Birthday poem for Kyle (I wrote it).

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.

 

Some goodness, shared.

Things that made me glad today or recently, during these days in which I need some gladness:

1. NOONIE link. Nuni. Nuny—SNL, you win on this one.

 

2. David and Sandy Katz, summertime

 

3. Long poem that’s worth it and made me cry, in a good way.

 

4. Today I planted thousands of sunflowers. Literally thousands, and about half a dozen types. In a few months, there will be a 1.8 acres more of beauty in the world, and I will have been part of it.

Summer reading list, for serious.

I just looked at last summer’s book list, which I posted here last June. I didn’t read a single book on that list. This makes me think that perhaps I’m doomed to lose interest in any book that’s on the Summer Reading List. Or perhaps my list was made by just looking around my house at books I’ve been meaning to, but not especially wanting to, read (sometimes there’s a big difference between these two categories). This year’s book list features some books I’ve already read, so hopefully I’m not such a big liar this time around.

***

Le Summer Book List 2011.

The Fountainhead/Ayn Rand (check)

Letters of James Schuyler to Frank O’Hara (check) (swoon)

The Art of Recklessness/Dean Young (in middle of)

A Visit from the Good Squad/Jennifer Egan (as of today, check)

The Best of It/Kay Ryan (in middle of)

The Good Earth/Pearl S. Buck

Invisible Cities/Italo Calvino (this was on last year’s list too, but now I actually own it)

Collected John Berryman (all of it, of course)

Linguistics: A Very Short Introduction/ P.H. Matthews

Otherwise: New and Selected Poems/Jane Kenyon

Lighthead/Terrance Hayes

Siddhartha/Hermann Hesse

From A to B and Back Again: The Philosophy of Andy Warhol(/Andy Warhol)

The Maverick Poets: An Anthology/ed. Steve Kowitt

Tremor: Selected Poems/Adam Zagajewski (again)

Truth and Beauty/Ann Patchet (in middle of)

A Trip to the Stars/Nicholas Christopher

Come All You Ghosts/Matthew Zapruder

Bossypants/Tina Fey

 

The photograph below, by Elliot Erwitt, is where I’d prefer to do all of this reading. But my kitchen table will work, too.

Her name is V’Nilla…

…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.

Girlspeak (San Diego/Atlanta).

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??!

Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad.

He hated boats and her mother

lived on one. She invited him

to go, he went, no horror stories

from that December on the ocean,

at least not ones I’ve heard, the two

of them in t-shirts I now wish

I owned, sleeping under and on

top of polished wood, I imagine

that the fish they ate was very

good, flaking off in chunks to fill

their mouths and bathing suited

stomachs, the swelter of the sky

like a unrelenting aunt, and the noise

of wind rushing through their hair

was the loudest noise their ears

could comprehend