Monthly Archives: February 2012

by

Bookbookbook (post 2)

So an update:

The digital copy of my book has already been debuted!  This week has been crazy with organizing and funeral arrangements for Darren, or else I would have posted this up sooner:

Finding Highways in Cracked Coffee Cups

The print copy is being carefully handled by the USPS and on it’s way to me so that my mom can get her print copies, I can get my few I requested for my granny and some of my aunts, and then 20 copies can go to Gatsby Books for everyone else to fight over.

Since it’s release I’ve been floating around on Amazon’s top 5 Hot New Releases in American Poetry page with the likes of Mark Strand, and Leonard Cohen.  Pretty good company to keep.

I will be sure to keep up to date with any information regarding print sales and reading/signing information.  It sounds like I’ll be reading along with the other Long Beach authors that were published by Loyal Stone Press’ new literary journal “Prospective: A Journal of Speculative Fiction.”  Should be good stuff – and I’ll be debuting some new poems, a good old poem, and possible hints towards my working memoir.

by

Bookbookbook

So tomorrow Finding Highways in Cracked Coffee Cups will be digitally debuted.  Pretty excited about having my first chapbook finally collected and worked on – but a little nervous because I do not have my hands in the final process.  I’m also terribly spoiled by the beautiful Lauren Stone and Loyal Stone Press.

Merchandise (yes, merchandise) can be found here: http://www.cafepress.com/loyalstonepress/8530638

Now I get to start having mini anxiety attacks about a reading/signing.  I’m sure it will all be wonderful…  Right?

Enjoy the cover art for the book!

/small>

by

Been a while since I had any coffee…

Nothing looks right or feels right.

Anyways, I don’t really have a brain anymore, so here’s a poem:

 

My Uncle’s Favorite Coffee Shop

BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

“Serum of steam rising from the cup,
what comfort to be known personally by Barbara,   
her perfect pouring hand and starched ascot,   
known as the two easy eggs and the single pancake,   
without saying.
What pleasure for an immigrant—
anything without saying.

My uncle slid into his booth.
I cannot tell you—how I love this place.

He drained the water glass, noisily clinking his ice.   
My uncle hailed from an iceless region.
He had definite ideas about water drinking.
I cannot tell you—all the time. But then he’d try.

My uncle wore a white shirt every day of his life.   
He raised his hand against the roaring ocean   
and the television full of lies.
He shook his head back and forth
from one country to the other
and his ticket grew longer.
Immigrants had double and nothing all at once.   
Immigrants drove the taxis, sold the beer and Cokes.   
When he found one note that rang true,   
he sang it over and over inside.
Coffee, honey.

His eyes roamed the couples at other booths,   
their loose banter and casual clothes.
But he never became them.

Uncle who finally left in a bravado moment   
after 23 years, to live in the old country forever,   
to stay and never come back,
maybe it would be peaceful now,
maybe for one minute,
I cannot tell you—how my heart has settled at last.   

But he followed us to the sidewalk
saying, Take care, Take care,

as if he could not stand to leave us.

I cannot tell—

how we felt
to learn that the week he arrived,
he died. Or how it is now,
driving his parched streets,
feeling the booth beneath us as we order,   
oh, anything, because if we don’t,
nothing will come.”