KENSINGTON, MD — In honor of what would have been Charles Bukowski’s 90th birthday, and in recognition of our publishing house’s first set of advance review copies (ARCs)—delivered on Hank’s birthday, no less—I’m having a scotch and making a toast or three:
Editor’s Note: This poem is an excerpt from David Lawrence Grant’s This Poet is Crazy, an unpublished collection of humorous, inspirational, satirical, and fantasized poems. It is posted here with permission (and gratitude) by the author.
Continue reading Ode to New Hucklesbury USA or An Extemporaneous Diatribe →
Editor’s note: This is the third in an unspecified number of quasi-poems related to Rhinos, writing and death. To read the first two parts of the Rhino series, click here for Part 1 and here for Part 2.
Continue reading The Rhino: Extinct or Extracted? →
Bengt Ekerot as Death in Ingmar Bergman's 1957 film, The Seventh Seal
Editor’s note: This is the second in an unspecified number of quasi-poems related to Rhinos, writing and death. To read Parts 1 and 3 of the Rhino series, click here for Part 1 and here for Part 3.
I was almost about to call this
Why I Write, Part II
But fortunately for all, I have decided against it.
I hate sequels. I hate trying to type a new twist on a tired idea.
Where’s the steamy sex scene? (I almost said, “Rhino,” but thank Gilligan, I refrained.)
I am not mad I am only wondering why this man walking past my bookshop with a cane, cigar, a sombrero, a white beard, a long overcoat and dark glasses decided not to stop in.
He thought he might like to (no, I am not omniscient—this is life and I’m just guessing here)
And then decided against it.
He could have been death masked as a man
With a cane, a cigar, a sombrero (or some other type of hat—I’m not very good with hat types, damn it), a mostly white beard, a trench coat and dark glasses.
The cigar was lit and death would definitely smoke, don’t you think?
Continue reading Rhino Reprise →
Preface
The following series of quasi-poems, beginning with “Where’s the Rhino?,” was written in the mid-1990s when I was the shopkeeper of Chapters Revisited, a bookstore in Doylestown, Pa. I wrote this group of loosely cohesive poems on an unusually grey and quiet day as I looked out the store window waiting for customers to enter. Brace yourself for silliness, dreariness and inept descriptions of ominous strangers.By the way, back then (last century, after all), some writers (especially this writer and bad, languid poets in general who lacked patience and diligence) didn’t resort to Google to find vital, colorful facts to add a layer of brilliance or sheen to their work. Instead, we relied mostly, if not solely, on our empty noggins and lousy imaginations, unable to instantly call up a more fitting description for a hat, say, or a more visual anecdote of that great big closet in the sky. Basically, back in the day, we just watched movies, wrote feebly and carried on.
Editor’s note: To read Parts 2 and 3 of the Rhino series, click here for Part 2 and here for Part 3.
I almost question why I write—
In fact, I just did this morning.
This poem is to be a bout…
About the reason humans write.
I don’t call this writing, though.
This punching keys like a stenographer
But the ideas are original, you say.
Without ideas words cease,
Unless of course
You watch daytime talk shows—
And you witness the madness secondhand
And cross yourself with filtered water
In the first person.
I’ve yet to write an original thought.
Let’s see—I know that no matter what
A live rhinoceros will not appear before my eyes in the next five minutes.
Has anyone ever written that sentence before? (I’m sure this one’s been written.)
Continue reading Where’s the Rhino? →
When: September 12, 2010
Where: Brooklyn, N.Y.
When: September 19-24, 2010
Where: Northern Virginia, D.C., and Maryland
When: September 25, 2010
Where: Washington, D.C.
"Eye Chart" courtesy of the American Booksellers Foundation for Free Expression
