Here at Welterweight Press, your manuscript has to weigh under 147 pounds to professionally box other poet's poetry.
So, my Thanksgiving weekend. Let me set the tone. Please note that behind all madness lies perfect charm and formality. Also love:
Oranges and cranberries:
Table decor: Salt carrier and a Styrofoam and feather duck, also Japanese maple leaves:
Candles, 1/2 way through dinner:
I actually didn't take that many photos of family. My brain stored that.
But some of the players:
Me and My Dad. On of my favorite things to do is make faces at my dad because he makes them back at me. I find this ridiculously funny. No one ever makes the same faces back at me. But my dad does. This is the face I used to make when I was younger, and we had family dinner, and we sat across from each other, every night for 18 years. And this is the face he would make back at me. It never gets old:
Actually his face is more accurate than mine, normally The Face is a Scary Smile as opposed to a Scary Snarl.
My brother giving me the One-Eye:
He'd like us to think he's contemplating something important. He's not:
My bro gets "mad props" for deep frying a delicious turkey.
Ryan, my cousin Anna's boyfriend. He is sleeping at the table after eating too much turkey. People are talking around him while he snoozes on an elbow. Very endearing:
My cousin Zoe:
I told Zoe that I've been using the term "to pound" a lot lately. As in, I'm gunna pound that poem. Or, I hope you're pounding the Scrabble game right now. So, instead of just appropriating the term "pounding" she used the whole term "pound the poem." Which means that when Zoe was asking me to eat a lot of Turkey and rice, she said, "You better be pounding that poem." This made me very happy.
A Portrait of my uncle when he was a kid (unfortunately he couldn't make it to thanksgiving this year but I think my cousins wrapped him up some turkey & chocolate cake):
Of my mom, my lovely mom:
Plant that looks like a floating lillypad:
Me & Spook:
My (very hip) aunt Judi took my to a Church thrift store on Saturday:
Part of a lamp:
This is actually in the Boys Room at my grandma's house. I have a history with this kettle. For some reason it always rests on the furnace. For some reason, it always has a bit of water in it. No one adds the water, it's just always there. And late at night, when the furnace heats up, the kettle starts to make this hollow whistling sounds. When I was a kid it used to scare me, even though I rationally knew it was just a hot kettle. But it was in my bedroom, calling me. I don't know why I never moved it onto the windowsill or rug when I was there, but I don;t think the kettle has been moved in 20 years: