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There was often a black photographer who would come to the shop with an empty shopping bag. When he left, he with leave in a zigzag and eventually get on a bus going south. I wanted to read a poem that was sent by the poet that i invited to the recent San Francisco International Poetry festival from iraq ive been in touch with for more than a year and a half. After the United States would not give him his visa, i asked him i told him about mutanabbi street and he wrote a poem and he wrote it in english, though he writes in, of course, in arabic. But this one he wrote in english. So ill read it...

Afghan war. 1, small bones of mountain children in the snow. Two, bags of rice burst open, burlap flaps in the wind. Even the label, usa, is fading. Three, we air drop transistor radios. Can you eat them . Will they keep you warm . This one is called les american, october 5, 2001. We are feral, rare as mountain wolves. Our hearts are pure and stupid. We go down, pitted against our own. Theres one other short thing. We gathered there frequently, old scholars, printers, book collectors, old and young writers pass through the place on any given afternoon. All kinds of activity came to the shop in...

What of the singer robed in red and frozen at midsong . And the stone, its brokenness, or the voice oft seen that says note the dragon seen but asking no questions of flight, no questions of irridescence, what of that century, did you see it pass . What of that wolf hound at your back . And then a poem that is for mahmud darlish called the dream of narcissus. The dream of narcissus, that there would be a silence loud as time. The dream of the writer that there could be a silence loud as time, the dream of time that rest might come, the dream of rest, that unrest might arise. The dream of the p...

The wind toyed with gates and roof tops, alone in a state of semi oblivion. On the day almatarazzo street was bombed, did you notice how quickly it folded in itself . Or the broken tea cups and coffeestained saucers, the gray matter, and just before the street was eviscerated by those, just before that moment, did you hear the patter, the proclamation, the prayer as they wrangled and swore, denied and affirmed, did you hear the words as they fell . For a thousand years we have, two thousand years, more coffee . What do you think . But this book says map, border, industry, collusion, resistance...

Kills for no reason. The enemy is never one who must be vanquished at all cost. It is not so easy to kill from the inside, a shifting corridor of blame. Not so easy to trace an intricate blame of betrayals and broken treaties. The enemy is not you, the enemy is not me. The enemy is muslim, christian, atheist, hindu, jew. He is our collective face, our evolution, the devolution, the ripening of long injustices. Thank you. The next poet is michael palmer. What of that wolf hound at full stride. What of the woman that serves as fairl guide and witness to the snowy hive . What of the singer robed ...