How lucky we are
That you can’t sell
A poem, that it has
No value. Might
As well
Give it away.

That poem you love,
That saved your life,
Wasn’t it given to you?

Gregory Orr

Reading Hua Hsu’s memoir gives me nostalgia. Hsu is 45, my age; therefore, we listened to the same hip-hop songs from the early 90s. We were raised by Asian-immigrant parents. We had similar experiences growing up. Hsu had Ken and I had Đức.

When I first met Đức in high school, he embarrassed me. His jokes, his accents, and his hustlings somewhat irritated me. He bought stolen TI calculators from the Black kids for $10 or $20 a pop and resold it for $50. He sold me one for $30 so I was part of the problem. He was known for copying pre-calculus homeworks from our Vietnamese group. I often wondered how he would survive college if we were around to let him copy our homeworks. I would never find out.

Despite all of his flaws, Đức was a charming guy. Outside of the school, he was street smart. Our friendship grew. I welcomed him into our crew, which included my two Vietnamese friends I had known since middle school. To keep the story short, Đức drowned in a boating accident. He, his girlfriend, and I were in the same canoe. I can’t remember if there was a fourth person on it. The canoe flipped over when we stood up and clowning around. I was not a good swimmer; therefore, I grabbed a hold of the canoe. With the help of other friends from another canoe, we flipped the canoe over. His girlfriend and I got back on, but Đức was nowhere to be found. We thought he was pulling a prank at first. Two, three, four, five minutes later, we started to worry.

Like Hsu, I felt guilty about Đức’s death. It was also the first loss of someone so close to me. The incident haunted me many years later. Ken, Hsu’s friend, was tortured and brutally murdered. It is such a heartbreaking story.

Hsu won a Pulitzer Prize for this memoir. It’s a concise, heartfelt, page-turning read.

Her eyes are narrow, her hips jut out:
a replica of every girl we’ve ever known.
He kisses her mouth hard with tongue & spit.
I hated the way she bossed me, the way
she was a woman & i was still a girl.
Raw tobacco swayed in the barn.
You just a baby, she tells me
her voice sounding like pity
her hand flapping in the wind like her mother’s.

Crystal Wilkinson

Donny Trương, my professional portfolio site, has been re-typeset in Case, designed by Erik Spiekermann, Anja Meiners, and Ralph du Carrois. Case is a sans serif superfamily that supports Vietnamese, in which I played a small role. Taking advantage of its variable fonts, I set Case in big headers, Case Text for body copy, and Case Micro for user interface. I also revised the intro to load different text every time someone visits the the homepage. I am just trying to keep it fresh. Take a look.

What’s hard is deciding what we need to spell out,
and what would trip you up, where can’t you cope.
There is a kind of urban legend, or myth,

that we never say what we mean, or even try,
but those are fighting words. Besides the hype
it’s mostly dishonesty we can’t stand;

that, and people who have so much self-doubt
that they never say what they want.
Most of us are older than you think.

We definitely do not all have the same type.
Each of us fears isolation, but cherishes solitude,
along with our ability to count,

divide, and let our complex math include
all relevant variables: the x, the y,
and anything else that matters to all of us, with
the important exception of the kitchen
table, or else the kitchen sink.

Stephanie Burt

The downbeats give Gunna the space to rhyme. His deliveries are laid back—even when he flows fast—and his lyrics are personal. He had many issues he needed to address, especially to his haters. On “Go Crazy,” he declares: “It’s deeper than rap and this life can get crazy.” Without any guest spots, Gunna takes control of his narrative throughout the album.

Binary thinking leaves out so much. For example,
Reading only left to right, or up and down,

Ignores all our wishes for comfort, for circular motion,
All the ways that the happier letterforms seek the option

Not to stand alone. Their living space is ample,
Hot in June, cold in March, with pencil lines of frost

Along the stems and twigs in all their dewy, new-built
Nests. Some warblers build more than one.

Each feels tiny compared to thunderstorms, construction
Cranes, plate tectonics and how the past

Harms the present with its slush-avalanches of guilt,
And yet it made us—us. How little we know. How much

Knowing isn’t the point. We love how the letters can touch.

Stephanie Burt

I have been practicing digital design for over 20 years. From web to print to UX to UI to development to server administration, I have been involved in all parts of design. I even supervise designers and developers. The only part of design I haven’t done is examining design patent. I have learned that the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office (USPTO) has a design department. I was so tempting to give it a try. I hesitated because I live with a patent examiner and witness all the stress she endures. She works at nights and on weekends to meet her productions. I don’t think I can handle that level of stress. In addition, I don’t want to give up the creating part of what I do. I still love crafting webpages using HTML & CSS. I still love blogging. I still love typesetting. I still love playing around with web technologies. Examining design is not for me.

I have a profile page on Marketplace where I sell new and used hockey skates, figure skates, roller skates, and rollerblades. My kids grew out of them and some aren’t interested anymore. Prices are dirt cheap. I had bought used skates, skis, and snowboards on Marketplace as well. I guess I just can’t deactivate Facebook.

All things must come
to an end, but I never
want them to end: I would rather keep on
an open book, continue whatever
gets me excited, replay
a lightning strike, or cast
a plumb line that may never touch
the bottom, crash
through every stubborn wall. It’s
true that I come to a point. I divide
each present from every past. But I also exist
to celebrate what’s next; I support
purposiveness, enterprise, and the intrepid spirit
of getting things done. That’s why I feel deeply akin
to vacuum cleaners, to the letter T,
to batteries, and to the short
and long versions of any handmade stroke
that could be the numeral 1, or an 1, or an I.
I am, also, an inkblot, a sudden stain
emerging below a quill pen, a sign
of danger, and a way to be overjoyed,
an antiquated firearm along
with smoke from its retort.
And I have been able to see
myself as a telescope;
a way to print
the otherwise
unprintable; a tail
for flight, or for seaside escape,
and even the kind
of anchor that stands for hope.
I am the lever big enough
to move the world, the world you move,
actions and actors,
the proof and the claim you prove,
the product of all mathematical factors.
You cannot use me
as a taxi, or for a quick lift, or just to get
yourself from one place to another; I mean to stay.
I can announce
the end of everything,
the feeling of dangling, of having
the world on a string,
or else a new day.

Stephanie Burt