If you have to be a waitress
be a singing waitress
with a handkerchief
on your head and an apple
in your pocket and imagine
each customer is a relative
of the man you love.
Category: friendship
A good day (recap).
Sara and I eating breakfast in the sunny square of window in downtown White River Junction before she drove the five hours back to New York
Walking into work having just been with someone who has known more than one of my lives
Running after work in new sneakers up a hill I’ve never walked and scaring a group of long-necked wild turkeys, finding oyster mushrooms on the side of the road and the sun that flashed on the leaves
A date with Misha, wine tasting at my new restaurant, then him rushing around the country store with a new long-handled rake in his hand and me grabbing paint chips (free colors!) before the store closes at 9pm plus some Vermont dark chocolate at the checkout
The possibility of a new friend
And the night is not yet over
(via this isn’t happiness)
Poet for hire.
Call Sean. His resume boasts a solo exhibition at the Sideyard Poets and Writers Event and numerous book arts victories. He is also a founding member of the Poets Trampoline Club.
Especially if you’re famous, you should definitely call him. There is nothing our celebrities need more these days than a poet.
“The World’s Only Loofah Poem” (mine).
The World’s Only Loofah Poem (I mean it’s gotta be, right?!)
(This poem was written after remembering a conversation that took place on Vermont Street in San Diego, when Sam mentioned that she doesn’t use a loofah and Caity went ballistic with incredulousless and I laughed so hard but agreed with her bafflement completely–even Misha uses a loofah!–then on the phone I told Katie this story and she said, “I don’t use a loofah either. Does everyone use a loofah!?”)
Call me crazy but
I was under the impression
that once loofahs were invented
everyone just started using one!
Loofahs are the greatest!
They spread soap with ease
and bubbles! I can’t imagine
using soap with economy
without one! How else
would I wash so well,
would I scrub this self?
A washcloth hurts
my skin and my hands
are just hands! I need
my drugstore loofah!
Don’t you? Don’t
YOU!?
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.
A poem of farewell (mine).
Misha’s off to work in a shirt that’s too big
on him but he loves its colors. I bake the bread
when he leaves, mist it and cover it, cooling.
On my bike around town my clothes don’t
get caught in the pedals. At the café I edit
my poem, the one that’s now eight pages,
I drink my favorite coffee. The man to my left
says to his friend, “We’re here to share stories
and energy.” His beard is braided. I ride my bike
to the store, I see Christina who makes earrings
out of old records, John from Self-Heal, and Jeff
from the fruit stand is my cashier. I treat myself
to sushi at the high chair that overlooks the street
and see the Suzie’s truck roll past, the one I rode in
yesterday. I’ve lived here three years and the food
I eat is delicious and so much of it I’ve planted
with my own short thumbs. I’ve lived here three
years and I get across town on my feet, I’ve made
human mistakes and baked foods in summer, heat
overtaking the kitchen, the kitchen that leads
to the porch where tools are hung or lean, the porch
that steps out to the yard where we grilled and drank
and read our books, the yard we bought a table
and umbrella for, the yard where poems woke
the neighborhood, where sunburns sang and worms
were fed on foodscraps. Friends visited and friends
stopped by and friends brought food and friends
bought books or art and used up all the toilet
paper. We met them and we said come in and now
the nights are warm enough to let us go out
into them, the nights we hope will lead us
heavenward into a land we’ll plant ourselves.
Yesterday’s poem of the morning (mine).
I’m wearing all my rings this morning
Norah Jones is singing about flowers growing
in the frozen snow, how it’s all a show
She’s saying everything she wants to in a song
It will take me my life to say everything I want to
especially on the topic of hands and feet and happy
I shined up all my rings this morning
The broken turquoise one, the thin swoop of gold
from Sam that I wore for weeks after her surgery
I shined my only sapphire and my TAYLOR ring
given to me by whom I can’t remember
What’s the point if I can’t remember who gave it to me there still
must be a point
I have fat thumbs and new sandals
from Moya who said, Oh just take them
they’re your going away present you’re going
away now you’ll remember me
Poem on a typewriter (mine).
So many wonderful smalls (photographs)!
Well, first this tiny pitcher was found at the yard sale that happens outside of Ellie’s house every Thursday. It’s ceramic and according to the guy who gave to to me (for free! thank you!), “very old.” After bringing it home I filled it with one sip of lemonade, made from 1/16 of a lemon plus some sugar. I’m kidding!
Ellie made me the ultimate tiny thing: she filled a tiny gold book box she found with the tiniest ojo de dios (god’s eye) known to man or god, and affixed a hummingbird feather on the other side. Are you dying right now? SHE MADE IT WITH HER HANDS! I open it to look at it at least twice a day. It is the best thing.
On Saturday I received a package from my dad, also known as Jonathan F. Katz, aka Poppa Dids, aka P.Diddy Poppa. In it were three small things: a tiny mug with my name on it that I bought during one summer at camp, a small silver spoon from my great grandmother’s collection of silver spoons (COOL), and a photo of me, aged three, with a big belly. Here’s me:
And here’s the spoon and the mug. Tiny mug! With a font that I associate with 90s computers.
My thumb is so stubby.
And here you can see the mug in the Cuteness Lineup I set up on Saturday morning:
I present to you the full lineup:
The Hershey’s kiss is from Marilyn’s birthday party on Friday night, where she slaughtered a pinata! And I found the little terra cotta pot at the thrift store. And inside that little bowl are seed packets the size of my pinky finger. They’re so small my human eyes can barely see them! They’re from a vintage dollhouse set! Maybe you can kind of see the tiny seed packets in the bowl in this photo below?
Let me tell you, ever since I’ve started blogging my small things, I’ve been receiving them left and right. It’s been a most thrilling time of life! Stay tuned for one tiny living creature and a present that was dropped from the sky for me at the farmers’ market on Sunday.
A poem can be small.
“I am drunk but miss you all the time”
Sometimes nonpoets
write better poems
than poets
panache, perhaps 
