you are a book
i have kept open
in dimmest candlelight
long past
the reason of midnight
you are a book
i have kept open
in dimmest candlelight
long past
the reason of midnight
happiness is
turning my moments
of inspiration
into
stream-of-consciousness
Pinterest sessions
where one may choose
cakes made from edible flowers
lavender lovely
make wedding centerpieces
from hemp rope,
vintage coffee sack burlap,
and the discarded
quilt pieces of the
Daughters of the American Revolution
my poetry waits quietly
in my pocketbook
content in my joy
encouraging me
to be my own woman
a connoisseur of literature
a goddess of wine
Dionysus triumphant
a suburban expatriate
who refuses to put a rug
on her toilet lid
born to a people who do
my dream man
is a person capable
of shutting the hell up
turning off his phone and television
sitting down next to me
to simply read
a book
Books are my drug of choice. That being the case, my friends tend to appreciate my book recommendations and devour my reading lists. The following is the sum of a year of literary indulgence, not ranked in any particular order. The only books on the list I would not advise reading are Go Set a Watchman and I Wrote This for You and Only You. For the sake of analysis, devout Harper Lee fans should read Go Set a Watchman, but you will be left bored and disenchanted by the protracted end. All sociological qualms aside, it’s a rough, poorly written story, understandably rejected by her publishers. The juxtaposition of this poor cousin to To Kill a Mockingbird is that of the sacred to the profane. The book of poetry, I Wrote This for You and Only You, is a mawkish, lazy attempt of a book. I would like to give special recognition to Haruki Murakami, whose incomparable opus, 1Q84, restored my faith in contemporary literature when I read it in 2014. I would also point out that Natasha Pulley’s The Watchmaker of Filigree Street was the most underrated and overlooked work of genius of the 2015 new releases.
my skin with
arrows run through
leaves me no way to
erase you
(drawing by Fernando Cobelo)
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon
Dirty Pretty Things by Michael Faudet
The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman
All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr
Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman
The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi
Lake by Banana Yoshimoto
Inherent Vice by Thomas Pynchon
Wind/Pinball by Haruki Murakami
Marabou Stork Nightmares by Irvine Welsh
The Bone People by Keri Hulme
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Devil in the White City by Erik Larson
The Soloist by Steve Lopez
Train Dreams by Denis Johnson
Praying Drunk by Kyle Minor
Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng
Othello by William Shakespeare
The Six Wives of Henry VIII by Alison Weir
Mao II by Don DeLillo
Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon
The Figured Wheel by Robert Pinsky
The Familiar by Mark Danielewski
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clark
The Ladies of Grace Adieu by Susanna Clark
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
A Man Without a Country by Kurt Vonnegut
The Shell Collector by Anthony Doerr
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver
Poems of Humor & Protest by Kenneth Patchen
Poetry as Insurgent Art by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
he made it rain
into my every
coffee cup
he is
a murmuring wind
in the distance
i soon forget
i needed to escape my thoughts
but didn’t feel like driving
all the way to the library to be
.
surrounded by books
settling instead
on a half price books
i was hoping to find
kafka on the shore
by haruki murakami
.
no such luck
.
instead
gleefully discovering
a hard cover with pristine jacket
of larry brown’s
fay
and a two buck
the smiths
cd
.
i sat in the wing chair
of the architecture section
devouring my unearthed treasures
trying to forget
for a moment
people were elsewhere
in the world
busily
bloody
needlessly
dying
.
i found myself
wishing for a part time job
in the intellectual oasis
as a way to support my book addiction
.
sighing as i realized it could never be
.
i don’t have enough facial piercings
i’m not pale enough
i don’t have an ironically bad manic panicked haircut
i haven’t stretched my ear piercings with grommets
inside which one could wear an antique salt cellar
or piece of driftwood
in each lumbering lobe
i don’t wear my sweaters belted and frayed
or present with a look of general disdain
and loathing of the shoppers or human race
a permanent puss on an acne scarred face
.
they would never
hire me