Why isn’t “*******” a complement?
I mean, when “Thank you” isn’t enough?

You get a great meal and fantastic service at a restaurant.
You leave a nice tip and as you leave, you add, a waving,
cheerful “*******!” Which says it all.

You have your car repaired, it cost ½ the estimate -
you’re thrilled - and as you view the bill, you grin
and say, “*******!” The mechanic smiles
proudly and says, “You’re welcome!”

You’re at work and your boss says that you’re getting a raise.
You say, “*******!” And you mean it.
He/she laughs and says, “Right back at ya!”

Isn’t getting ****** - at the right place, with the right
someone, one of life’s elysian pleasures? I mean honestly.
It should be up there with ‘God bless you.”

‘*******’ should be a standard courtesy expression,
there should be Hallmark ‘*******' cards,
with happy faces on them.

One evening, in a sleepy Connecticut town, the locals saw a peculiar sight,
a UAP had landed in an empty field, and man, it lit up the night.

They were, axiomatically, from a distant galaxy, here to explore our shared cosmic space,
their metallic-*******-rocket was multicolor pastel bright, like a carnival showcase.

There were cows that mooed approvingly and dogs that barked up at the sky,
like they needed to show where the thing came from - no one really knew why.

Soon little green people-like beings emerged, they had big, wide eyes that looked eerie,
but then again, this is how they’d always looked in movies and on TV.

"Take us to your leader," they said, but it was hard to take them seriously,
because this is America and most of us disagree on who that leader should be.

Someone brought out lawn chairs and the alien-astronauts settled in,
tables appeared shortly thereafter with a spread of pies, casseroles and fried chicken.

They spoke of their interstellar journeys, of planets far and wide,
of space cafes and wormhole highways and how gravity worked like tides.

One of the kids played some music and the explorers started to move,
soon we were having a dance-off - which they won - with some wacky, cosmic moves.

As morning light edged the horizon, our little green friends waved goodbye,
after saying that in some ways they envied us and our simple terrestrial lives.

Though they never promised to revisit, when the sky turns certain shade of blue,
townsfolk will set up a pasture party - just in case they do.

I find myself in full fantasy mode lately. I have a BF (who I saw a couple of weeks ago) and I’m not interrogating my romantic choices - but he’s not here.

Do I have an impulse to throw myself at that boundary? No, but I can steal a look, now and then, like a hotel souvenir - can’t I?

Yesterday morning, Lisa and I stopped at Steep, a coffee shop on science hill, to pick up something breakfasty. At one point the small shop filled with the aroma of apple pie and in my mind, I had a flash memory of this guy, Jordie, last fall, coming into this shop in his little Yale blue and white soccer shorts.

He’d looked fit. In memory, he seemed to move slowly, like individual video frames. There was an interesting, uncomplicated strength, something polished and fresh about him, like a shiny new phone.

“Here,” Lisa said, passing a coffee to me. Then she gave me a sly smile and a tilty-headed look, asking,
“Where’d you go? You looked like you were lost in some bliss.”

A guilt washed through me, as thin and unpleasant as cigarette smoke. The thought of telling her struck me like a slapping hand. Submitting this fantasy to a roommate focus-group seemed wrong.

The whole fantasy was bunkum anyway, an unimportant memory, mapped to a fragrance, as if his taut, tanned, muscular legs had significance.
“I was daydreaming,” I said, with an ‘I don’t know’ shrug and grimace.

(BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Bunkum: a foolish or insincere idea)

I’m a tightrope walker, strung between
the hedonistic abyss of winter break and
the unforgiving canyon of organic chemistry.

The stack of spring syllabuses are a prophecy whispered
in Latin. The story they tell haunts my dreams - wherein
each biochemical is a monster lurking in the shadows.

“I’m not in a tailspin, that would be unfair,” I tell Lisa, “I’m in a lull.”
“It’s like that awkward time, between a hangover and drinking again.” she laughs.

Sure, I envisage late, week night study grinds, and sleepless
hours, but the price of serious things isn’t trivial - success and hard
work are, unfortunately, yoked together, like Shakespeare’s double shadow.

A tough spring curriculum won’t stop me from
taking 3 or 4 minutes to dance with roomates
when a head-banger like ‘Spiral City’ plays or
enjoying sudden, late night jelly bean melees.

And then there are the spring things that spark joy.
Walking to class on a brilliant spring morning,
with birdsong, a warm sun and fragrant breezes.

Laughs stolen in the back of classes,
gossip and secrets exchanged over
guilty coffee and croissant indulgences.

Skipping through crowded halls, drawing looks
‘cause we’re clapping aggressively to each other, singin’
“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh!”

“Ok,” I think to myself, putting my hair in a ponytail,
“I’m ready for spring semester - bring it on.”

We moved back into the residence yesterday - we were jubilant - and had a slumb-over last night, to celebrate our reunification. We woke up joyous, on the right side of the same bed (slumb-over), and we’ve been bouncing off the walls ever since.

We’re in the ‘settling in’ phase, restocking our Keurigs, getting our same-’ol furniture in the same-’ol places, picking up our books. In this liminal space, between sugarplums and sutures, our shrinking free-time will sag with increasing weight. Even last night’s normally fabulous martinis began to taste metallically laced with formaldehyde.

Once we’re settled in, our leisure will begin to have the tight, mangled fit of a borrowed jacket. “We’ve got to gear up.” Lisa said, just this morning and even as I type this, my eyes are flitting between my dog-eared copy of Gray's Anatomy and the mcat prep hub.

Classes start in 5 days. Free days burn bright, but disappear in a blink. Time is a precious coin.

slumb-over = slumber party.

(Written for a contest “Write a poem based on a poem.’
Inspired by: “My Cat Is High, and So Am I” by Thomas W. Case)

Honey, I was ******, so ******.
I hardly knew what was going on.
That’s when I saw it was gone.

The moon, I mean - hold on -
Takes a swig of ****, but sugary lemonade
I watch the moon - when it’s there - you know?

I’ve always loved the moon - its reflective glamor,
the way it seems to bend light around it,
like a beautiful woman walking into a bar.

The moons like my cat, she has beauty, without vanity
- and without much gravity - like, you know - the moon.

But as I was saying, it was gone - suddenly?
It felt sudden - and visceral - like I’d misplaced something.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, it wasn't behind clouds.

So anyway, man, I looked around and there it was, as if by magic,
it couldn’t have been any clearer and it's never looked nearer,
than it was, right there, in my rear-view mirror.

I had to laugh. You see, I was ****** - so ******.
****** - but I’m never alone, when I can commune with the distant,
inconstant, love of my life, the ever-argent moon.

It’s going to snow tonight. It seems the brick shoulders of Elm Street will ooze, like watery eggnog, with a light snow tonight and we’re twitching with delight.

The vibes of it are too much and sure, it will just turn to slush, but you know how romance twists reality - snow seems laced with pageantry.

After two snowless winters the light dribbling, like a flirty look or a stolen kiss, will be exciting.

When I chose Yale, I was promised - ok threatened with - cruel winter weather.

I’m going to dance however I want, and if I commit to cruelty, I’ll accept it with all of its honest challenges. That cruel weather never materialized.

We returned to New Haven yesterday to be here - for the snow. Earlier, the wind was blowing in from the sea - but hurray! That’s changed.