Slices of Life

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Empty Bellies, Emptier Minds — Aug 06, 2025.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): $2.55 on 8/6/25 ; (R): $1.33 on 8/3/25

Arriving at Coffee Seven around 3:40AM, I sat on its one park bench to use the wifi. Five minutes later I could hear Mrs. Seven say to her white bitch, “Grandpa is here.” Knowing it already, the dog’s excited paws could be heard pattering on the worn tiles, then she came running out to greet me. After setting up a few tables and chairs, Mrs. Seven went inside to brush her teeth.

Nearly always, Sơn the security guard is the second to show. Once, he asked Mrs. Seven for two diarrhea pills. Of course, she didn’t charge him. Another time, she borrowed his motorbike to go to Cô Giang wet market, a quarter mile away. Mrs. Seven only has a bicycle.

Sometimes a 29-year-old would appear. After his coffee, he’d buy a pack of Saigon cigarettes for 61 cents, so her profit isn’t even four pennies! Worse, he’d sometimes pay her 15 instead of 16K đồng, then conveniently forget about the difference. He’s not too bright a young man. I know from trying to chat with him.

Hearing music from pre-1975 Saigon, Half Lit was surprised to learn you could be arrested for listening to it just a few years before he was born. Of course, he didn’t know Ho Chi Minh had a Chinese wife.

“Just about everything you’ve been taught about history is a lie,” I said. “How many kings were in the Hùng Dynasty?”

Though this knowledge is so basic, he didn’t know it, so I told him, “Eighteen! How many years did this dynasty last?” Of course, he went blank. I continued, “Two thousand! You can’t have 18 kings over two thousand years. Each would have had to live over 300 years. The name Hùng Vương is already bullshit. Hùng means brave. Vương means king. Both words are derived from Chinese. We didn’t have writing until the Chinese came. There’s no writing on our bronze drums. These so called “brave kings,” then, are merely mythical. It’s impossible to have any dynasty lasting two thousand years, period.”

Half Lit didn’t need to hear all that. You probably tuned out also. Though a college drop-out, I did teach at six universities in two countries. It’s the village explainer in me sputtering. Sorry! Understandably, Half Lit has made sure to ignore my presence entirely since.

$1.66 in Vung Tau on 5/18/25

My 61 cent black coffee came with a free pot of hot tea. Leaving Coffee Seven, I walked seven minutes to the grocer to buy four cucumbers, six tomatoes, ten brown eggs and 14 okras for $2.55. On the way, I passed an old lady selling sticky rice for breakfast. These come in many varieties, but even with bits of meat, none should cost more than 50 cents. I give you these prices to show basic food items shouldn’t cost much.

In the US, you’re not just paying for the tomatoes but its aspirin spray, ethylene gas, long distance transportation, attractive packaging, placement in a large, well-lit and air conditioned store, plus shoplifting and spoilage costs.

The US gets most of its tomatoes, avocados, bell peppers, strawberries and bananas from Latin America. Though some of these can be grown in the US, there just aren’t enough illegal immigrants around, unfortunately.

According to Trump, Americans are too “inner city” to farm, “They’ve tried. We’ve tried. Everybody’s tried. They don’t do it. These people do it naturally.” Trump meant all these illegal immigrants when they’re not whacking white retirees with baseball bats from behind, or running around looking for white teenagers to rape. That should be reserved for aging white creeps who must grab last minute pussies before high fiving Jesus. “Naturally! I said, ‘What happens?’ to a farmer the other day. ‘What happens if they get a bad back?’ He said, ‘They don’t get a bad back, sir, because if they get a bad back, they die.’ I said, ‘That’s interesting.’ In many ways, they’re very, very special people.”

Before Mexicans, there were blacks, I suppose, to bend over under an impossibly hot sun, all the time, every day, until they drop dead immediately from a bad back. If farming is only natural for brown folks, how did white Europeans survive for thousands of years? Easy, they just looted, raped and pillaged from assorted peoples of color. I’m just using Trumpian logics here. If Trump University was still around, I’d certainly be hired to teach history, anthropology, sociology, agricultural science or business administration.

Standing next to a Trump standee fingering Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood or Heidi, I’d lecture, “Y’all are paying more to eat shit. Milk, eggs, chicken, pork and just about everything else cost less, yet taste much better, the second you step outside the US fuckin’ A! Try it sometime. Go dip one toe into the Rio Grande and see if the burrito you just bought in El Paso or San Ysidro doesn’t taste a hundred times better?”

Raising one skeletal arm, some kid in a MAGA hat would moan, “But perfesser, many of us ain’t even eating.”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): $21.81 on 3/7/24 ; (R): $2.36 on 12/14/24

It’s not fiction. After my recent article about American supermarkets closing left and right, Troy Skaggs comments, “The Western Avenue Kroger in South Bend closed last month. I called it ‘my’ store because it was one of the few major label groceries that I felt comfortable being in. With the influx of Latinos, it always had good Poblano peppers in the meager produce section. Struggling yet dedicated employees, the place had a downtrodden but friendly vibe. Chris, one of the checkout guys, had some obvious physical disabilities. You could tell that mobility was difficult, but he was always there doing his best. I was in there a couple of days before it closed for good. Half empty, with everything reduced, some customers were filling their carts while the employees did their best to keep the place clean. Knowing that I’d never be in the store again, I had a hard time keeping it together as I made my way to produce.”

Even a chain supermarket gave Troy a much needed sense of community. With fewer illegals farming, food prices rocketing due to tariffs and even mega stores going tits up, Troy will have to drive further to eat less. Like millions of other Americans, he might have to use food banks, until those, too, run dry.

Just in case you think only bums do so, consider this NBC News report on 8/2/25, “Twice a week, just outside of Fort Hood, Texas, the armed services YMCA holds a free food distribution for the military community, and every week, there are more families in the line than food to serve.” These are wives and children of American soldiers, mind you. With their husbands stationed at one of 750 bases at +80 countries, these women, many with jobs, must still rely on charity. “One in four active duty troops are now food insecure, more than double the rate for civilians.”

Trump on 3/9/25, “We’re going to be so rich, you won’t know where to spend all that money.” Though he hasn’t toned it down, many still believe this master grifter.

Finishing this in Cóc Cóc at 7:59PM, I had to move to a different seat because a young man, sitting right next to me, was shooting nonstop at cartoony enemies. On a phone held six inches from his face, he generated endless rat tat tats with his restless thumbs. Not quite 30, his world has shrunken to almost nothing. Vietnamese retards are also multiplying at a stupendous rate.

A month ago in Amman, I photographed some stray cats at a 1,800 year old Roman ruins. Troy Skaggs commented that those beasts looked “more vigilant and aware than many humans, myself included.” Unlike most of us, they’re not trying at each moment to avoid reality or their own thoughts, Rat, tat, tat, tat! 21st century man is the least human ever. The phone has just moved an inch closer to his deadened face.

An older, saner arrangement still exists. Just eight hours from now, I’ll reenter it. “Grandpa is here,” I’ll hear again, then be greeted by one joyous being unmolested by constant bullshit.

Vung Tau, 8/6/25

Post Attentiveness — Aug 07, 2025.

Born in 1963, I’m already among the last to remember when flying was civilized, and any half intelligent man was expected to read at least several books a year. Entering college during the Fall of 1982, I wasted no time in using its library, so no later than halfway through my sophomore year, I had read Gide, Gorky, Apollinaire, Cendrars, Stefan Zweig, Whitman, Shakespeare’s sonnets, Roger Shattuck and Robert Henri, on top of Erasmus, Thomas More, Machiavelli, Rabelais, Calderón de la Barca, Marquez, Conrad, Chekov, Tennyson, Eliot, Beckett, Kate Chopin and Flannery O’Connor, which I had to do for classes. Being so young and stupid, of course I missed much, but serious literature is meant to be reexamined repeatedly. I read other books I no longer remember. I couldn’t penetrate Chaucer and never cared for E. E. Cummings. Even with little life experience, I thought Dickinson embarrassingly dry when not hysterical. Dostoievski, Kafka, Kundera, Borges, Cortazar, Manuel Puig, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Artaud, Jarry, Neruda, Yeats, Ginsberg, Buchner, Hamsun, Milosz, Simone Weil, Evelyn Waugh, CK Williams and Robert Lowell I’d discover before finally dropping out of college in 1986. Of crazy Artaud, I can recall two lines, “I hate and denounce as cowards all so-called sensate beings.” “And you are quite superfluous, young man!”

Paying $25 rent to live in a dismal house that was more like a shell, I then read 900+ pages of Céline. Just sentences into Death on the Installment Plan, I thought, This is very dangerous, but I forged forward. I’m mapping out my intellectual beginning to show that even a habitually drunk immigrant with an accent and philistine parents could educate himself somewhat if not distracted by constant TV, nonstop music or, of course, the cellphone. I bought my first computer in 1995.

Had I been born in, say, 1985, I would most likely be a slobbering retard who can’t wait to vote again and again, “to make a difference.” Of course, I’d comment diarrheically online behind an original pseudonym appended with PhD. Even as my house, mama and society go up in flames, it’s important I keep the lowest profile, fly miles under the radar and never dox myself. Above all, I mustn’t hate a systematic, steady hatred nakedly applied against meaning itself. To even hint at it would be anti-schematic. Please don’t report me, sir! If unusually brave, I might risk waving a hand scrawled sign at mostly indifferent traffic for half an hour every five years, among masked comrades.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, on 8/7/25: (L): Coffee Seven ; (R): Cà Phê Cà Pháo

In any new city, one must find great bookstores. Before the internet, this meant actually walking around. Bookish locals could also help you out, but they were very rare. In Philadelphia, South Street Books was pretty good, but Factotum, also on South but on the wrong side of Broad, was even better. Browsing books on shelves leads to discoveries. The internet killed this practice. Finding books by key words keeps you in the tiniest ghettos.

A college professor, Stephen Berg, was the editor of the American Poetry Review. Among English language poetry zines, it had the highest circulation at over 20,000. Published six times a year, it also appeared more frequently than all. Most were quarterlies. At Steve’s office and house, books were all over. Of course, as a powerful editor, he had thousands sent to him unsolicited. Though we became drinking buddies, Steve got angry at me for two reasons. Already knowing I didn’t respect his poetry, Steve ditched our friendship when I didn’t immediately intercede on his behalf at Seven Stories Press. Emailing Steve from Italy, I said I would talk to Dan Simon in person, but that wasn’t enough. At some Manhattan bar, Dan said he didn’t need anyone to tell him what to think. Nothing I said could change his mind about Steve’s manuscript.

All writers think they’re underappreciated, overlooked or slandered. With fewer readers paying attention, this bitterness has only increased tragically, or perhaps just pathetically.

Typing this at Cà Phê Cà Pháo, I have in front me a 2024 edition of Ngô Sĩ Liên’s history of Vietnam, first published in 1479. I’m the only one who has shown any interest in this 1,284 page volume. Though the café’s owner has only bought it as a decoration, Ngô Sĩ Liên shouldn’t complain. Five centuries after his death, he’s still visible, if only from the side and afar, to dozens of distracted zombies daily, when they’re not admiring their own selfies or playing video games. At least he wasn’t castrated like Sima Qian. Uppity, name dropping intellectuals deserve no less.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): Cà Phê Cà Pháo on 8/7/25 ; (R): Ngô Sĩ Liên’s Đại Việt Sử Ký Toàn Thư at Cà Phê Cà Pháo on 7/27/25

Living in Vung Tau four years, I’ve only seen three people with books. One had volumes by some new agey guru. Another was reading short stories by Nam Cao, so that was encouraging. Last night at Cóc Cóc, there was a guy reading a book. Before I got too excited, I noticed his earbud. To read with music is nearly as bad as reading on the toilet. His author was the super lame Nguyễn Nhật Ánh.

Twenty-first century man has stopped reading everything, not just books. It’s a question of focus. Neurologically damaged, he can’t read a face, the sky, his room, city or nation. Skimming or flitting while taking a shit or masturbating with the worst music on full blast is not reading.

Just yesterday, one “john henninger” emailed me, “You had preferred kamala for a week before teeing off on her!” No salution, introduction, context or, clearly, any real reading, since I’ve never said anything positive about Kamala Harris. What prompted this idiocy was the first 142 words of a 901-word article. I canceled his free subscription. There are people who subscribe to hundreds of SubStacks, just so they can leap into a few to fart and run. It’s an epidemic.

We’ve sunk a long way. In his The Great War and Modern Memory, Paul Fussell points out:

The American Civil War was the first, Theodor Ropp observes, “in which really large numbers of literate men fought as common soldiers.” By 1914, it was possible for soldiers to be not merely literate but vigorously literary, for the Great War occurred at a special historical moment when two “liberal” forces were powerfully coinciding in England. On the one hand, the belief in the educative powers of classical and English literature was still extremely strong. On the other, the appeal of popular education and “self-improvement” was at its peak, and such education was still conceived largely in humanistic terms.

Again, it’s not just knowledge you gain from reading, but how to be attentive. Without attentiveness, which doesn’t have to come from reading, of course, there’s no respect or love for anything, only the most narrow, hateful and desperate form of self love. Sunk in it, you’re literally in hell.

Referral Hospital in Stung Treng, Cambodia on 3/12/23

Bodies As Tests and Lessons — Aug 08, 2025.

Nhà thương, house of love, is what Vietnamese call hospitals. If you’re looking for a whorehouse, it’s on a different block, but who knows? Somewhere, perhaps everywhere, there must be hospitals cum whorehouses, where male and female nurses can mount near corpses to send them into the netherworld. “Goodbye, grandpa. You should have checked in much sooner. Trying to save a few pennies killed your fuckin’ ass.”

At Coffee Seven, three middle aged guys are talking about hospitals and various ailments at 5:30AM. Before leaving, Sơn the security guard showed me black pellets he’s taking for his joint pains. They looked like rabbit turds.

“You should take some, too,” I said to Mrs. Seven.

“Why?”

“To feel better.”

“But my joints are fine.”

“Taking those, your joints will feel even better!” I laughed.

(L): Bowring and Lady Curzon Hospital in Bengaluru, India, 12/1/22 ; (R): First Town Hospital in Belgrade, Serbia, 7/25/20

Like me, Mrs. Seven is leery of medicines, especially Western ones. She’d massage any spot that’s hurting. To stimulate blood flow, I slap or scratch fiercely. Sơn soaks his ankles in a tub of hot water with sea salt. I must swim in the ocean more. According to Mrs. Seven, sea water can even cure ovarian cancer.

“This lady would sit at Front Beach. The water came in and out, you see. When she was diagnosed a while later, her ovarian cancer was gone! After that, she became a vegetarian.”

That’s very good to know. “Do you swim?” I asked Mrs. Seven.

“No, no! I almost drowned as a girl. Never again.”

“Many people have never seen the ocean. Living by the ocean, we take it for granted.”

Most days, Mrs. Seven doesn’t stray ten yards from her front door. As a young dancer, she did travel to Hanoi and Cambodia. Before her parents died, she was literally stuck in this very house for 17 years. After her mother’s stroke, she had to take care of her every need for 12 years. Though her dad wasn’t so messy towards the end, his senility forced Mrs. Seven to stay near him all day long. Witnessing all this, her husband hid his pneumonia from her, thus hastening his own death.

“Once, he called me after having checked himself into a hospital. It shouldn’t have come to that. His lungs could have been drained, but I didn’t know.”

Having an extended family means dealing with death and shit nearly nonstop. Somebody is always dying. Babies and the aged must be wiped and washed constantly. More advanced societies deal with these annoyances by inventing daycares, retirement communities and, just now, Jewjabs. Killing them off is always the most efficient and cost effective solution.

While murdering other people’s babies, as is now done in Gaza, you can import black, brown and yellow nannies to pamper your own. Just go to any Manhattan park during the daytime to see them push strollers with white babies. If you’d rather not have spooky bodies in your home, pale au pairs are ideal solutions.

Last week, I got an email from a Vietnamese-American woman I hung out with just once. In 2017, we wandered the streets of Hanoi into the night.

She shares, “Smart move leaving the US in 2016. I should’ve just stayed over there! I am in Chicago, have been since 2018 when I left Ha Noi. I have been in a layer of hell, my father was hit by a car in 2023 and suffered a traumatic brain injury, and I have been caregiving for him with my mother and brother. I never had kids so it’s a cruel twist that I’m changing diapers every day. Even so, there have been moments of joy in caring for him, like tucking him in at night and realizing that he looks like ET from the movies.”

(L): just outside Pennsylvania Hospital, America’s first, in Philadelphia, 8/24/13 ; (R): mock hospital room at the Death Cafe in Bangkok, Thailand, 10/11/22

Bodies are ultimate tests and lessons.

Think also of babies born deformed from Agent Orange. The US has denied any responsibility. In Gaza, starving parents must watch their children die. With weaker bodies, they succumb first. Many are also horribly injured. Among Judeo Christian Satanists, sadism has become a necessity, like food. In DC, that leader of the free world is fussing about gold moldings and statuettes as golden nonsense oozes from his puckering orifice.

Troubled by bodies, we also dress them up with words, ink or pigments in linseed oil. All of culture is a perfumed dress. Beautiful bodies overpopulate paintings. Static and well rendered, even the most hideous are dignified.

Just before leaving Philly, I hung out with my friend, Ian. Driving through South Jersey, we decided to stop at a go-go bar. It was laughably lame, however.

“Yo Ian, I know of a much better place. It’s in Pennsport. Since cops go there, they can show everything.”

Cringing, Ian explained he’d rather not look at that. It’s a wound that won’t heal. Very bookish, Ian lived with his mom in a spacious house that even had an indoor swimming pool. Like us all, Ian’s civility is well tailored.

No less pretentious, I wear a peasant shirt and go barefoot. Wading into the crowd, I will pass real peasants in their GUCCI, Prada, Balenciaga and Hermes pyjamas, made in China. It’s past time for my peasant breakfast, so goodbye!

The upholstered seats seen through the back doors of a mini bus resemble coffins. Seven minutes away is a dead gecko, apparently ran over by a motorbike. Most of his green and golden body is still intact, however, though dotted with bluebottle flies fattening themselves. Today has turned out so much better than expected! It pays to buzz to alien territories. Stooping to pick up some fallen papers, a woman in an indigo dress with white dots appears, for just one second, like the most refined Pre-Raphaelite painting. At the end of the street in the far distance, part of a freighter can be seen. Piggy backing on the vastest body, it imprisons and protects the most fretful. Within seconds, this house of imperfect love will disappear from our lives forever.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

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