P: Wait, ANOTHER story due on Monday?

Sheesh. I'm back to eating carbs by the mouthful while trying to eek out more words, words, words. Beyond an interesting BU-MIT grad school mixer at--oy vay, Tequila Rain--which my friend Heather described as "Nerd Heaven," this week/end has been pretty low-key. Got a haircut, had coffee with Diane and Sheila's friend Brian who was in town, went to bed by 9:50pm on Friday, went to northeast MLA (Modern Languages Assoc) conference to see my friend Paul chair a panel discussion on early African-American lit and archives, then my friend Carolynn and her boyfriend Jason came into town for the night and we had a great catch-up session, and today I spent 4.5hrs at Espresso Royale writing, only to come back home and make turkey meatballs in a chicken broth and Belgian honey ale gravy, and then running out to buy Nutella to fuel me through more writing.... nothing much has been going on, nope. Just stressed re another story I'm turning in tomorrow.

On that note, I will leave you with a poem I stumbled upon while sorting through my files. I wrote it in 2003, and it's interesting to note because it continues the Annie-Patty long-distance dialogue! It is also evidence of why I don't write poetry anymore. The title's a lie--it was originally kisses from Oxford, but Newcastle made a pun off of the expression 'coals from newcastle'. Sorry for the cop-out, but don't have time for a proper post....

Kisses! From Newcastle

We send each other emails

that splash their way across the Atlantic.

I picture you in a North Country pub

your grip slipping round a pint of cider

and you toss back your wild, tangled hair

surrounded by local boys, mesmerized

by your pierced tongue and eyebrow

and exotic Manhattan accent.

And maybe you see me in a Midtown counterpart

—you know, one of those Asian-fusion after-work corporate hot-spots—

sitting awkwardly across two glasses of Merlot

and a Merrill Lynch man

as we chat about third quarter earnings

and his generous benefits package—

and I bet you’re laughing hysterically at your computer screen.

Next you’re chugging along on the Intercity counting sheep

out the window to lull you to sleep

while I’m plugging away at work:

press releases, review lists, galleys

hoping for the blue moon phone call from The New Yorker or Boston Globe.

From Amsterdam Centraal you hop on the #5

along the canal

past the dome-shaped Pannekookenhuis

with the apple and Gouda crepes

but you stay on, as the tram heads to Museumplein.

After two hours and seven euros of hash

you’re staring at that famous Rembrandt,

one amidst the crowds of young Americans—

high, tilting their heads in awe.