It’s a scratched and dusty lacquer press,
And the name upon it, “Bastianini.”
The fat old woman in the printed dress
Asked to hear it after her linguini.
I almost didn’t hear her speak to me
At first; the crowd is very good tonight.
But she’d caught my sleeve to say that she
Would consider it to be a slight
If she didn’t get to hear a disc
From the cafe’s old and vast collection.
And so, I went up to the shelves to whisk
Out and play a record at her direction.
But when I gently placed the needle in,
It played…and no one heard above the din.
About Michael Butchin
I was born, according to the official records, in the Year of the Ram, under the Element of Fire, when Johnson ruled the land with a heavy heart; in the Cradle of Liberty, to a family of bohemians.
I studied Chinese language and literature at Rutgers University, New Brunswick. I spent some years in Taiwan teaching kindergarten during the day, and ESOL during the evenings. I currently work as a high school ESOL teacher, and am an unlikely martial artist.
I have spent much of my life amongst actors, singers, movie stars, beautiful cultists, Taoist immortals, renegade monks, and at least one martial arts tzaddik.
I currently reside in Beijing's Dongcheng district
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