the joneses

Jackie O.

having fun already

Leap, year
Fall was always my favorite season but ever since fall morphed into spring, I've pledged allegiance to spring. I went out this morning with the dog into wet, fresh air, reminiscent of spring, and it was gorgeous, really, but also disorienting. While it's very pleasant and I like it, right under that immediate reaction is the knowledge that I shouldn't like it. Weatherwomen of the Apocalypse would call it "terrifyingly mild." I could see my breath, at least, so I drew an approximate parallel to March. This must be positive: the last two mornings were firmly set in April. Maybe by mid-December we'll arrive in February, and by January everything will line up right.

going down the stoney end
I've lived for ages in Germany and always miss Thanksgiving. I managed to be in the states for the holiday about two years ago and although it wasn't the huge shindig I was used to as a kid (due to divorce!), it was still lovely and replete with yummy American food. So just to drum up sympathy, here's a sad list of everything I ate today, not necessarily in order and omitting water.1. 3 cups of coffee with lots of milk2. 1 stick of Orbit spearmint gum3. 2 sticks of Orbit peppermint4. 1 roll with brie, lettuce and tomato5. 1 cup cocoa6. 1 Twix bar (actually two, because they come like that)7. Cucumber slice8. 1 Chamomille tea9. Gar

the moorman polaroid
It's that day again. I always remember it because I was born eight days later into a very sad country. The footage of the motorcade has been burned into America's collective unconscious, but here's a polaroid I'd never seen before. You can see it and a number of other related shots

Ghostbusters
For some time an acquaintance at work has wanted me to out myself as a poet, and I have resisted because 1) it's not relevant, and 2) unlike her, I don't think most people see anything positive about being a poet. There's no esteem to be earned from it, esteem that might be earned by admitting to being, say, a passionate cook, or a hobby pilot. Instead, poets in the general imagination seem to be goofy or dreamy or sissy or taking themselves too seriously. This editorial from this morning's Guardian proves my point:"Who do you call when you want to call Europe? After five years of wrangling designed to deal with the Henry Kissinger questio

notes on a cocktail napkin
I hadn’t read Ed Skoog before putting my hand up to review Mister Skylight, but I subscribe to the Dive-In School of poetry and this volume came with three good omens. 1) Ed Skoog. You can’t do much better than to