I want to begin this story where it ends.
He drops me at the station in the rain before dawn
and says well, should I kiss you goodbye.
His eyebrows rise into the boredom of his body
the way they’d rise in class when someone
suggested Leopold Bloom was homosexual.
All over New Jersey it’s raining. He is speeding
to the train, thinking if he can get me there on time
he will not have to wait, and I do actually mistake
a blurry streetlamp for the moon and nod yes
to the kiss as if he’d offered it. At the end
I’m a helmet of ambivalence. All transparent shield,
all bulletproof bubble, the vast yes and no of pure metal.
In the middle I can’t sleep so I suck on his cock.
It stays limp in my mouth as desire like venom
seeps into the past where I sat on the vast other side
of his desk to talk about my future and his wall
made of books cut a path through the sea back to Ithaca.
Now around us the bodies of sixteen-year-old boys
are asleep on both floors of the dorm and his cock
is a mumbled apology for whatever they did or did not
want from me in the middle of the story as the story
goes: I don’t go to that school anymore, I am as old
as Isabel Archer, Dorothea Brooke, the end
of books. It’s morning, my ticket in hand.

Taije Silverman

A weekly zine published by Dipika Kohli. She writes:

The discovery started me on a lifelong track to go and seek the new and the different, no matter how far I had to venture. I wanted to pick up pieces of everywhere, things I felt truly resonated with me. So it began. What if I could personally go and meet people in new (to me) places, see what their lives were like, befriend one or two, get to build trust and try, if not perfectly, but try, to hear and see the way they were hearing and seeing?

Become a member or pick up the issue she and I were “Talking Type.”

This guy I used to know—a friend of mine-my
ex-husband I met at nineteen on a blind

date though I could see by the time
our fried clams had arrived it wasn’t meant

to be—he said time would only
tell—I said meantime I’ll only be

wishing you well but when
the check came he was a different

man—I mean he was my student—or I
his and he was obviously an expert in early

sixth-century anonymous Gaelic poetry
that revolves around a rhyme scheme—

as he explained over the beer we shared illegally
after class—in which changing the placement

of any one word means reducing
the poem to nonsense. He was good

with his head—or hands—or at nothing
but baking bread although when all was said

and done he remained a rabid Catholic
who wanted to ban the word embryo

or he was having an emotional affair
with a pregnant woman and loved jawbreakers

and whether I ran into him at Walmart
or we went intentionally to the river is beside

the point because he was a black hole
which meant not actually on earth and therefore

could only be known as the Dark Lord (his name
was Josh) or the World’s Most Apologetic Liar

or the illustrious co-author of How to Surmise
Then Hypnotize Your Real Mr. Right and we spent

a single night together without technically
inhaling but the divorce still proved undoing

for the children. He was the father
of my dictionary. He was an irreplaceable

rhyme for baby. He was my third
love, my second chance, a trampoline’s notion

of romance. Maybe now, maybe then,
maybe if, or so the end refrains. He was one

of a number of mistakes I made
for which I don’t take blame.

Taije Silverman

In 2008, I began collecting Vietnamese songs arranged in jazzy styles for my own listening pleasure. Then I lost motivation and just stopped. As the years went on, more Vietnamese songs produced with jazz flavors. I recently picked it up where I left off.

I am curating 127 songs and I would like to share my collection with anyone who would be interested in listening to Vietjazz. I want to create a simple music app or a webpage that would stream these songs randomly. It would be great for long road trips. Unfortunately, I haven’t figured out how to create a simple music app. I could create a webpage, but the bandwidth to host these songs will put a hole in my pocket.

I am thinking of just to create a simple page with all the songs information listed, but I don’t know if that’s useful or not. Nevertheless, I spent a couple hours this morning typing up all the song titles, songwriters, and singers. I even put in the styles for each song. I did all of this on my Apple Music App. Then I uploaded to my YouTube Music account. YouTube Music allows me to share the playlist, but listeners would need a YouTube Music account to access it. If you like to check out the playlist, sign up a free YouTube Music account.

I will continue to add more songs in the future and I will continue to think about making the free streaming music app. It would definitely be a good learning experience. If you have any suggestion about making the app, hit me up. For now, you can enjoy Donny Truong Presents Vietjazz on YouTube Music.

All the pretty girls.
Parsley, sage, salt, glue.
And you’re a big help to him
says my husband’s father
when I share his news of promotion.
Hey, hey, buckle my shoe,
No sing me a new song mama
says my son before bed.
All the pretty girls.
No another song.
Lost my partner what’ll I do,
lost my partner what’ll I do.
Skip to my lou my darling.
No a new song.
Hey little girl is your daddy home
did he go and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire.
Where am I going with this
I’m thinking while he watches
his pillow to picture the words.
All the pretty girls.
He fucked the shit out of her explained
my father about the plot of a movie.
The pretty girls.
Dad do you have to say that to me?
Mama another one. Mama a new one.
Well I’m sorry but that’s what he did.
You’re a big help to him.
All the pretty girls.

Taije Silverman

We were planning on going to Seven Springs, but my wife cancelled the trip because of the rain and the warm weather. Luckily, she was right. Seven Springs is pausing its operation today and tomorrow.

At 8:00 am, I dropped my oldest son off at his school and headed to Liberty. Despite the rain and the warm weather, the trails at Liberty were snowboardable. I determined to learn short turns so I could ride the double-black-diamond slopes. When I learned to ski, I picked up short turns early on and I still use them to ski the double-black-diamond slopes.

I arrived at Liberty around 9:45 am and started off on the green trails. With the rain and the warm weather, the snow was slushy. It was not an ideal condition, but I just had to work with what they had. I tried to jump to get my board around. Because the slope was flat, I had to jump a bit higher. After four jumps alternating from heel to toe turns, I was tired and my feet were in pain. I was not in good shape to do this on snowboard.

I gave up the green slopes and went to the back side to try the blue slopes. Surprisingly, the jumps were easier on blue slopes. Because the slopes were steeper, I didn’t have to jump so high to get my board around. I slid out a few times on my toe turns because I was leaning backward instead of forward. When I fixed that, I was able to complete my turns.

After three runs of doing the jumps on the blue slopes, I was exhausted, thirsty, and hungry. I should have brought a bottle of coconut water with me, but I didn’t. I went back to the front to get lunch and a drink. I wanted to test out the jump turns on the black slope, but it was closed. I had to take the green slope back.

I ate a cold sandwich I packed. It didn’t taste too good. Luckily, I brought along a bottle of mango margarita wine to wash down the bread, turkey, cheese, and prosciutto. After lunch, I headed back to the back side. Since I was able to do the jump turns on the blue slopes, I might was well test them out on the double black. Even though I was not planning on snowboarding on the double black, I went for it once the wine kicked in.

On the first run, I fell because I didn’t commit my jumps. Unlike my previous attempts, however, I fell with my board down the slope instead of my head sliding down the slope. I could stop sliding down with my board; therefore, I was able to get up and try again. The second and third runs, I fell a bit, but I was able to get my board around. The fourth time, I finally made the commitment to jump. Unfortunately, I was too tired after that. I could barely lift my feet. Around 2:00 pm, I called it the day.

It was definitely a great learning experience and a fantastic workout. I am looking forward to doing some more to master the jump turns.

Whether writing about the loss of his son, the revenge of his father, or the sweet sound of Benny Goodman’s clarinet, B.H. Fairchild brings out the extraordinary of the ordinary life on the page with lyrical emotion. I didn’t understand every piece in the collection, but the ones I did I loved them.

Don’t you know your Latin said the poet who wanted to kiss me
repeating cupio dissolvi until I wrote the words down

on a placemat. He was taking me out again for dinner.
He was telling me every small thing I should hear. Grinzosa

means wrinkled; beltá is like beauty but no longer used.
You weren’t here, he wasn’t you, what’s my crime, come on.

It means love for the end is what he tried to explain, but saying
I had to drink more wine because he wanted to.

Eliot called Pound the better locksmith in Italian
although a poet loves inloveness more than any iron gate.

Today’s the Day of the Immaculate Conception and so
the locksmith shops aren’t open. I had to call a number listed

under SOS after locking myself out of my apartment and when
the locksmith learned that I’d come from the city of Rocky Balboa,

he agreed to stay for a cup of coffee. Cupio means wish
but also yearn for and hunger, to covet, to crave and to need.

What’s the difference, I asked the poet, between love
for the end and for pretty young bodies-good question, he said

and he puzzled like a stoplight, but there is one, there is one, there is.
I wanted him to want to kiss me too. The locksmith is a widower.

He never thought his wife would die, not once
in forty years, he said-it just wasn’t a thought he ever had.

We agreed at our stupidity but in his eyes was loneliness I didn’t want
to recognize; I know he’d feel the same and didn’t blame me.

I want to ask the poet what’s the difference between beauty
and a beauty that’s no longer used, or the difference

between death and to dissolve. These aren’t the kinds of questions
I would ask you. Husband, you’re the absence of longing.

And I promise I’ll grow old and die. And I promise I’ll give you my life.

Taije Silverman

A versatile Neo-Grotesque type family, Macan, TIGHTYPE, balances utility and vivacity. While Macan focuses on functionality, Macan Stencil brings quirky quality to the family. Both solid and stencil versions support Vietnamese. Its acute, grave, and hook above stack to the right of its circumflex. I had the pleasure of reviewing Vietnamese diacritics for Macan. Check out the Macan Vietnamese specimen.

After reading Stanley Crouch’s Kansas City Lightning: The Rise and Times of Charlie Parker, I had been waiting patiently for the second installment to drop. The first installment was so darn good and it took Crouch a long time to finish it.

Kansas City Lightning released in 2013, which was a decade already; therefore, I thought he should have released the second installment or he should be finishing it up already. I did a quick Google search and to my dismay Stanley Crouch had passed away in 2020 at 74. I had no clue.

I hope some other jazz writers will pick up where Crouch left off. It would be a great loss if the second part of Charlie Parker’s life and music will never release. RIP, Mr. Stanley Crouch. Thanks for the works you have left behind.