A Stylish Stud

The title is one of the automatic wordpress generated titles, but I think it fits. My friend Karl and I have become the sort of people who need a google calendar event to block us off to meet for dinner (puke). On Thursday, the day we had agreed upon two weeks prior, I was incredibly, incredibly grumpy. I didn’t want to drive across the bridge and I didn’t want any damn fancy food and I didn’t want to wear any kind of non-sweatpants and whine whine whine. Karl doesn’t care. Karl has known me for long enough that he just heckled me via text while I grumped at him. And then I had a wonderful, hilarious, delicious time.
My week was full of that kind of thing, both professionally and personally and physically–I pushed myself or was pushed and ultimately felt better for it. I was surprised into doing crossfit. I had challenging groups and overcame some really nasty excel data collation stuff. I held a brain (ok, that I wanted to do). On Saturday I dragged myself out of the house to browse Politics and Prose, and happened upon a reading and Q&A with Edan Lepucki. The reason I went to the bookstore was to find some new poetry–specifically love poems. I have written, in my life, approximately one fully hopeful and positive love poem–about a single moment. A connection that ultimately was not particularly significant, but when I wrote the poem I was just moved by it, and literally wrote this poem on the back of a motion sickness bag with a pen I borrowed from a flight attendant. The poem even rhymed. I hate that poem.
I am participating in a reading in October which will have nothing to do with healing or war–just poetry and brunch (details soon–it will be amazing, I promise)–and as I was telling Karl about this awesome opportunity and my insecurities around keeping my creative work alive and changing, I decided to try to read all celebratory love poems. Which means I’ll have to write a shit ton of love poems. Which means I have to study a ton of love poems, which led me to Politics and Prose and to an incredible collection called what is this thing called love by Kim Addonizio, even though I had decided going in that I would buy an anthology of classic love poems. Even though I looked at the stupid picture on the cover and scoffed, I flipped to a random page, read a stanza and absolutely had to have this book. I laughed out loud at these poems, I stood up and walked around between poems to digest them, I took pictures of pages because I had to share. Below is one. The prompt is to make a list of your most beautiful first kisses. As many as you can remember–where did they happen? Just remember the set-up and location and anticipation, and write a list poem. Don’t number it (no one needs number shaming), don’t think about where they led (or didn’t lead). Send me your beautiful first kisses lists. I need the inspiration.


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