December 2011
137 posts
2011: in books i read.
If On A Winter’s Night a Traveler - Italo Calvino Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman - Haruki Murakami Waiting For The Barbarians - J.M. Coetzee The Rum Diary - Hunter S. Thompson While Mortals Sleep - Kurt Vonnegut To Have and Have Not - Ernest Hemingway Company - Samuel Beckett Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit - Jeanette Winterson Look at the Birdie - Kurt Vonnegut Burning Bright - Ron Rash Serena - Ron...
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things i'm lookin' forward to
-another glass of sweet tea. -seeing my girlfriend. -trying to simultaneously hold off and bring in a new year. -going to boone next week. -finishing this Roald Dahl book. -finishing all the Roald Dahl books. -getting back to Asheville, and seeing my girlfriend. -listening to these records I got for christmas. -living with Jon next semester. -seeing Jon and hearing stories. -shenanigans. -getting...
moscow
he was holding a cat a white one with a grey spot on its head he told me the cat’s name was edward and that he was russian the cat was, not the boy i asked the boy if he’d ever read tolstoy he hadn’t neither had i they sat beside me on the bank of the river it was too cold to swim but the boy dipped his toes in anyway he didn’t shiver even once edward was sleepin’ in his arms my hair was a mess...
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bebop
the suit he wore was the best his ma could afford a grey one, frayed around the elbows but she told him there was gold in the thread and it smelled like the cookies she baked when he was smaller she would never, ever give up the recipe not to him or anybody else in the inside pocket he dropped a book of matches he didn’t smoke or anything but he liked the smell of matches it gave him something...
alan
Alan was allergic, to almost everything. To anything with fur, and anything with wings. Flowers made him cough, dust just made him sneeze. If he swam too long, he’d be leavin’ with a wheeze. Sharpened pencils made his throat sore, His eyes grew itchy at the smallest spore, Life for Alan was an awful chore. When he touched paper he broke out in a rash, So Alan could never carry cash. He even had...
the astronaut
When the astronaut came, we took him right in. He just appeared on our roof one morning. Dad was checkin the mail, and there he was. None of us had heard him up there the night before. His spacesuit was dirty, the glass shield on his helmet was cracked. He couldn’t get it off, it seemed to be stuck to him. So we left it alone. The dog didn’t bark at him, just sniffed him and laid at his feet...
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Sat down. Watched a moment. It moved like a small fish. Or a slow satellite.
-anis mojgani, “almond milk & tilapia”
A man named McCree lived in a tree. He lived reasonably, mostly worrisome free. He picked fruit off the branches, talked with the birds, he taught them new words, one’s that they’d never heard. The tree that he lived in, he himself did the plantin’. And ever since then, it was mighty enchantin’! People would point and look through the leaves. That old man McCree, was quite well received....
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christmas!
is here! enjoy it, y’all. love ya family. love ya friends. love a christmas story for twenty four hours. merry christmas, fools!
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truth
“Why is ‘pocket’ such a perfect word?” My girlfriend asked me this. She is a great applauding question.
And I love her so.
patchwork
Today, I baked bread. The bread I made, I made it from an old recipe. It called for flour. The flowers you whisper across my back are white ones. A handful of heart claps. The glowing of wheat like so many sleeping lions. The bow that your neck makes.
I baked this bread while you were gone today. And while this bread was baking its smell filled this house. The walls breathed with the bark of...
hickory
I have a belt made of dark, brown leather. One of my uncles gave it to me when I could fit in it twice and told me he’d killed the cow it came from. Beat the poor thing to death from the inside out by ringing bells. I don’t doubt him. That man’s crazy. I keep that belt pulled tight around my waist. It’s as smooth as Jesus’ palm and as strong as Sunday tobacco. And let me tell you, that shit...
cracker jacks
A small boy walks home. He is a boy because his father tells him he is not yet a man, and his throat is still lined with the buzz of healthy pink flowers that have not yet been pollinated. He is small because he looks up more than he looks down. He can’t hold a lot of things in his hands so he chooses delicately the things he grasps. He is walking home only because he wants to say he did, even...
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My piano coat unbuttoned and all my pianos fell into the leaves. I was picking up pianos for hours when you walked past your skin glowed like a loud dog. In your smile this dog had a fence to push his face up against. What happiness he barked. With pianos filling my arms I followed through the neighborhood and up onto the dark green porch of your home.
-Anis Mojgani, from “All Those Gold...
