The Bookends Review

Would you like to go to dinner?
Is your pasta good?
Do you want my coat?
Can I kiss you goodnight?
Will you be my girlfriend?
Can we make long distance work?
Did you have a good first day?
Can I see pictures of your new place?
Why aren’t you wearing the necklace I got you?
Don’t you know how good it looks?
Can I do anything to make your day better?
Do you know how great you are?… ...continue reading

With one glance, you knew we were people deficient in everything—gunpowder and gold, naked as newborns. And it was true, we were lacking ……………in dysentery and paranoia, and we were terribly unadvanced ……………when it came to killing other humans. But we aren’t anymore. So quickly you claimed us like terra firma, like the Earth that carries you, repaid only in boot-marks. We saved you, ……………gave you our corn and told you our names. Mine is Samoet. You called me Isabella. – Angelica Esquivel … ...continue reading

Jim Curtis received his PhD from Columbia University and taught for 31 years at the University of Missouri. He now lives in Pennsylvania with his wife and a much-loved poodle, Alfie. The origin of Decoding Dylan, his current book, goes back to his early years in Tupelo, Mississippi, when he had the chance to see Elvis Presley perform live. That was a life-changing experience that gave him his lasting love of rock and roll, and the great rock stars such as Bob Dylan.

In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum and Curtis go in-depth about Dylan’s cultural impact and inspirations, as well his links to other artists, Curtis’ process for completing the book, and more!

– Jim Curtis

… ...continue reading

My head is underground
having its gray crystal day
knowing where a dark
is left on for all
the seeking.  I can only stay
behind some holiness
and think of all those whose
forgiving hands I feel,
my ears close to the mycorrhizae
loving time.  Even I came down here
looking for the kiss I wanted
and instead found the crying
stone that smelled me in its sleep,
I wanted to be known. 
You who have suffered, I dig
my bones for you:  scrawled
on calcium language a hard-
ness so gentle it eats rain
night after night so you don’t
have to.  You have my blessing. 
Just bring a firefly beauty to my
face sometime so I know
you were thinking of me.

– Lindsey Warren… ...continue reading

Growing up in 1980s Southern California, I had the requisite skater boyfriend who was into the punk metal band Suicidal Tendencies. I never really liked their music, but the name got stuck in my brain. It offers insight into the minds of folks who struggle, and sometimes lose, the battle with depression. For anyone who read the news this year, I am talking about the high profile suicides of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain. I am also talking about the friend of a friend who brought life to an end the same week. I am talking about my best friend, Monika Lilia, who jumped off a cliff at age 43. I am talking about me.

Before any of my family or friends begin to panic, I am fine.… ...continue reading

There is a man shaking my hand outside the Chinese Theater. Pumping it, just shaking vigorously and with great excitement. He marched up to me a moment ago, here on Hollywood Boulevard, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. Ah ha ha, he says. It’s perfect. You’ve done it right. You’re his twin!

I mean, he continues, the Spider Man, sure, the Elvis, yes, the Marilyn. We expected to see all of them. And they’re all sort of piss-poor, just disappointing. But you, you could be the real deal!

Nothing he says gives me a clue as to what he’s talking about. He hands me a dollar.

You’ve earned it, he says.

Then he asks to take his photo with me. Everybody snaps pictures of me. People press themselves next to me and wrap their arms around my shoulders, grinning at cameras, pointing their fingers at me.… ...continue reading

I can’t begin to guess about how many years
it’s been since I’ve thought about my parents:
how my father swung his belt for small infractions.
I felt the leather but didn’t see myself as heroic—
I was a little boy, not Ornytus in The Aeneid,
but sometimes I couldn’t remember my name
the next day. I was a traveler on a treacherous journey,   
a kid in a continuous crime scene, an angry victim.             
Two damaged strangers owned the slowest part of my entire
life, and I think about something, something else I’ve told
myself: I wonder whether I’d have shined brighter if lovely
people had raised me in another family, earlier in the century,      
if my sophisticated mother would have played vinyl Coltrane,
telling me, When you listen to him, your heart shatters.   … ...continue reading