Category: birds

Tuesday Update.

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Misha shaved all his hair off and we got a new chicken. Her name is Vicky. Vicky Christina Chicky-Wicky. V’Nilla and Vicky: the sideporch chicky-sissies. Is that a good name for a movie or for nothing at all?

In other news, I held two baby goats this week and they melted into my arms like butter. I also finished “Bossypants,” (by Tina Fet duh), sewed Misha’s robe, and watched the spectators of the pride parade like a granny, in a plastic chair on the corner of the sidewalk, with my other granny friends. (“Look at that lady! SO much purple! AND HER BUTT IS OUT! YEAH!!!”) Afterwards we made hot sauce. On Sunday, at the farmer’s market, I wore a mustache for three hours. I highly recommend this experience. So many jokes.

 

And last night I found this poem again. Swoon.

To the Harbormaster by Frank O’Hara

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

Her name is V’Nilla…

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…and she is a little chicken. I call her the chicky-wicky. She was bullied by her siblings so she needs some TLC on the sideporch. Luckily Katie Conway was here for her arrival and took this hilarious photograph, which really captures how excited I was about getting a little chicken, because in very few circumstances would I walk down the street in a bikini.

 

And here she is a couple of days later, when she hopped into the kitchen looking for me like the precious little chicken that she is.

 

Little things are my favorite things.

Brunch Poem Day 9 (mine).

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Oh bollocks thin
tight pants & suede
boots! I’m not prepared
for these parts & yet
we will ourselves
into a winter leisure
on the grass, the ground
not quite cold enough
to sprint from but also
not quite dry. It’s 9pm
when I voice my veto
for the glasses—it’s time
to swig and if not now
then when can you drink
straight from the bottle
with a friend who shares
your name? And so with drink
in tow & hats on ear
we fiddle down the His Side
of the street where pavement
squares aren’t as angled
by the roots. Hoo! the night
is colder than a witch’s
chest exposed to currents
and a swift eclipse & even if
the nightsky fails its task
to teach us of our smallness
& the exigence of whittled
mornings shared in bed,
we’ll have numbed the toes
of longing for this place
& named mistakes which now
in low degrees will be briskly fed
to desperate winter birds
like bread.