Kim Addonizio, ‘What Was’, What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems
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Kim Addonizio, ‘What Was’, What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems
“Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.”
— Frank O’Hara, from ‘Mayakovsky’ in Lunch Poems
Started thinking about mushrooms, this never goes well. How they take fallen trees, mighty in life and quietly passing. How they carpet and whisper, telling the fallen how the saplings are growing, reminding the fearful they are returning to the heart of a warm and loving forest.
“You will watch over them?” the hearty oak exhales final breaths of oxygen, intaking the earth that was its home once before sprouting, will be their home now upon composting.
“Every acorn,” Mycorr promises, laying their dryad fingers into the bark, inlaying spells that bore the forest’s first.
“You will tell them I was brave in the face of storms?”
“We will sing your song every rainfall. Now rest, now is your twilight, you have earned this peace my friend.”
And now I’m having Feels about trees and mushrooms, and fuck this timeline
Today I learned that the Pentagon was supposed to be the Octagon.
But the contractor kept cutting corners.
Kind of like a monk.
Bro, can you pass me that pamphlet?
Brochure.
I bought a guitar the other day but it doesn’t work.
Guess I should’ve known when the seller said no strings attached.
Steve Ogden
Just got the perfect tool for making a good Indian flat bread.
It’s a naan stick pan.
“Let me die having been worth loving. Let the need for love be enough.”
— Dave Harris, “The Barber Shop After Prince Died” (via buttonpoetry)
If I have twin daughters, I’ll name one Kate.
And I’ll name the other DupliKate.
Somebody just threw a jar of mayonnaise at me.
I was like, “What the Hellman!”
“How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?”
— White Noise (Don DeLillo)
My wife said she saw a bowtie made from solid mahogany.
She said she nearly bought it for me but she didn’t think I would wear it. I replied “Wooden tie?”
“Do you wake up as I do, having forgotten what it is that hurts or where, until you move? There is a second of consciousness that is clean again. A second that is you, without memory or experience, the animal warm and waking into a brand new world. There is the sun dissolving the dark, and light as clear as music, filling the room where you sleep and the other rooms behind your eyes.”
— Jeanette Winterson