The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs

First thing's first: the tattoo itch. I'm not so sure I'll scratch it, but, if I do, I'd like a Quetzal on my other arm. The Quetzal is the official bird of Guatemala. Here is an image I pulled up from the internet, tell me what you think:

Pardon the poor resolution... this was a camera phone upload. Chicken bruscetta -- a fantastic summer substitution for the classic Chicken Parmesan dish.

Christopher and Laura came over for dinner last night. She is a doll! Sweet and down-to-earth, she's a third-year med student at Emory. She has a very warm and inviting presence. Naturally, I'm thrilled that she's dating my brother. He really needs someone to love, as he himself is a very loving and kind spirit.

The personal research has begun: I bought Border's out on their poetry and writer's magazines yesterday. I've already found one new poet to fall in-love with -- Ange Mlinko. There's a clarity that just reaches out through the pages towards you, a certain vividness, palpableness... its texture is so very alive. These qualities make her poetry stand out among all the others. Also, since I feel particularly inarticulate today, I decided to share a poem by Mlinko that I enjoy:

Win-Win by Ange Mlinko

If an orchidophage's tastebud magnified

resembles an orchid

so my buds indubitably mimic pricking ice cream cones.

Love, little by little it dawned on us the artisanal

ice cream, especially the prizewinning caramel,

would be out of our reach,

like the previous Friday of a Sunday leaving the beach,

in the meltdown.

When you grasp at the soundfile of cymbals

-- "that knitting needle sound" -- through your headphones it kindles

an inkling that in the bongo-playing

you can hear the wedding ring,

ting ting in the liquescence.

When you hear the sound you may smile

to think of the ones and zeros that soundfile

resembling sticks and drumheads,

or knitting needles and drumheads

as the beat gets molten.

When things get molten you may think of fire

made up of a million little matchfires

rendering a house on the Sound

-- belonging to ex-employers -- a bit of char on the ground

as the regrettable outcome of a meltdown.

A thousand hotheads make a Sarkozy:

at the sight of their BMW in a car cozy

a thousand swans make a Sigolene

purring win-win.

The sound is statistical, like the meltdown.

The holes in your socks and the follicles in your leg

are pixelated as a JPEG.

My tastebuds resemble microscopic glasses of gin now, now's

the time to shake and shiver like a maraca in this house.

The many kinds of dissolution.

Well, birds happen forth from feeders like swinging pagodas

against snow, as

the meltdown goes on, a dump of rock salt.

We'll soon be signatories by default.

Crystals of sodium chloride

are made of smaller crystals of sodium chloride.

Let me know their House

is made up of many other people's houses, magnified.

I enjoy the continual reference to the interconnectedness of things, the way life can be broken down and broken down into smaller particles, all resembling one another... like a rock of salt, like a prism, like a hall of mirrors. Then, there is this sort of resolution within the poet/narrator herself, that seems to suggest she has given up some sense of ego, knowing that her life is nothing more than the mirrored crystals of sodium chloride. Anyway, these are the things I've taken away from the first few readings of this poem. I'm sure the more I read it, the more I will uncover... that's the gift of good poetry.

In other updates: I did some remodeling to the blog... obviously. What do you think? It seems unfinished to me... I'm not quite sold on it...

Also! The diploma finally arrived in the mail today!! It's magnificent.