Atticus Books: How did you end up with this apparent dream life, living and selling books with your wife on one of the most beautiful vacation spots in the country? Is there a “jump ship and follow your dreams” story somewhere behind this? Or was owning and running a bookstore something you’ve always thought about pursuing?

Sundial Books: My wife, Jane, and I came to Chincoteague for vacation in 2004 and fell in love with the Island. We ended up buying an old fisherman’s cottage a year later, thinking it would be a vacation rental for about 15 years until we were ready to retire. However, every time we came down to Chincoteague, it got harder to leave. We kept saying that if we could find a way to make a living here, we would move in a heartbeat.

As it turned out, I knew the owner of what was then a used/antiquarian bookstore on the Island. She had owned stores in northern Virginia in the past and I had been a customer of hers there. We reconnected when Jane and I started spending time in Chincoteague. Just before Thanksgiving in 2006, she called us, said she was ready to retire and wanted to know if we wanted to buy the bookstore. Jane and I started talking about it and decided it was worth considering. We talked to a lot of people, crunched some numbers, thought hard about whether we were ready to completely change our lives and decided to do it.

We are both avid readers and liked the idea of being entrepreneurs. Earlier in her career, Jane had been a school librarian and I had owned and managed music stores. A few months later, we packed up, moved, put our house in Alexandria, VA on the market and have never looked back.

AB: You and your wife are blessed as far as location goes, given the beauty, character and history of Chincoteague. How does the culture and lifestyle of Chincoteague help shape the character of the bookshop?

SB: Chincoteague is a very unique place. It’s a working town as well as a beautiful vacation spot. There is an active arts community. Visitors are often attracted to the old time charm of the town and the natural beauty of Assateague Island – and are generally the type of people who appreciate books and music. In addition, much of Chincoteague’s fame came as a result of the publication of a book – Misty of Chincoteague by Marguerite Henry – in 1947. Needless to say, Misty is our biggest selling title! We also have a large inventory of local and regional books that are popular with visitors to the Island. But we also maintain a varied collection to meet the needs of the readers who live here year round.

AB: To flip that question around, in what ways do you, as a bookseller, strive to shape the culture and character of the community? Is there a certain kind of community outreach or involvement that you find most entertaining or effective?

SB: We have always viewed the book store as a gathering place for people to browse books, listen to new music, talk about current events and just relax. We have a fairly busy schedule of book signings and live music to help connect authors, readers, and musicians together. We have hosted book signings for quite a number of local and regional authors and have many live music events with local artists. We believe that promoting local authors, artists and musicians is an important component of our shop.

AB: Sundial Books has been called “one of the cornerstones of activity” in Chincoteague’s “very active cultural and social scene.” Any particular events or traditions that you find draw a crowd time and time again?

SB: Live music always brings people in. We have started sponsoring a monthly ‘back porch music jam’ with both local folks and visitors bringing instruments and singing along. Our book signings and poetry readings are also popular. Jane and I are also active in the local Chincoteague Cultural Alliance and help promote many of their events through our shop.

AB: Are there any specific challenges that arise as a result of the area being such a vacation spot? Or perhaps, any special perks that come with the territory?

SB: Our busy times are different than those of many other bookstores. Our peak sales are June through August, whereas many stores have their biggest sales in November and December. Vendors often offer pre-holiday specials to encourage stores to stock up for the holiday sales but most won’t work for us. There are also some distinct differences in the reading tastes of visitors at different times of the year. For example, we have many more sales of children’s books during the summer and more sales of ‘collectible’ books for fall visitors.

AB: We love the idea of you and your wife working together in this book business. Any tips for other entrepreneurs whose business partner also happens to be their spouse?

SB: We’re together pretty much 24/7 so we have to like each other for it to work. We each have our areas of expertise in that I’m more the salesperson and marketer and Jane keeps us organized and handles the financial and technical ends of the business. We also have the same vision for the store and for our lives as small business owners. That’s a really critical component of a successful partnership.

AB: On your website, you say that you offer “old-fashioned customer service.” What does this mean for the customers who frequent Sundial Books? Perhaps another way to put this would be: what do you provide as an indie bookseller that the bigger guys can’t?

SB: We get to know most of our customers and suggest books that we think they might like. It’s not at all unusual for us to set aside some new acquisition with a particular customer in mind. We hand pick all of our books. Either Jane or I have made a decision about every item that comes into the shop and we choose a variety of items that we think our customers will enjoy. We also get great suggestions from our customers and add them to the shelves. When someone comes into our shop, they are greeted by an owner and fellow book lover.

A great story happened while I was answering these questions. A young girl came in with her parents. They had been to our shop during other annual vacations and were browsing around the store and talking with us. The girl stopped in front of one of our glass display cases and was mesmerized by something inside. She gave a little whoop and called to her Dad that her book was in the case. Apparently, she had collected all kinds of books and replicas of Misty and her descendents. The book in the case was written by a protégé of Marguerite Henry about one of Misty’s grandchildren and has been out of print for several years. The author left the one remaining hardback copy here for us to sell when she was here this summer. The young customer was so excited about finding the book that we called the author in California so she could have a short conversation with her. We develop relationships with authors and with customers and it’s always fun when we can connect them together. This is the kind of thing that happens in an Indie store.

AB: Recently, you’ve been able to expand your store into a new, larger building on Main Street. Clearly, your endeavor has grown and matured over the years. What events or achievements do you look back on as landmarks of your store’s success?

SB: We feel very fortunate to have had the chance to move into our current space. We started out in two adjacent buildings and now have everything in one space, which makes it much easier – both for us and for our customers. The ‘new’ building is 100 years old and has great light, a good feel and lots of different spaces – stair landings, an enclosed back porch, a reading alcove with comfy wicker chairs – to house the books. Customers can wander around and browse – or check out the view of the Chincoteague Channel out the back windows. It’s a wonderful space for a bookstore.

We’ve worked very hard at making the business successful. Many of the shops on Chincoteague are seasonal but we’re open all year. We’ve gotten involved in local organizations and understand that we have a responsibility as business owners to the town and to the visitors who come here for vacation.

AB: Word on the street is you co-host a fabulous radio show called “The Bucket List: Songs You Have to Hear Before You Kick the Bucket.” If you had a “bucket list” of, say, five books to read to before you die, what would they be, and why?

SB: I’ve always hated lists like these. The answer changes from day to day. But here are five that come to mind at the moment because of the timeless stories they tell.

Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
Kim – Rudyard Kipling
The Little Prince –Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Sherlock Holmes – Arthur Conan Doyle

AB: Last but not least, any tips for the other indie booksellers out there, or the would-be literary entrepreneur?

SB: Be prepared for a 24/7 job. We love what we do but it’s about far more than reading books and listening to music. Owning a small business in this economy is hard. You need creativity and some financial reserves to see you through the slow patches. In addition to online and big box booksellers, we’re now dealing with e-books. There’s a constant learning curve. If you’re up for a challenge, it’s a great way to make a living.

© 2010, Libby Kuzma. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

I am done with prolific novelist Robert B. Parker. No longer will I waste my time with another one of his putrid Spenser novels. As a publisher and admirer of literary fiction, I vow to retire from the abhorrent habit and guilty pleasure of intermittently reading a Robert B. Parker book in the summertime. He alone likely has brought down many an independent press’s empire by filling the publisher’s head with trite, poorly conceived story lines made up of glib generalizations and superficial remarks. He’s the reading equivalent of turning on the tube late at night and being swept up by the sickening charm, swagger and iconic mustache of Tom Selleck in the 1980s Magnum, P.I., series.

This small, lazy, undisciplined mind of mine nearly has been wracked and ruined by Robert B. Parker and I no longer will stand for it. No longer do I care what happens to Hawk, Spenser’s pal and protector, or Susan, Spenser’s longtime love interest. The characters surrounding the Boston P.I. are so blissfully shallow that they drown in their own stereotypes. Their exploits are cotton candy of the most formulaic, nauseating kind. Each summer I fall prey to picking a new Spenser novel and receive some twisted satisfaction from curling up with it on Long Beach Island, N.J., knowing what to expect: short chapters, little exposition, dripping sarcasm, clipped dialog. Parker’s paltry prose is the perfect antidote for a hungover state, saltwater taffy for an attention-deficient, whiskey-addled brain.

I should have listened to my brother, a retired police officer, when I handed him a Spenser novel several years ago. He gave it a good once-over as you do a flea-riddled poodle, and asked me, defensively, why I thought he couldn’t read something at a higher reading level than a third grader.

So I declare and conclude with all certainty that I am done with Robert B. Parker. He no longer will color black my genre-bending intellect and distort my fine, eclectic tastes in literature with his banal repartee and Big Gulp Spenser smoothness. And with Jimmy Buffett as my witness, I shall proclaim that I am well past the days of wasting away again in “Margaritaville” and waking up the next morning on my front porch swing to down another shot of Spenser just because he goes down easier than even the finest tequila known to mankind. Not even the phenomenal feats of the most interesting man in the world who drinks Dos Equis beer will make me thirst for another round of Spenser.

Now as for Kinky Friedman and Elmore Leonard …

© 2010, Dan Cafaro. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

As part of this effort to introduce, enshrine, and indulge these tireless entrepreneurs, we’re introducing the first in a series of exclusive interviews with indie booksellers on the front line. By picking their minds and hearts, we hope to provoke interest and insight into all aspects of the trade, from the mundane to the visionary.

First on the list is Donna Allen, owner of the legendary Maple Street Book Shop, New Orleans’ home for independent thought and excellent books since 1964 (making it the oldest indie in the city!). A former history professor and current book enthusiast, Donna shared with us the incredibly unique and admirable nature of a bookseller’s life in one of America’s most eclectic cities.

Maple Street Book Shops’ one sentence mission statement… is to provide our customers with friendly and knowledgeable service to fulfill their literary needs.

An indie bookseller succeeds when… they meet and exceed the expectations of their customer base.

Being an independent bookseller in New Orleans… is never boring. In comparison to other American cities, we have a very unique atmosphere; one that often inspires creativity in people. Writers are but one of the many groups that have contributed to our rich cultural heritage. In turn, Maple Street Book Shops heavily support local writers and their work. As the oldest independent bookstore in town, we are honored to be part, albeit a small part, of the history and culture of this great city.

Compared to the university teaching you’ve done, how does owning a bookshop compare?
While I don’t have many opportunities these days to lecture hour upon hour about the Roman Empire, there is one major similarity between teaching and owning a bookstore. The amount of paperwork involved with both professions – who knew that there would be so much paperwork involved with owning a bookstore.

Bookselling as a career… is truly a labor of love. One does not enter this profession to make tons of money.

Your dream employee… would have to be John Kennedy Toole. His “Confederacy of Dunces” remains a top seller at Maple Street Book Shops – thirty years after publication. If he worked for me, I would have him sign each and every one of his books. Also, his last place of residence before his suicide was around the corner from the shop – very convenient.

A bookshop’s relationship with the community…
Indie bookstores are very important to a community for several reasons. First, they are locally owned and operated, which means a greater percentage of the money stays within the community. Indie bookstores also act as a community gathering spot. Book club meetings, author appearances, readings and signings, and events for children are held on a regular basis and all are free and open to the public. Therefore, bookstores are more than just a supplier of books. We (Maple Street Book Shops) are honored to be part of the New Orleans community for the past 45 years – on to the next 45 years!

The biggest obstacle facing indie booksellers today… is the threat of price slashing by large chain stores (i.e. Barnes & Noble, Borders, Target, Wal-Mart). Indies simply can’t afford to continuously sustain deep discounts.

The best kind of customer…is a satisfied customer. Satisfied customers often become repeat customers.

And the worst…is the one that you can’t satisfy, no matter what you do.

Your growing popularity on Facebook and Twitter…helps us to expand our demographics, especially to areas outside of the city. The sites help to introduce us to like-minded people around the globe. Additionally, we have numerous New Orleanians that have yet to return since Katrina, following us on both sites.

Recommending books… is what separates us from the large chains. We enjoy taking the time to learn about our customers and their reading preferences. As a result, we are better prepared to serve their future needs.

The book that you wish sold well but doesn’t… is actually a series of books published by Harvard – The Loeb Classics Series (both Greek and Latin). In the past four years, I’ve sold no more than 5 books from the series.

The Amazon Kindle… thankfully, has yet to become popular with our customers.

If Barnes & Noble has a meltdown… I plan on throwing a HUGE party!

© 2010, Atticus Press. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

Let’s begin with the indisputable facts as those in the know—and the rest of us, too—know them:

• Everybody knows that major publishing houses produce Pulitzer Prize-winning novels because this distinguished award is a long established tradition and is unintentionally designed to favor the big kahunas, i.e., those presses and authors who have been blessed and accepted by the establishment.
• Everybody knows that this long-held assumption of the book publishing industry holds true in the movie industry, where the infamous Hollywood machine manufactures and promotes major blockbusters that often are heavily favored to win Academy awards because mega budgets and mega stars produce mega results.
• Everybody knows that it’s not likely for major award contests to conclude any other way when individual books and films with skyscraper-high advertising budgets—larger than the annual salaries of many independent press employees and low-budget indie film cast and crew members—inevitably receive the bulk of press coverage, retail space, and theater releases. Subsequently, these creative projects are successful in generating seed money and word-of-mouth equity, two integral factors that amount to a no-holds-barred, green light in the media and entertainment business.

These are the undeniable facts of popular culture, are they not?

Um, apparently not anymore. These former facts now, plainly and indisputably, are no longer valid. We’re living in wildly unpredictable, if not unprecedented, economic and consumer-driven times, and David is beginning to not only beat Goliath to a pulp, but he’s begun to corner the cowering behemoth and he’s ill-suited and uncertain about how to deliver the knockout punch.

Granted, this drubbing isn’t happening on a regular basis quite yet (many indies are lucky if they can afford this month’s rent), but it is happening, incrementally, at downtown bookstores and theaters near you and we (the little guys, you know, the Main Street folks whose kids attend the same schools as your kids and whose high blood pressure is the same as yours) just need to believe in the very formidable and valid reasons behind this healthy, table-turning development.

As conglomerates fight to merge and acquiesce to shrink (by firing people), the time indeed has come for small presses and independent bookstore owners to belly up to the blogger bar and listen to some free, if not sage, advice:  Be patient, folks, our time to prosper is just around the corner and we forever should be grateful for living in such liberating, empowering times.

Paul Harding’s debut novel, Tinkers, published by Belleveue Literary Press, a tiny independent not-for-profit press, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction this year. Let’s say that again, only with a few more facts. Bellevue Literary Press, a five-year-old publisher affiliated with the New York University School of Medicine, produced a little book about a dying old man and his relationship with his father, and that little book won the 2010 award for distinguished fiction by an American author, an honor long treasured by every U.S. author and publisher this side and every ink-stained side of the Mississippi. It was the first time a small press had won the Pulitzer Prize since Louisiana State University Press took the prize in 1981 for John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces.

When you think about it, even if you have a head as thick as mine, why this Cinderella novel was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction—the explanation behind Paul Harding’s stunning victory and why this honor, in fact, occurred at all—should not be all that surprising.

First off, Paul Harding did not win the American author’s ultimate dream prize because of some anomaly caused by forces of nature that we could never wrap our heads around. Paul Harding won the American author’s ultimate dream prize because the world of literature deserved better and got it. Paul Harding also won the American author’s ultimate dream prize because readers deserved better and got it. And, finally, Paul Harding won the American author’s ultimate dream prize because every person involved with its publication—the author, Bellevue Literary Press, the 2010 Pulitzer Prize Board, and every editor, designer, proofreader, marketer, publicist, distributor, and bookseller who touched the book in any way, shape or form—deserved better and got it.

The state of literature has taken it on the chin lately. Conventional wisdom, formed by naysayers, prickly pundits and intellectual snobs, claims that fine literature is being overtaken by genre fiction and dying a slow death. Everybody knows this to be true, right? Wrong. We’re living in a time when the quality of fiction in this country has never been better. Several little masterpieces are written and produced each year by authors and publishing houses, both large and small, that garner little to no attention. Some of these novels are influential and change the lives of their readers by opening their eyes and hearts to new ideas.

We’re on the road to Damascus and we don’t even know it. We cry “foul” at the thought of an e-book revolution when we should embrace each turn and pay heed to every speed bump along the way. The evolving behaviors of readers and the impact of technology are redefining the role of literature. Good writing, great writing, writing that turns heads and prompts discussion and debate for new legislation, new ways of doing things, new attitudes and solutions, this kind of writing has not left us. It’s here; it’s there; it’s everywhere. And it deserves to be heard and heralded because we as a society of free thinkers deserve better.

The concept of deserving better is why Atticus Books has nominated Alex Kudera’s debut novel, Fight for Your Long Day, for the National Book Award. As stated on the National Book Foundation website, for over a half-century since its inception, the National Book Awards continue to recognize the best of American literature, raising the cultural appreciation of great writing in the country while advancing the careers of both established and emerging writers.

In the best estimate and sound judgment of our small press, Atticus Books declares that Alex Kudera is an emerging writer who deserves consideration for this honorable achievement. We endorse Alex mainly because of his adept skill to tackle immense sociological issues in a darkly comical gem of a story about a downtrodden adjunct instructor. We know the odds are against Alex and we realize the field of candidates is both strong and proven. But we think our little guy deserves a shot.

© 2010, Dan Cafaro. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

Zurhellen’s debut work, Nazareth, North Dakota, is a modern re-telling of the story of a young Messiah, set in the lonely prairie of North Dakota beginning in the early 1980s. It is not a simple religious allegory or a self-serving vision of a second coming, but a complex, character-driven novel that holds the reader’s attention with multiple narratives and finely nuanced descriptions. Instead of telling the same old story over again, only with a different setting, Zurhellen handles the Biblical imagery with subtlety and skillfully draws in gritty freehand a fascinating portrayal about the rough-and-tumble life of a rural kid with superpowers.

Himmer’s debut novel, The Bee-Loud Glade, is the charming story of a decorative hermit who lives and works on a billionaire’s estate, and whose daily experience is shaped by his employer’s whims. The book combines a darkly comic commentary on modern work and wealth with a postmodern pastoral landscape. It brings a playfulness more commonly found in urban fiction to an outdoor setting.

Tom McCarthy, whose novel, C, has made The Man Booker Prize longlist this year, describes The Bee-Loud Glade as “an allegorical novel that seems eerily contemporary. Thoreau meets Ballard, meets Huysmans and many more.”

Nazareth, North Dakota and The Bee-Loud Glade, both scheduled for spring 2011 release, are by writers who have a strong track record of publishing tight and entertaining fiction in an unsoiled laundry list of literary journals.

“These guys possess writing chops to burn,” says Dan Cafaro, founder and publisher of Atticus Books, an independent press based in the Washington, D.C., area. “I know I have said and will continue to say that about every writer we sign, but with Tommy [Zurhellen] and Steve [Himmer], I feel like we’ve hit the mother lode. They have that perfect combination of youth, energy, talent and discipline. Their writing exhibits a sign of maturity and wisdom well beyond their years. And besides that, they know how to spin a good yarn.”

Zurhellen has been teaching creative writing at Marist College since 2004, and serves as director of the Marist Summer Writing Institute and the Writer-in-Residence program. He received his Master of Fine Arts in creative writing from the University of Alabama in 2002. His short works have been published in Quarterly West, Carolina Quarterly, Passages North, South Dakota Review, The MacGuffin, Crab Creek Review, Apalachee Review, River Oak Review, Red Mountain Review, Iconoclast, Coal City Review, and elsewhere.

Himmer teaches at Emerson College in Boston, where he earned his Master of Fine Arts in creative writing and is on the faculty of the First Year Writing Program. His stories have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Hobart, The Los Angeles Review, Night Train, Pindeldyboz, PANK, Emprise Review, and Everyday Genius. He also is a frequent blogger on writing and teaching, and edits Necessary Fiction, a webjournal from So New Publishing, a press based in Eugene, Oregon.

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Atticus Books is an independent press based in Kensington, Md., a close-in Washington, D.C., suburb. In addition to publishing genre-busting novels, Atticus regularly posts online works including original short stories, poems, literary essays and creative non-fiction.

© 2010, Atticus Press. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

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:

Here’s to you, Hank, for blazing poetic trails, cutting through the rhetoric of literary conventionality, and emptying your guts on the page with the madcap artistry of a seasoned fisherman gutting that day’s catch. Here’s to setting our acquisition efforts on manuscripts and characters who all have a little Henry Chinaski trampling coarsely through their veins.

Here’s to you, too, Alex Kudera, for writing your first novel (Fight for Your Long Day), and taking a chance on an unknown small press. Most of all, I salute you for providing a beacon of truth, with originality and deadpan humor, so readers of your work can observe the “paradoxes that lie disturbingly at the core of American academia today,” as fittingly described by Anthony Zielonka, an instructor of French and comparative literature at Assumption College in Worchester, Mass.

And, finally, here’s to Cyrus Duffleman, the overeducated Everyman and dedicated foot soldier of the faculty, who has been compared to a “subway-scholar Ignatius J. Reilly (A Confederacy of Dunces)” by Justin Bauer, a books columnist with Philadelphia City Paper. Duffy, may your entertaining story be embraced and discussed far and wide, and may there be a lesson to be learned in between the laughs, the winces, and the gut-wrenching reality of your so-called fictional world.

To see a full spread of the ARC cover of Fight for Your Long Day, brilliantly designed by Jamie Keenan, who also deserves a steep tip of the glass in his honor, please click here. To order a copy from Barnes & Noble and receive a 32% pre-press discount off the $14.95 list price, click here.

© 2010, Dan Cafaro. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

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.

Introduction

This is literature
It’s not about you.
If the glove fits it probably shrunk.
On the other hand,
The first to smell himself
Is usually the skunk.

New Hucklesbury is a mythical place.
Have some fun, go figure.
Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t
A satire, an allegory
Or
Just one big complaint.

(1)

I live here, I’m ashamed to say
In New Hucklesbury USA,
I moved here from California,
A continent and a culture away.
When I got here things went bad
Then became progressively worse
Hence, to relieve my frustration
I wrote this little book of verse.
I drove 3000 miles to arrive, in 2005
To a log home, nice lot, trees, lakes.
And mingle comfortably with the flakes,
The redneck, eccentric, lunatic fringe,
But to my horror I caught the disease.
Depression, bi-polar, not to mention the binge.

(2)

I pray for the way,
To part the Connecticut and Exodus, NH USA.
So I’ll start with a list of my complaints.
Number one, the pusher. The weedy stuff
Is trouble, But the stuff that bursts your bubble,
Prescribed by medics
From the bottom of their class,
Who think out of their ass…is OK.
In New Hucklesbury USA, hills for the presidency
Say, number two by the way, I’m not a crook. But
The wife, she steals your poke. Blessed by
Jurisprudence, judge and a hay seed jury joke.
Enforced by brown shirts, like Father Germany.
Number three, free to live but prefer to die.
Under the waning flag of the Union sky.

(3)

It’s been a week now,
Since I’ve been off the junk.
I just couldn’t tolerate
The effects, put my head in a funk.
From the stuff prescribed to me
In New Hucklesbury
Snake oil from a trunk
With a bone across the nose
My health care professional punk.
I may as well have gotten the stuff
In an alley, pimped myself for cash.
‘Cuz in New Hucklesbury
The punk healthcare professional,
The twit, don’t know his face from his ass.

(4)

Doctors, pharmaceuticals conspire. Drugged me good.
So I went cold turkey, didn’t work, brain went hollow,
Just argued with my wife,
Then a nasty divorce to follow.
I wanted to end my miserable life, when
My stepdaughter’s boyfriend
Came in, thru the door, pissed me off
So I threw him on the floor.
Ensued a judicial restraining order,
Which in my wisdom to uphold I did fail,
By writing a simple email,
The restrain-ed, to the restrain-ee,
Brown Shirt says it’s some kinda poetry.
Better throw him in jail.

(5)

A little aside
Brown Shirt comes to my home
To arrest me. Go away I say
I pick up my dog to stop her barking
Brown Shirt pulls his weapon taser.
We’re doing this my way,
He belligerently says.
Again I say go away.
But he points his pecker pride and joy
At me and Muffin, my pooch.
Step down asshole stooge.
Else I’ll fry you. And your little dog too.
It’s true, as the day is long, hey, hey, hey.
Only in New Hucklesbury USA.

(6)

I must enlarge the scope of this,
‘Cuz it’s personal. Me vs. NH professionals.
A cop, a prosecutor, a judge, a jailer,
Treated my like shit. But were politically acceptable.
To them I was just California trash.
Too bad I’m not a minority
Or a Pilgrim from Plymouth Rock, or among the aboriginals.
A system of twits, silly people, excrement because it’s…
Suffice for the digression.
But at least I feel better, for venting my criminal confession.
Got a suspended sentence after some time in jail,
Wrongly accused like me, I even posted one guy’s bail.
Just one more thing, and to this I will imbibe,
For such a decent, extemporaneous diatribe!

(7)

Another aside from this diatribe
Remember Judge Robespierre from the French Revolution
The simplest crime resulted in execution
Judge Muckolavate was just the same
At least I think that was his name
I broke a restraining order by replying to an email.
Throw him in jail, no bond. Just $10,000 cash bail. For an email?
Can you believe this guy?
Is he Judge Evil or what? An idiot? But,
In my mind I see the same fate,
That caught up with Robespierre
Likewise will overtake. The civil service terrorist,
Judge Muckolavate. Here endeth the away
God help New Hucklesbury USA.

(8)

Nevertheless bless her heroes of war.
Returning to the socialistic hoar.
Three categories in New Hucklesbury
Those who are dead. Those who beg bread
And who otherwise epitomize
Those who survive. A job if they’re lucky,
Maybe write a book through a ghost,
On the backs of the dead and beggars.
Get wealthy in New Hucklesbury. ‘Cuz,
The locals love a heroic war story.
Vicarious valor, with no badge of honor,
Doesn’t matter what. A dessert,
Rice paddy, cave, a thatched hut.
Folks who’d quake at an RPG shot,
Up their patriotic, New Hucklesbury butt.

(9)

Brilliant legislators. No seat belts, no helmets,
Can’t license a bike, unless you’re an
Organ donor. Says biker Sue to biker Mike,
Let’s hit the road Dude, ain’t it great
To feel the wind in one ear and out the other
In the Hucklesbury state.
Says biker Bruce to biker Blake, duh,
We’re married, why can’t we procreate?
Live free without a seat belt,
Oops, crash, through the windshield fly.
Splat, red on the road,
The license plates don’t lie,
Here in New Hucklesbury.
Live free, dumb ass, or die.

(10)

Just one more aside for the heck of it
I crashed my car once. Holy shit.
A Hummer ‘cuz I got an ego
Head on, cur-firkin-boom Adios amigo.
I thought to myself, so what, I’m dead.
Even made the newspapers, the six o’clock living room.
No one died, a concussion, broken bones, a smoky plume.
But the aftermath repercussions.
Of health care and insurance,
Holistically. Made me wish I were Canadian,
Eh!
At least they’re friendly socialists, anyway,
So,
Screw New Hucklesbury USA.

(11)

As I mentioned at the start
I’m trying to get off the dope
Prescribed to me in New Hucklesbury,
Over years as a patient
At the end of my rope,
By a doctor with an attitude,
A psychiatrist too busy to talk
A therapist with no license.
Three Wise Willies, QUimby, sAndy, jaCK.
Leaving California was vanity.
I want back my sanity.
If I return, I promise, never again to stray
To this Hell hole, the dregs of the earth. Ergo
My ode to, New Hucklesbury USA.

Conclusion

My grandmother said, Don’t say nothin’
If you can’t say nothin’ good. Too late for that now,
Anyway she’s dead. Nevertheless, on a positive note I’ll end.
New Hucklesbury’s local brew is the best in the land.
Something like Moosehead, smooth. Here’s a trick
To use, when you’re tanked at the bar, get a road beer to go, down
The highway followed, by Trooper Coe-hyphen-Brown. Accelerate then
Turn, like a U. Head straight for the clown. Watch him
Head for the woods. Steal his taser so you got
A fighting chance when Brown, next time your dog tries to pop.
And New Hucklesbury lawyers, likewise, best in the land.
Minimize your jail time, I recommend. Chuck, Chad and Chime,
Chime’s oriental, nice guy, green card in hand. So I conclude,
Retaining C, C & C. Not the least condescending, in case I get sued.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Lawrence Grant is a technology consultant in the field of information technology and computer science. After forty years of working in both government and large-scale private sector industries throughout North America and the world, he suddenly, but not unexpectedly, went crazy. He was once diagnosed with clinical depression and bi-polar disorder. If he had his druthers, he’d like to tell all mothers to not let their babies grow up to be computer guys.

© 2010, David Lawrence Grant. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

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.

I’ve never shot anything in my life
And I don’t think I ever will
But if I had a gun
I would shoot a Rhino right now.

That’s if I could find one.

But that’s just the thing.
It’s still not there (I mean, here).

I’ve been waiting
And I’m tired of waiting
So I’ve decided to bite the apple.

And it’s a good apple,
No worms, no seeds.

Fuck the Rhino.
What do you need a Rhino for
When you have a good apple?

What do you need a Rhino for
When you can write it all down however you want
And not answer to a single person?

Only yourself.

That’s why you bite the apple.
That’s why you look at its skin.
You examine its stem.
You notice its texture, its soft spots (if there are any)
And you bite it.

No telling what’s inside
Till you bite it.

And what gets you
Isn’t the flavor
Isn’t the juices that spray all over your cheeks
(or a beard if you have one).

It’s the beauty of biting that apple.
It’s the beauty of living
And not dying.
Writing
And not foundering.
Communicating
And not harboring

Thoughts, feelings …

It’s the beauty of accepting change
And not accepting change,
Electing to smile
And not electing to smile.

Making a decision to put it on paper
And with every ounce of your strength
Putting it on paper.
By rhino, God, or that God-forsaken apple,
Put it down on paper.

Photo source: Anime Community Vidberry

© 2010, Dan Cafaro. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

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?

Now why do I know that the old lady across the street with some kind of kerchief covering her ears with polyester slacks, a white unfashionable jacket and beat-up sneakers is most certainly
Not death?
She couldn’t be, right?

And then there was just this guy who walked past with a goofy expression, a sailor’s cap of some sort and a long stride who most certainly was
Not death.
He couldn’t be, right? (I promise not to be repetitious again. Remember, I hate sequels.)

But the guy with the dark shades, the one who wore a blank expression—he might be.
There’s a chance, right?

Now there’s this other guy who is always carrying something—a bag of some sort—with a baseball cap on—a younger guy. He has a beard. He looks homeless. Unhygienic. Always walking. Wandering.

He might be the one.

I’m not paranoid of death. I just wonder what he might look like if he were to appear in my bookshop. I doubt he would look like a little boy or young girl. But there I go following those pre-conceived notions of what death should look like.

I always think of Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. That’s what I picture. A chess match between Max Von Sydow and Death.

So unoriginal am I, that’s all I see—
This black-and-white depiction
of a stark pale, dark-eyed man
in an all-encompassing cloak, 
moving a pawn,
laughing sinisterly,
As brought to us by the silver screen.

What’s wrong with this picture?

There’s no death outside, lurking around the corner, waiting for me. Not on a day like today. It’s spring almost. After a crummy, brutal winter. It’s spring almost. I’m young. I’m 29. I’m almost 30. It’s the spring of my life. I can die tomorrow of some hell disease. Not today.

Now death might be waiting for those two old ladies who just walked past across the street. They looked old and they looked like they might be expecting him. They were helping each other sum up the courage.

Or perhaps this Coca-Cola truck that just pulled up is really delivering bottles of something other than a dark, peculiar tasting liquid that everybody drinks and pretends to like. But that’s for Stephen King to decide.

What really gives me a lift is knowing that this is not a sequel to “Where’s the Rhino?”
(God knows I tried, anyway).
God knows that I have faith that he knows that.

God knows what the heck (oh, what the hell) I was aiming for when I wrote this trash.

God knows I believe in him but he also knows I have my moments of doubt. And shame.

God knows I am happy this wasn’t a sequel.

God knows where the Rhino is. He’s just not telling me.

God knows I’d rather be writing something else right now.

God knows why I write.

© 2010, Dan Cafaro. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.

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.)

Now if God were to prove me wrong and a live rhinoceros appeared before my eyes,
I would claim that I am not sure of anything. Anything at all in this muck of a universe.
But because a rhinoceros has yet to appear
Before my eyes
I am sure—positive—
That there are things to be sure of.

I have a birth certificate with my name on it and it tells me the place and date I was delivered.
I don’t know exactly the moment I was conceived.
These thoughts
Were conceived
Just now.
No, not now while you are reading them. That’s impossible.
I think
Therefore I am
Going to show you why I write.
Perhaps I better not show you—it may take some time to draw a man with a noose
And they may commit me after seeing how poorly I draw.

No, I did not draw this.

I write because I need to express
Life.
Life is why I write.

Death is why I write.

The space between is why I sleep, eat and shit.

(I promise to be vulgar only when necessary.)

You are not why I write. You are why I itch.
You are why I strive to be me.
You are why

This page has ended—
Let us go in pieces—
And understand little of what has been said
And not written.

© 2010, Dan Cafaro. All rights reserved.

©2010 Atticus Books: Where distinct voices become legend. All Rights Reserved.