This Is Not About Birds

Am I biased? I am biased.  To think of him is to think of the line from Stand by Me (or The Body, but I never read that): “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve.” In a wine box in a bedroom back along the Whippanong lies his cover drawing of the first issue of June Ink, a comic we dreamed up where our middle school teacher had telekinetic powers. (The June Chronicles is a subject worthy of some future discussion.) So when I flip through the pages of This Is Not About Birds and land on “Farmers Market” first, I laugh.  I don’t see a character with his “fingers indigo and sticky,” I see him.  I was predisposed to love this book.

I kept returning to the first lines.  They are the kind to mouth, to read out loud.  I liked “Marilyn and Carl” and “Quit Your Tents.” I loved “Hold’em” and “She Had No Tongue.”

I learned some cool words.  Wambling!

In the half-apologetic epistles, he writes twice he has nothing to give.  Untrue.  Read these poems.

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