THE BIG TOE is one of my favorite horror stories but it takes too long to tell so here is what is important: a boy chops off someone’s big toe hoeing potatoes and he is terribly afraid and puts the big toe in the pot of beans that his mother is cooking for dinner and then sits down to eat dinner and eats the big toe and then sits around the fire with his father and then hears a creepy voice asking WHO’S GOT MY BIG TOE and so the boy hides under the bed and then the voice gets closer and closer and then reaches under the bed and says YOU’VE GOT IT because he the boy did have the big toe and everybody screams really loud for a long time.
Also the thing with the creepy voice had a big black bushy tail and big claws and sharp teeth and he had a slight limp naturally and he was so sad that you just wanted to hold him in your arms and say IT WILL BE ALL RIGHT PLEASE DON’T BE AFRAID IT WILL BE ALL RIGHT EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE and the story was in a compilation written in 1948 in a book bubbling with hearty tales of robust people called AMERICAN FOLK TALES AND SONGS that was dedicated to somebody named Bill somewhere in Pine Mountain and it has a song in it and the song goes like this:
Kiss me now kiss me cunning kiss me quick Mama’s coming
You see I told you everything would be all right Kiss me now.
New and freshly minted – three books, two of which are whoppers (400+ pgs), in anticipation of my reading tour on September (Flyleaf Books, Chapel Hill, NC, followed by a walk around the block.)
Here they are: TELEFRICASSEE, THE ETERNAL JOURNALS OF CRISPY FLOTILLA, and MAYBE WAVY. Free summer shipping ends today! (although orders must exceed $19 – buy an extra copy for your Grandmommy!) – and please, do not save a tree on my account! In fact, if possible, do not save several!
Also: please: if you are so inclined, do comment on the comments page regarding these books. I am in search of wonderful back cover blurbs and you never know where you might find them.
For example, here's one that was spoken to me and now will find its place on the back of MAYBE WAVY:
"A 556 page book of poetry? Who wants a 556 page book of poetry?"
I wouldn't like my girl to be looking at me like this if we were trapped by hounds and cops in the far reaches of the Sierra Nevada Mountains with only moments to live and we knew it because we were gun crazy.
It is true that Bruno S. died today. Such a wonderful actor who wasn’t an actor at all. He did many great things for the movies. Playing the accordian was one of those things. Opening up his eyes was another. If it is possible, the greatest contribution Bruno S. made to the arts was the way in which he comported himself when people beat him up, which was beautiful. Filled with equal parts joy and sorrow. And magic and grace. And it seemed to all take place under water, even though it really didn't, in small, untidy rooms in Berlin–slowly, in the majesty of Berlin.
And Bruno S. was perfect at being lost. "Where am I?" is a phrase that Bruno S. could say better than almost anyone.
"Who am I?" was also a phrase that Bruno S. could execute deftly.
And Bruno S. showed everyone how elegantly one can watch one’s repossessed mobile home drive away. And that was in Wisconsin. Imagine having your mobile home drive away and being alone in Wisconsin. I couldn't do that until Bruno S. showed me what that meant. "There goes my mobile home!" I said, once Bruno S. showed me how if felt to be that man, there.
Normally I would say it is not possible but I watched him do this and he did, so it was possible, but no longer so, as Bruno S. died today.
Dying, I think, it a lot like being beaten up underwater in Berlin. It is a lot like watching your mobile home drive away in Wisconsin. Death is definitely like playing the accordian. "I have a beautiful tune and I want to share it with the world." Bruno S. didn’t say that; he didn’t have to. He said other things. Like for example...
It doesn't matter. He cannot, but that doesn’t bother Bruno S. at all now.
The “S” of "Bruno S." I discovered, did actually stand for something. I discovered that only after he died. But since Bruno S. chose not to say anything about S, neither will I.
“A little boy dreams that one day he will have a horse,” Bruno S. once said, “and then one day he sees a horse coming towards him, carrying his Mother’s coffin.”
We often speak of what separates ‘desert’ from ‘dessert’ and we often say that it is simple, it is the matter of one "s". Yes, it is that: Bruno S. A boy and his horse. A boy loves his horse. Bruno S.
Today I wondered if when some guy from Moscow reads me Does he think He’s not very Russian or does he think He is so Russian, like I am Russian or does he think It’s nice to read a fellow American while here in Russia on vacation, specifically in Moscow Or does he look at the sky and say
Why should I read poems about mincemeat when I can be happy staring into the beautiful Moscow sky? I who am from Russia, specifically Moscow?
Perhaps it is none of those things. Perhaps it is simply this
I would rather read his poems about mincemeat
It’s true because I did write a poem about mincemeat
than unhappily stare into the unattractive Moscow sky?
Which is true because there are times when the Moscow sky is not attractive if you stare into it, which can be depressing
Seriously, though, I did write a poem about mincemeat.