of a crowd of strangers is something that 99% of people would not even consider. It’s small courage, but we understand putting ourselves out there like this over and over again is the only way to reach a bigger and lasting courage. A courage that could enact positive change.
Next up is John Mahoney. They read two whip quick poems. It’s a nice change up from the narrative focused work we’ve experienced so far. “I don’t want to turn my heat up because I don’t want to give PECO any more of my money.” produces an involuntary laugh of recognition from many people listening on.
The reading is moving along nicely. Three readers so far, and there’s no intermission in sight. For tonight, considering how cold it is outside and how packed the space is inside, this feels like the best move. Each reader’s pieces are blending well too, Nikki’s curation for the night is showing, so there’s no reason to pause. Gina Tomaine takes the stage next.
Gina said she had something different prepared, but she takes a cue from Lauren’s story and switches up her selection on the fly. She reads a story about fish. The exotic fishtank ones from Lauren’s story are replaced by sharks in the ocean. Gina tells of a woman surfing in dangerous waters. There’s blood, and there’s a man who beckons our main character to draw out the sharks. It’s a great “fuck it, let’s live” story and the audience hangs onto her every word.
Kate Catinella is up. It’s been a night of personal auto-fiction type narratives so far. Kate prepares the crowd for her reading by asking us to have a little fun. The reasons for that intro become apparent fast. We listen on as Kate tells the fantastical tale of a tiny man who’s been living in the mouth of the narrator for quite some time. Details like a guitar fashioned from plaque and the small man interrupting a very real date the narrator is trying to enjoy fill the room with laughter. It’s a nonstop piece of flash fiction that just keeps building and building in absurdity while still allowing the groundedness of life to seep in. Kate delivers with an appropriately animated reading performance that doesn’t allow the audience to blink. It’s rapid fire and indeed very fun. As Kate leaves the white-walled stage, Nikki brings on the final reader of the night, Alina Pleskova.
“No one can tell you if or how it’s working.” Alina highlights the work of poet and musician David Berman. Specifically his poem “Self-Portrait at 28” and Alina’s own brilliant take on it as “Self-Portrait at 38”. I’d heard the name before but wasn’t familiar at all with Berman’s writing. It’s these kind of inclusions from readers that I really appreciate. Being exposed not only to new work by my contemporaries, but learning of past writers who’ve inspired and led them to reading what I am hearing tonight. It’s a lovely piece, and Alina delivers it with an energy that the audience eats up. Alina hosts a reading series in Philly called ‘Track Changes’ where writers discuss their favorite songs alongside their own writing. Hearing Alina’s writing paired with the reference of Silver Jews singer David Berman brings it into full focus for me. I recognize some people tonight that I’ve seen at ‘Track Changes’ and the interesting music/writing connections have to be humming in their heads as she reads.
EPILOGUE
Conversation quickly fills the bar once again as the reading concludes and the night’s writers mingle with the crowd and are showered with compliments on their pieces. The feeling that sits in my body the most is gratitude. A deep thanks that with everything going on in the world people still take the time to come out in the cold for stuff like this and are willing to share and receive art. It gives me hope. I see it in the smiles of everyone around me. It really is beautiful to share your life with people.
Unfortunately, I’ve got to go to work early in the morning, so I say my goodbyes, grab another of Dustin’s cookies for the road, and head back home. Eagerly anticipating the next time I get to see all my friends and hear what new things they’ve been working on.
Evan, making me tear up over here!
Thanks for this! I am in Allentown and would love to come down for events like this one.