Ananda Osel

 

Ananda Osel is a writer and photographer who's around. He's the Editor of Commonline, a Seattle based electronic literary arts journal. His work has appeared in the New York Quarterly, Denver Syntax, Identity Theory, The Humanist, and others. His last chapbook, Dispatches from the Third World (2009), is a collection of poetry about Thailand. Besides poetry, he's fascinated by various plants, feral Valais Blackneck goats and South Korean cinema.

 

Ananda Osel's Website: www.ananda-osel.com

 

conversation with monk at 7-11

 

“hello” he says.

“hello” i say.

“cooler in here…” he says

“yeah, much” i reply

 

“where you come from?” he asks

 

“from America”

 

“is Buddha in America“ he asks

“it depends” i say “is Buddha in Thailand?”

“yes” he answers

 

“can he see us?”

“Buddha sees us” he tells me

 

i say that i’m afraid of being seen

“i understand” he says

 

then we both stare blankly into the drink cooler.

after a minute he picks out a soda can and i ask 

“is this orange stuff good?”

 

“it depends” he says

“i understand” i tell him

 

at times there’s just not much else worth saying.

 

---

no swimming pool

 

i’m eating stir fried beef with pepper sauce.

a black koi swims a figure eight to my left

and everything is reasonable.

 

after a few minutes two 

American girls come in.

 

my waitress approaches them and smiles.

 

“do you have a double room?”

they ask.

 

“yes, double room 600 baht”

says the waitress.

 

a stray dog wanders over and sits next to me.

 

“you’re not getting any of my food”

i tell the dog.

 

he understands and gets up to leave.

 

“umm, do you have a swimming pool?”

ask the Americans.

 

“No, we only have that fish there that is swimming”

says my waitress.

 

the Americans turn and walk out

and my waitress comes over and

asks  “another drink sir?”

 

i answer

“please, i’d appreciate that.”

 

and the black koi

goes round and

round again.

---

 

Intercity Transit Bus #41 Snapshot

 

paid my 75 cents

and sat down by the window.

 

a little boy was sitting across the isle 

with his young parents. 

 

mommy took a dollar out of her 

pocket and gave it to the little boy.

 

“you can keep it if you’re a good boy” said the mother

“who’s that?” said the boy

“that’s George Washington, our first president” said the mother

“can we go to his house?” asked the kid

“no he’s dead.  he died like a hundred years ago” said the mother

“i think Washington has been dead for 

over two-hundred years” i said

the mother just ignored me

 

“can we go to his house mama” the kid asked again

“i told you he’s dead, dead-dead-dead” then she 

looked at the father and said

“tell em papa, tell em”

“yeah, he’s dead.  He died with his mouth full” said papa

“no that was Lincoln daddy” said mama

“oh yea, that was Lincoln” conceded daddy

“honey” mama said turning to the little boy “Lincoln died with a full 

mouth, Washington just died cause we was real old”

“please can we visit him mommy?” asked the little boy

“JESUS…” said mommy “what don’t 

you understand.  I told you HE IS DEAD”

“we can’t go to a dead guy’s house and 

he’s a dead guy” daddy told the little boy

“can we visit him tomorrow then?” asked the boy

“maybe the notion of death is beyond 

his grasp at this point” i suggested

“mind your own fucking business man” daddy said

“yeah, fuck off ” said mommy

“some nerve you got man” said daddy

no one else said anything

(they never do)

 

the little boy just sat silently smiling

and i sat silently alone,

an abnormal 

amongst heaps of the 

all too normal. 

---

 

the rub of treachery

 

it takes me about four minutes

to write one poem,

plus another five 

editing and 

formatting

it.

 

it’s all very quick and painless,

and all very over.

 

and these moments of inspiration

are becoming less and less

frequent.

 

some times two months pass,

nothing, three months, 

still nothing.

 

yet, the nights keep arriving and 

so I try to arrive too.

 

the tragedy is that these concerns 

in themselves are so dull, 

trivial, and most of all, 

comfortable.

 

to be concerned with such a thing

can only come from 

the calm that kills, 

slowly, slowly, 

slowly.    

---

 

four step filter

 

“if you’d like to get an idea about what 

we publish please purchase a sample copy of 

our magazine for a mere fourteen dollars”

 

well,

if you know where, you can get 

two bottles of decent Spanish 

vino for a mere fourteen, 

which will take you much 

further than a 

“sample copy” 

 

but, 

if you insist i’ll let you in

on a small secret

 

first, 

find the nearest bookshop

go to the “literary” section 

(which is always in the back or 

front depending on the neighborhood)

 

second,

find a magazine and right away turn 

to the “Contributor Notes”

 

third,

close your eyes, 

point randomly,

open your eyes 

and read:

 

Jonathan D. Harper lives in Watkinsville Creek Farms in Morton, Georgia, where he and his wife lead literary retreats to promote organic food and wonderful writing.  He enjoys gathering eggs at dawn, making fresh gorgonzola-mushroom-cilantro omelets for his family, and breeding German Shepards for the local police department.

 

fourth, 

put the magazine back on the shelf, 

forget about it, and 

keep your fourteen bucks.