Our caps flew like confetti.
Thank god I customized mine.
I'll keep it as a memento of all-nighters,
friendships formed in the academic trenches,
dismissive professors and group-project-tortures.

This isn’t another ‘drunk girl’ holiday, despite obvious similarities.
Our parents, sisters, brothers, and grandmothers are here.

We came in doe-eyed, holding overpriced planners,
and enough provisions for two year Mars missions.
We hoped to discover friends, decent Wi-Fi signals
and perhaps our adult selves.

Now we're holding diplomas, those future-proofing talismans.
Mine’s in molecular biophysics and biochemistry.
Which is wry, because when I was in high school,
my sister accused me of not knowing how to boil water.

I've been asked "What’s next?" a thousand times in the last month.
I have plans—but I was dying to shrug and say, “that’s tomorrow’s problem,” like I’ve spent major duckets, degree wise, but remain the ditzy blonde.
The standard graduate answer, I’ve heard, is "I dunno."
(though honestly, it’s a great answer).

Congratulations, all of you graduating overachievers out there—everywhere.
Go forth, be fabulous and find that next big dream.
Can you believe we actually did this?
Argh! I gotta go, someone wants another picture.
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Songs for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Summer Wind by Robert Mosci
Tomorrow by Wings

Neon’s radioactive glow in a window,
offers the cheap promise of pleasure.
Like a hypnotic, fluorescent serpent,
it flashes, blinks and winks - “Welcome”

It fairly slithers on rain-slicked boulevards,
warms like moonlight on cold unfriendly nights,
and signals cool, ready fun in the summertime.

We dress our vices in silky, pastel colors, like the
gamblers choices of Disney flavored whiskies.
It’s the soft, velvet glove that hides brass knuckles,
oh, you’ll feel those bruises in the morning.

The world’s a dark alleyway with an electric blush,
whose color flatters the lonely, desperate,
and makes sin look like something you could fall for.

Neon is perfume for the optical senses.
In that light, everything seems possible.
Isn’t that girl smiling at you? You see,
beauty is easier to trust than the truth.

Neon imperviously reflects off regrets,
and glitters brightest on broken dreams.
Of course daylight is harsh, but honest.
Didn’t we come in here to escape it?
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Songs for this:
The Ballad of Mac the Knife by Sting & Dominic Muldowney
Any Old Thing by Swing Republic

Words activate something in me
even if I’m just thinking, not writing.
So I soon find myself back at the keyboard.
It seems that my life’s been a series of keyboards.

My motor’s always running—I idle fast.
But I’ve been untying my intellectual shoe-strings recently.
Dissociatively avoiding intellective pursuits,
and embracing entropy (since school ended).
It’s been relaxing—I’ve felt new to my body.

There’ve been happenings lately,
particularly in the nocturnal theater of romantic nights.
My bf Peter’s here—trying to look impressed by an under-grad degree. He’s a pretty good actor—for an amateur.

We’ve been interrogating the richer aspects of love,
testing it’s configurations you might say,
with constant motions and lush indulgences.
We’re savoring this temporary freedom,
devouring it, like mindless carnivores.

Peter lives in Geneva, you see, while I’ve been in New Haven.
If I’ve learned anything, in my ivy league, senior year,
it’s that you can’t cheat closeness with virtuality.
He may have a new job in New Jersey and I'll be in Boston.
I've already calculated a year’s travel expenses from
Logan to Liberty and back 52 times = ~$62k. Make it so.

I'm an enumerator, I count everything
—the left facing croissants on a tray,
the days Peter and I have been apart,
and the modicum of hours we’ve had together.
I’m somewhere on that obsessive-compulsive bell curve,
and I’m a Libra, uncomfortable in an uneven world.
Perhaps there's no shame in this.

I wonder sometimes, when we’re separated, if we’ll still work, when
we’re reunited, and then, like sunlight can suddenly define shadow,
we can see that it does.
That love is more potent than wine.

I dream of things I can’t have—yet,
like the life I’d like to live—someday.
Hey, I’ve something to look forward to.
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Songs for this:
Love Train by The O'Jays
Easy by The Commodores

My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.

It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.

I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,

It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.

I’ve really loved it here.
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Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways

There’s a farmers market near campus.
A young couple has a pizza oven on a trailer.
They make a breakfast pizza - bacon, mozzarella
some egg and green peppers. It’s SO crispy and delicious.
ALL I had to do this morning was say “breakfast pizza!”
and six of us were ready to head out fifteen minutes later.

Let’s wax poetic, shall we?

There are some young ladies who live in a dorm
sometimes it seems like they only have studies
but once and a while on a Saturday or Sunday
if we have our druthers, we get out, in swarm
and find ourselves some pizza-like brekkie.
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Songs for this:
PIZZA by Oohyo
Le Breakfast Club de Paris by Gabrielle Chiararo

“There’s a cow at the table,” I whispered, not wanting to be rude.
It’s horns curled like question marks, which seemed quite Apropos
Now that I’ve been to college, I can tell you, there’s a lot that I don’t know.
But a cow at the table, no matter how well dressed, left me, well, confused.
“How do you Dooooo?” I offered, friendships should begin straightforwardly.
When it didn’t answer, I thought, “Well this friendship’s starting off awkwardly.”
Was it hard of hearing? I wondered. “Have you mooooved here recently?” I asked, loudly.
Again, nothing, it just sat there proudly. Did it take my attempt at dialect, as a sign of disrespect?
“Would you like some fooood? I asked, “Some hay maybe?” I was guessing, but it was a guest.
Some friendships start out slowly, but holy-moley, was this livestock trying to troll me?
After some aggravation, and impatience, it turned out to be an elaborate, fraternity initiation.
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*Based on Leonora Carrington’s painting “Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur.”
https://www.moma.org/artists/993-leonora-carrington

The old sorcerer was teaching his apprentice a lesson about the moon, but as usual the subject drifted, this time, to witches. “How would I know a witch if I saw one?” The apprentice asked.

“It’s not easy,” the old man began, scratching his beard. “There are three possible ways to spot a succubus who wishes to remain unknown—they’re quite different than the rest of us.” The old man began filling his pipe. “They draw great power from water, you know (the apprentice didn’t know). An enchantress with one foot in a stream could hold off an army—for days.” A spark popped from the pipe scarring the old man’s robe, but he healed it with a twitch of his ring finger.

“Then all armies should have witches!” the boy announced.
“They’d’ never get involved in a war,” the old necromancer chortled scornfully, before resuming the lesson.

“Witches have eyes black and whiteless under a moon full—those are easily hidden.” He waved his hand dismissively, then he recited: “In moonlight’s grace, a witches face will glow with a cold granite cast.” He smiled like a child, adding “You’d throw up if you heard one laugh, and grow weak if you cross one’s path.” He became sidetracked and began fumbling with a pile of stacked books.

You said three ways,” the apprentice reminded him, “the moonlight glow,” he said, raising a thumb, “the eyes that black show,” he added his pointer finger to indicate two, “what else?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” the sorcerer cleared his throat, “they don’t all wear black, or have crooked backs, but they smell sweet, like mixed calendula and eucalyptus.” He fished around a collection of herb jars, drawing out two. “Here, smell these, together, and don’t forget them. As the apprentice inhaled the sweet combination, the old sorcerer continued. “Of course, once you smell a witch, you’re in a world of adversity—if she wants you.”

“Oh, yes.” he said, as if jolted by memory. “Witches love unnatural things, like drinking venomous hemlock. So never kiss a beautiful witch, for those dark lips are moistened with poison.” He chuckled to himself “Learned that verse as a boy.”

“A witch would **** us then?” the youngster asked, wide eyed.

“No, no, no!” The old man waved that idea away like a fly, “If a witch kills someone, they experience an ecstasy so intense, it’s debilitating. Then they’d be easy prey for other hags who want their secrets.” He raised a finger which he shook, “But they could blind us, ******* us, bind us, make us forget ourselves or turn us into toads.” He laughed himself into a coughing fit. “That happened to me once,” he confided, chagrined, “but spells wear off.”

“Are witches more powerful than sorcerers?”
“Well yes, and no,” he said, his look seeming to focus on some faraway point. “A witch and a wizard are a fair match but if witches form a coven of eight, they’re unbeatable, really.”
"Though they'd be as likely to **** each other as anything else," he added.

Absorbed in their lessons, time had gotten away from them. Robins, thrushes and dunnocks, from hidden perches, began their "evening chorus," owls and nightjars began sounding their sunset warnings and cricket, katydids, and cicadas sounds became prominent. It was time to hang the wards, light the candles and spread the garlic.
“Hurry, boy,” the old man encouraged as he began to twirl and chant.
“Rest oh, spirits, there are no evil-ones here, no souls close to death and no sweet blood to taste.. rest restless Jinns, or wander elsewhere this peaceful night, no plot is afoot, no muder in plan..”
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Songs for this:
Abracadabra by Steve Miller Band
Abracadabra by Lady Gaga