country. land of commercialism. if i can win gold medals. if i can sign my life away. ain't no language. this is my country too. i believe in free dom and diversity, need to get the hell out. [applause] >> i have one more performer. can you believe that? i am so excited. he is a very kind man to be here. he's a total icon. tales of the city. his book that was made do a

city. he's here on his book tour. thank you very much. well, i would not have missed this evening for anything. you and i both know these things can be boring. not tonight. i like to read, since i'm back home from a tour. i would like to read the chapter that my editor wanted me to remove. i have to set it up for you.

michael toliver is 55 years old. they have gone to florida because his mother has died. and they have been out to the rest home, to the bear bar in orlando. they meet a black bear, that is a husky african-american guy and the guy basically propositions them. proposes a three way. they decided he seems like a great guy.

they tell him about their b and b. the innamong the flowers. it doesn't mean anything because it was camouflage night at the full moon saloon. we felt compelled to tidy up. and reaging toilet. you force him to shower. we stashed it in the closet.

he grabbed a razor and headed for the stall. you better be faithful about it. it's down right inhospitable. he was dressed in a while, v-neck tee shirt. nothing. just wondering about the dress code. where your dress pants. you look hot in those. did you see my ring? i swear you would lose your

head if it wasn't attached. this was my mother. i wondered if her death would release me or if i was doomed to norman bates territory. he will be here in five minutes. half an hour later, after i squeezed. we were awkward as wall flowers. the lamp was already blazing with intensity. my growing hard on >> he seemed amenable. he got cold feet?

may be he lost interest. ben shrugged. who knows. i would be with us in the second. i am serious. don't you feel abandoned. it's a three way honey, i don't think two people can feel abandoned. he might be late. i looked at the clock again. 25 minutes. only hustlers can get away with that. he's not a hustler? ben turned and looked at me. you think i bought us a hustler? how pathettic tic do you think we are? >> i sort of felt like he

targeted us. i didn't get that sense. may be i'm wrong. ben smiled. you are disappointed. no , i said, no just annoyed. he pulled down the waist band. i don't need a mercy suck. he looked up. mercy suck. whatever. undeterred ben got down to business. mercy i said, there was when mr. johnson knocked on the door. you may have figured it out by now. to us, he was still the great dark man. a mythical man or object to

desire. it was probably why we jumped to attention. jesus. tucking the incriminating evidence. wait. let this go down first. >> why? i don't know. seems rude. ben widened his eyes at me. did you learn that from miss manners. i hid myself. this probably made me look grand. that somehow seemed preferable. men opened the door. he was standing there. i'm sorry fellows. come on in.

our visitor shot a quick glance. can we get you something to drink? remaining seated. there's a soda machine. no thanks. did you have a hard time finding us. i'm michael i said. finally standing. this is ben. he shook our hands. i'm patrees. i am worried that it might make me squirm. i found it hospitable. that it put he more at easy. we're glad you came.

patrice smiled. ben caught my guy. he began to rearrange the forskin. it seemed to swell. when he removed it, he said, i open it's okay. i'm sort of a kiss pig. no problem. as i caught my breath. ben removed. he reported getting a big laugh. i should tell you something. i am used to this moment

arising. i tried to make it easier for him. we always play safe. so it's something else. we waited for the penny to drop. i do your momma's hair. this simply did not compute. ben looked up at him completely open mouthed. what he murmured. i do his momma's hair. in this moment of raw revelation. the obvious pride she showed in

her new hair dresser. i thought you were a woman. how did you about who we were? >> she has a picture of y'all in her room. y'all by waterfall. she talks about you all the time. jesus said ben. what are the chances of this? patrice shrugged. why didn't you say something earlier? they ain't going to happen with your momma in the conversation.

i liked the way he naild that down. i felt bad about it later. i almost didn't come. i need a break from here and it might as well be y'all. how often does he get her hair done. i do her make up too. you cover up the blue. she has emphysema. she got to worrying about it. it must have been lennor. she looks really good. i like to work on old ladies.

no one objected. he pulled me closer. within seconds he had us both in hand. like an eager barby doll. sorry. every now and then, my own visuals overwhelm me. then he went down on both. i can understand why my editor didn't want this. then we went down, never neglecting either one of us. ben pulled my face into his and kissed me. in a three way, there's always

the danger of being left out. i never felt unwelcome on the ride. by the time we were naked, by the time i shot my load, i rolled it on to patrice. he came on all fours. never touches himself. i know because i was under neath, catching the flash. ben stayed there. his heart beating hard. then my cell phone rang. it's programmed to ring like an

old 40's ring. leave it said ben. from the middle of the panting stack of men. nobody move said ben. there was a brief silent. or at least when i do. sorry. that's okay said ben. patrice rolled off the bed. then he flickinged it into the toilet. what's this? his head was on my which of the now. that's an orchid. it keeps coming back. one with

of those extra touches that mean a lot. he stared down at this offering. it don't look right somehow. i know. especially with a condom on it. he cleaned up at the sink. he started gathering up his clothes. hang with us for a while. busy day tomorrow. >> my other job, bacheloret party. i strip for private parties. that's what this is for.

he was stepping into his fatigues. apparently impressed. it ain't worth the bus fair half the time. patrice shrubbed. if a sister has a plate of ribs, there's no way to held her attention. ben and i laughed. i'm serious. tickled to his response. i am up there working my ass off and they are sitting down there with their press on nails. tough crowd. they say they like the mens, he

drew out the last. but they don't like the mens like the mens. they don't tip as good either. he came to the bed until we came his naked book ends. he laid there for a while. be well my brothers. he said at the door. [applause]

. >> on march 5th, 2007, a car

bomb was exploded on mutanabbi street in baghdad. mutanabbi street is a mixed shia-suni area. more than 30 people were killed and more than 100 were wounded. this locale is the historic center of baghdad book selling, a winding street filled with bookstores and outdoor book stalls. named after the famous 10th century classic poet, al-mutanabbi, this is an old and established street for book selling and has been for hundreds of years. mutanabbi street also holds cafes, stationary shops, and even tea and tobacco shops. it has been the heart and soul of the baghdad literary and intellectual community. this tragedy is part of a wider and continuing tragedy, but one that we want to isolate and address, not only for the loss

of lives but also for the implications underlying the destruction of a street where books were sold. book selling on mutanabbi street is no different from book selling here. we traffic in memory, ideas and dreams. in that sense, we feel that mutanabbi street starts at the front door of all of our book shops. mutanabbi street starts here. our first reader will be sinan anton. >> when i was torn by war, i took a brush immersed in death, and drew a window on war's wall. i opened it, searching for something, but all i saw was another war and a mother

weaving a shroud for the dead man still in her womb. there was a photograph of an iraqi boy on the front page of the "new york times". he sat on the edge of the truck, 8 or 9 years old, surrounded by his family, his father, mother , and 5 siblings were asleep. his head was buried in his hands. all the clouds of the world were waiting on the threshold of his eyes. the tall man wiped off the sweat and started digging the 7th grave. the next reader is going to be diane dupris. thank you. >> i'm going to read a few things that i wrote sitting in

a hotel room in, oh, whatever year that was, 01, i guess, when we started bombing afghanistan. these are short poems on the 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. there's 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 the years i worked there. they were the early years of the black awareness, robert williams was active in south carolina. there was a period of time when the cot in the back of the store was a drop off for various disassembled armaments. sometimes someone we didn't know would put something under the mattress, making the cot unusable for several days. someone would come by and take the hardware away in a shopping

bag and that would be it for a week or so. 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 i've 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 i'll read it. one figure in the poem you should know, humbaba, which is an ogre, a monster of immemorial age. that was a special big garden, a forest, where all types of trees and flowers grew. the trees bending down gently flinging branches. our orchard grew like a crown on the sun's eyebrow. where did humbaba come from? his mother was just a cave, his father unknown. who made him a friend pretending guardian of the orchard. did those nice shrubs need fear to go begging for a garden and have humbaba in his treachery

ilk. those plants and flowers were like books everyone could read, not cut and throw away. their different fantastic colors had formed our blood so our veins ran smoothly, our 7 wonders showed. then humbaba made a whirlwind of fire and snow. who crowned him king? who showed him our garden was but a jail? humbaba was great and scary, but not so very strong, though no one could ever conquer him as no one would ever try. time and again, when things grew old, humbaba alone believed himself eternal and young, still powerful, able to defeat all. humbaba didn't want to know one fact: that accumulation will lead to eruptive change. but, sadly, when suddenly he

realized it after all, he chose to check its power on all, the tall. he crushed all the shrubs and plants leaving them creeping and broken all over. he damaged the flowers and colors, the flowers withered, their leaves all burned and soon they were throwing their seeds every which way and when the whole orchard changed into a dry, gray waste, humbaba, his mind like stone, shouted his horrible cry of fire and burned all that gray and yellow, birds of all kinds were flying away with ashes in their beaks which humbaba couldn't oversee any more or ever set on fire. then, grandfather ended his day and continued closing his big thick yellow book, turning to his grandsons and daughters and anding them a big r