Jokepoem (mine).

Being Jewish

 

I’m writing a cookbook

it’s a sequel

to the much-renowned

& world-beloved

Joy of Cooking.

 

Mine’s about disasters

that occur

in the kitchen.

It’s called

The OY! of Cooking.

 

joy-of-cooking-color

(illustration via The Studio of Summer Pierre)

 

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West Coast Poetry Project: Portland poem.

Stumptown Poem

 

You can see a bit

of every woman’s

back here in hot

summer Portland.

Mine, too. This dress

not stolen, stitched

on Saturdays, blue

buttons down front,

I sewed them on.

I could never buy

a cup of coffee

every morning,

can’t start my day

with paying for it.

I brew my own bad

habits, good stove

coffee, plans for beds

of flowers. Foxgloves

finished with their bells

drip the streets, black

-eyed Susans stare

and stare at sky. Too

hot to hate, names

of authors occur to me

too slowly, Larkin or

Levine, the faces

hidden from me

stay in hiding,

the thieves who took

our precious gems

are out there holding

books I chose

in San Francisco,

spending time

with photographs

of trees so tall

they split in two,

their faces painted

gaudy in my blush,

toes  white with toothpaste

intended for my teeth.

 

 

*Our car was robbed in Portland, all our good stuff stolen.

 

The map is on the wall (photograph).

 

The map is on the wall. Now the packing happens.

 

 

If I’m gone from this blog for a couple of days, it’s because we’re packing and we’re leaving this home and we’re headed on the road. Roadtrip “updates” (poems, impressions, photographs, souvenir descriptions) will appear here whenever possible.

 

Apologies to Farmer #1 for the less-than-gorgeous portrait.

 

 

Goodbye Green Piece, the car that brought us across America.

 

The car is totaled. All bodies are okay (or almost—Ellie has a sprained ankle) but minds less so. We need a new car fast, a truck in fact. When I’m in our house I feel normal, but otherwise, not so much. I feel new again to San Diego; there’s so much hideous paperwork to deal with, so much money. I haven’t left Misha’s side since the accident. We’re in hibernation mode. We’re waiting out the days.

 

 

“Summer Interior” by Edward Hopper

 

Ack! Hurt back (mine).

 

I’m mostly okay today, but yesterday I was lifting and twisting in the truck at the farmer’s market and my back went ping!  on the lower left side. Being hurt makes me very slow and aware of every motion, which I try to appreciate. I feel like Marguerite Duras in this photo–booted and fabulous, but with a scrunched up neck and rickety on the stairs. Also, I believe she has a little beard in this photo, which is most elegant.

 

 

photo by the amazing portraitist, richard avedon, taken in 1993. photo via FANTOMATIK, where you can find artistic photography of famous artists. (swoon.)

O how unlovely!

Pacing around my house, laughing

and crying at the same time, this is

the closest I’ve ever achieved at doing

both together, it’s a Frankie sort of verb,

laughingcrying, and an ice cube is dripping

off my face and onto my sweatshirt and

leaving little puddles as I walk around and

O Caity Baptiste I need you now! This

is going to be a cyborg of a cold sore it’s

gonna be full-on one-sided Botox of the

lip it’s gonna stun all your med schoolies

into silenced awe it’s gonna make y’all

reassess your medical vocations, it’s won

the Golden Globe for Most Likely To Make

You Not Wanna Disrobe Me, it’s the best

and worst thing my body’s done all week,

it’s making me laugh then cry then repeat,

a crunching of the face where I get those

creases round the nose (the face Jen loves

to try to do) and then laughing looking

out the window as the dapper drug dealer

in his white fedora walks by with the dog

-owning homeless addicts and the ice is for

the lip because Lorelei Frantz (of the Blue

Camel Café, of ginger peach tea and my

employment) told me that’s how you burn

a coldsore away, you ice it out, you decide It

Is Not There, you chill it freeze it drip it all

around the house is what I’m doing, a messy

sort of process but somehow worth a poem,

Please come to the sideyard reading on Friday

at 7pm! and see for yourself the evidence! of

me attempting everything at once, of trying

to get everything right the first time around,

the proof is on my lip, it’s a mountainrange

of dripping sickness but wait it’s not so bad

in profile in fact it kind of makes me feel

voluptuous and I hey, NEVER feel voluptuous