Category: friendship

Two Mondays later & it’s over…

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We came by plane and boat, we beached

(he left), I danced in rain, I trained in along the Hudson, I saw Erwitt at the ICP and photocopied Sanchez at Poet’s House, I advised and pyschologized an entire closet, I lounged briefly in the 70s,

I quiched and coffeed, I dined and dozed, I family-ed and friended, I parked at Prospect, gave a gift, hugged tall men, ran in rain again, ate squids and octopus, shared kiwi chapstick and met two new boyfriends, hugged a crying friend and hot sauced a burrito, licked honey off my pinky and wouldn’t leave a restaurant, listened to my grandma’s birthday song and was dropped off in rain and sun, I bageled and I slept until I wanted to, I missed west people and wore a wide-brimmed hat…and tomorrow I’ll head to San Diego.

The poets and the farmers (poem) (mine).

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The poets and the farmers

 

For a while now the poets have known

the farmers and now the farmers know

the poets and they say hello and hug them

and Elle says again, You were so wonderful

on Friday night and Frankie is smiling

because it is never too late or early for

a compliment meant genuinely and I give

Frankie free zinnias by Ellie not because

she is a poet but because she is a very good

human who has such strange handwriting

that it makes people want to tattoo it on their

bodies, and she tattooed it on hers but not

in a braggy way, in a columnar/cut-off way,

and I like to watch people ask her about it

and I think to myself that I’d never tattoo

myself because I hate repeating myself

but, to repeat myself, now the farmers know

the poets and they like them for their words

and savvy presentation (I think of Scott

in the front row of the sideyard smiling like

someone gave him the exact correct birthday

present) and the poets love the farmers

for their very good foods like Nardello

peppers which are sweet and the most

divine, they’re Ellie’s favorite and she’s

a painter and a farmer, too. And life, I think,

is not as simply roasted as a pepper is, but

it is sweet to watch a farmer hug a poet

hug a professor hug a trapezist hug

a graphic designer slash table maker

hug  a videographer hug me, I’m hugging

all of them one after another or two

at once at the farmstand on a Sunday,

and I think we’re all farmers inside somehow,

all artily growing or having newly grown.

the after-sideyard:

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mostly just this

mixed in with this

(thanks kaz)

and frankie’s feeling it too

and misha sold four prints

and there are flowers all over the house, even by the sink and right here on the desk

and there are four dollars in “20,000 words” which means at least 2 people have my chapbooks

and maybe, maybe, some sort of art scene to remember is getting going in san diego, but even if not, even if we’re all just smartpeople in a yard for a party, it feels good to remember how many  good people there are in this city, and that with some wood and tacks and trashbins-turned-to-tables and the help of farmily, art can happen right next to where we live, and even though no one on the east has seen this thing we did and made, we will bring it wherever we bring our selves, sideyard or sideporch or sideacre of a plot of land…

Birthday poem for Kyle (I wrote it).

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Like a mini-mart off the highway,

Kyle Martindale gets older. Unlike

most poets, Kyle’s often on his way

 

from the gym, where he was rowing

on a machine outta water. Kyle got

hitched, hiked paths, chose classic

 

reggae, and flew on airplanes this year,

and that’s just this year. Not even gonna

count up all the feats he finished

 

during the other twenty-four. Hey

Kyle, we miss you here, the way

you’d decide on dancing most times

 

and eat the same beany slop three

meals a day, sometimes in a good bowl

from home, on the go, on campus. Hey

 

Kyle, there are people that you know

that don’t know how to handstand like

you do. But Kyle, we know you’d teach

 

us if we asked. You always do.

 

Poem (mine).

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Small House Poem
for Ellie

In this little house
all you need is a little

bit of everything. Little
vase (little flowers),

little pan to heat
the onions on, little

soap to balance on
the whitesink’s edge.

There’s a little bit
of magic to a space

so small it makes
a dog look like

a prince. A little
terrifying is a room

that serves as all
the rooms and yet

lying on the bed
one can watch the stove

stay silver for as long
as sunshine reaches

for the sill. There
are days inside

each day that I
might call a little

lifetime. Blessings
are the clergy’s way

of naming little
joys. How long until

the little things
amass and try

revolt: little marching
dishes hightailed

for the hills,
where ants the size

of ants line up
along their little

mountains, heedless
of the fullsized

mounds that rise
above their heads,

eyes tilted down
and focused only

on each other,
the little things

that matter aren’t
little things at all.

Girlspeak (San Diego/Atlanta).

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C: It’s as if someone handed him a Magic Hat, but he was like, “Nah, I’m good with this Natty Ice.”

T: It’s like if someone gave him a pressed sandwich with Portobello mushrooms, sautéed onions, and fresh cheese from a goat and he said, “No thanks, I’ll just have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

C: Exactly! Go fuck your pb and j!

T: YEAH! Who turns down a panini??!

Dream Song 295 (John Berryman).

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You dear you, cleaning up Henry’s foreign affairs,
with your sword & armour heading for his bank,
a cable gone astray:
except for you he had hopped in the Liffey & sank.
Now what can he in return do: upstairs? downstairs?
You run your life every day

so well it’s hard to think    of anything you need
and I only supply needs, needs & ceremonies,
I’ll send you the last thirteen,
in all of which Henry is extremely dead
but talkative. To you with your peat moss & leaf-mould
& little soft wet holes

where you put ginger, bloodroot & blueheads
& pearly everlastings, —what can he say of worth?
In all his nine lives
he was seldom so pleased been to be on the same earth
with you, my dear. We get on better than
most husbands & wives.