Can you make a friend— like a craft project?
I know, I hear this parental voice, “just be yourself.”

All of my classes this semester will be in one building, but I’m a control freak, I wanted to walk my schedule, go class to class, like I will on my first day. I have a locker too—this is so high school—but I wanted to find it, try the combination and plan what I’ll carry. I have questions too, like how’s the wi-fi, are there charging outlets, and where can I get coffee?

Orientation is Tuesday—but who can wait until Tuesday? Classes start Wednesday.  I’d never sleep this weekend with so many questions. I’m already having dreams where I’m lost, late and embarrassed.

So there I was, this morning, dressed for class with my green messenger bag—doing it—schedule in hand. I went into a small auditorium with cushioned, crimson, theater seating—where my first class will be—and there’s this other girl, dressed for class, schedule in hand.

We were like twins, except she’s tall and black and I’m not. Right off she commanded me, handing me her phone, no preamble, no “How do you do,” to “Take my picture.”
Of course, I obeyed, I’m not from outer space. I burst 50 quick frames, as she slightly varied her pose and she did likewise for me.

Her name is Chella and she graduated from Yale last week too, with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs.’ I think I saw her on campus once or twice but our paths had never directly crossed.
“But IS that a science degree?” I asked skeptically.
“Probably not,” she answered, “but some of us can live with ambiguity.”
Her first direct, commanding phrase limns her personality perfectly.
Yeah, we hit it right off.
.
.
Songs for this:
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
Perfect Day by Povo
Are You Trying to Be Funny? by Everything But the Girl

I’ve moved out (of school),
I’m moving in (to school).
My joke is that I’m having a ‘moving experience.’

Graduating college (3 days ago) was a dream come true
I’m starting a master’s degree in 7 days.
You have to admire the efficiency.

Do I have your permission to bear my soul?
I might have imposter syndrome.
I’m a harsh critic—of everything—but mostly me.

I’m over the romance and pressure of school.
I’m starting the romance and pressure of school.
Don’t worry, this isn’t hapless, sad girl literature.

Or a diary—it’s a portrayal of my inner life.
.
.
A song for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Messy by Lola Young [E]

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.
.
.
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?
.
.
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.
.
.
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.
.
.
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.
.
.
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.
.
.
*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..”
.
.
Songs for this:
Abracadabra by Steve Miller Band
Abracadabra by Lady Gaga

Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.

I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.

Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.

I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.

It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.

As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye

AI is groupthink, it’s hewed to pre-existing work,
which it aggregates into something bland and flat.

If you don’t want your work scraped and copied by AI, try
writing off-balance ideas that aren’t for everyone and have faith
that AI will never be able to actually rival human creativity.

Deny AI the echo chamber of predictable content on which it feeds.

I polish my pieces to a pointless sheen, which gives
them an algorithmically indecipherable quality.

When it comes my to poetry, I have to admit,
I’m working through mediocrity—hoping that it’s just a phase.

If failure is essential for growth
I’m going to be a giant

But after all, someone has to define the baseline.
You’re welcome.

Ok, Let’s wax poetic..

There are thousands of stars
in that black outer-place
where gravitas holds them
firmly in place.

I fret not about avian abductions,
or unidentified flying soccers,
still, I’ve a waxed on them
in multiverse
.
.
Songs for this:
I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat] by Post Malone
Late Night Talking by Harry Styles

I’m finally going to get on that platform
on the 18th of next month,
for a first-time, one-time performance.
The once, seemingly impossible will come fully true,
which seems like a lot narratively.

It’ll be like leaving home—but we’re crashing out.
Moving on to other plot points, big topics and intense missions.
We’re all caustically optimistic.

Although there’s a cellular-level pull to move on
we can’t help but feel a hesitancy to jump into our multifarious futures.
We’ve never been improvident.

In my personal pool of experience, when I feel alone,
friendless and unseen, this unintelligible fear noise arises
and I'm tempted to tap out. But I never have.
.
.
Songs for this:
walk but in a garden by LLusion
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat] by Post Malone

(A repost from 2019)

My favorite aunt is dying.. cancer, quiet and consuming as a flame..

Seven short weeks ago she was easily doing an hour of step aerobics, unaware of this intruder, this murderer within. Now she's lifted from bed like a rag doll.

She is my mom, well, a near twin—only smaller, funnier, serpent sly, more heavenly childish, sapient with sweet attractive grace and modest pride.

I am in total awe of her. We're kindred spirits, two sillies among the dull and endlessly serious.

I feel her, see her, day by day, slipping away like the hastening angel of heaven foretold.

This is too big for me, too awful and too close.

I am struck helpless, nothing moves, I sit, hardly feeling, and watch her sleep. Death's cruel process suddenly made visible.

I silently rage at the loss of it—my loudest vehemence pointed to this ravenous, lurking enemy pursuing her inwardly like a swarm of deadly hornets accidentally composed.

40 and still stunningly beautiful, she lies surrounded by computers, iPads, phones, faxes, intercoms, notepads, friends and care-givers. Her life reduced to escaping pain and making arrangements for her soon to be orphaned children 4 and 6.

Fentanyl and other pain blockers are her nourishment and seem to work better in the daylight as lawyers garner powers of attorney, bankers conjure trusts and estate planners build foundations to protect small children from a mothers loss.

As if they could replace a single hug
.
.
Songs for this (Gospel music):
Order My Steps by The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
Jesus Loves Me by Whitney Houston

I don’t stream a lot of TV
but once I’m in that mode, I’m down
and I can’t get up.

Best pickup line I heard this week:
“You could be my emergency contact.”

A girl recently called me “weird people.”
She was effusive and I was put in my place.
Apparently, good grammar isn’t legally enforceable.
Her friend apologized, saying—and wrote it down.
“She lives on her phone; it’s a claustrophobic place.”
“Ooo!” I’d said, "Can I use that?” She gave me a blank look.

Leong, lisa and I were walking to class when a lone goose flew over,
honking incessantly, like a New York taxi in heavy traffic.
“That must be a Canadian goose,” I said, because my uninformed comments seem forever welcome—and we are pretty far north.
“I know what it was saying,” Leong offered, in her most inscrutable Asian way. Lisa and I waited to hear some Chinese wisdom, but what she finally said was, “Where IS everyone? I knew I shouldn’t have stopped to ***.”

There’s a song that goes, “We got married in a fever.”
That line seems so point-on to me. That’s how it happens.
Not, “We got married with a prenup, hotter than a brussel sprout.”
My Grandmère told me Peter and I will need a prenup, if we ever…
.
.
Songs for this:
Feather by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Head In The Clouds by BabyJake
Jackson (feat. Josh Homme) by Florence + the Machine

My dorm room was bright this morning. It was disorienting.
The sky outside was a cloudless, striking neon blue.
The air was so crisp and clean, I could hardly feel it going in and out.
It all sparked to create a diffused sense of well-being.

Gone, it seems, were the concrete bunker feels of winter.

There's been some loose talk of ‘spring’ lately—I thought it was fake news—but from my third floor lattice windows I could see what looked like people outside. They were walking in the sunshine, riding bikes, throwing frisbees, kicking ​​hacky sacks, a couple was making out in the grass—it was a riot of activity.

Sunny skiffed out of her room (which looks like a hotel room trashed by some rock star), she seemed lighter than air. Three days ago, she announced there was someone of “particular personal significance,” in her life (translate: girlfriend).
Start the schmaltzy, string-drenched soundtrack—love is in the air.

Our challenge now is to carve out a poised and measured final act to our undergraduate years. There’s a scurrying, cynosure, beehive, hyperfocus to labs and classes, a heightened, almost cinematic quality, as if, up to now, we’ve only been practicing for some undefined ‘real thing.’
.
.
Songs for this:
Daylight by Harry Styles
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing by Michael McDonald
Dizzy (feat. Alfie Templeman & Thomas Headon) by chloe moriondo
.
.our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list.

Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

Some people can't keep their opinions to themselves.
Have you ever noticed what an a$$hole
that girl in the bathroom mirror is?
.
.
A song for this:
Twiggy Twiggy by [re:jazz]

I keep thinking about this summer—about starting a new school—and as soon as I do, I find myself internally monologuing and getting all high-schooly. It’s hoot, I know, but I can’t seem to help it.

‘You know,’ I think, as I’m eyeing myself in the bathroom mirror, ‘I’ll just turn up, looking good, feeling confident about myself and do whatever I want. I’ll go out, meet people and just be that vibe.

I was conflabing with Lisa last night, as we painted our toenails, “I’m a sufficient person, right? I asked rhetorically, “I can work out my thoughts alone, happily pass periods of solitude—nourishing my soul on YouTube.. Ooo, I like that color,” I said.
“You have personal power,” she assured me, as we admired her new nail polish color.

Growing up, my parents moved us, like luggage, about every two years. You can’t just be like, “This is actually crazy.” You’re forced to make a start, with a certain callousness of spirit, because uprooting your day-to-day domestic life, leaving friends, is hard. But I’d end up ok, I integrate quickly, as I love dropping into new cultures—people are so nuanced and clever.

So I've done this before, I have ‘lived experience,’ and I guess I can do it again. Still, I have this, what, adolescent nervousness, where my mind is spinning—even in dreams—planning my new first-day wardrobe, like a middle schooler, three months in advance (I’m a pre-crastinator).

In my heart, I know the source of my  untoward apprehension. Social precarity frightens me. I need other minds to rub up against and the constant stimulation and excitement of friends.

But I’m a 21 year old, grown woman—what’s wrong with me?
.
Songs for this:
These Days by Nico
find my way home MisterWives

everything’s complicated
everything’s a struggle
have you noticed?
it’s a psychological horror
is this feeling the ‘adult disillusionment’ I keep hearing about?

I mean, things work, if you sit on them like an egg—
if your mother things along and helicopter a result.
I mean, what do people do who don't have
my resources and sunny disposition?

I get America’s increasing paranoia but I think that it's *** backwards. Even if someone's were out to ‘get’ you, no one actually cares about doing their job anymore. There's just so little competence around, that the dysfunction feels intentional. And because you need something and you’re helpless, you can't help but feel targeted.

But I think I figured it out, so let me elucidate—they aren't giving YOU bad service, it isn't personal—everyone is getting bad service, two pieces of chicken in the box when you ordered three, five day delivery when you’re clearly paying for two, failure’s become routine—endemic.

My go-to phrase has become, “What’ll it cost?” (the answer, usually: twice as much) “Make it so,” I say, swiping something with my Apple Watch, and suddenly, everything works!
.
.
A song for this:
decide to be happy by MisterWives

I’m a bit of a sensualist.

First, let me emphasise emotional resonance,
there has to be an emotional base,
not just an appreciation of hotness.

Then, there’s a sense of longing and mystery—
that male unknowableness.

Don’t forget the hard strength of those rough male edges,
you know, the feeling that he’s kind of sculpted from
a marble that you just want to run your hands over.

And this jet-black hair, the curves and the spiky bits,
casual, careless, not fussy or particular,
and his warm, firm, implacable hands.
Oh, God. Gimmie some.

“Sensuality's connected to desire, ya?” I asked the room (Sunny and Lisa are there, studying).
“It sure is,” Sunny said, flippantly, “and you just need that hot boyfriend of yours to spank it out of you.”
“No,” I winced, “that’s not true.”
“Ooo! I love this song” Lisa said, as ‘try’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS began to play on our Echos.
.
.
Songs for this:
this is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
golden hour by JVKE
.
.
Our cast
Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff and a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. A (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

It’s one in the morning.
I zoomed into Lisa’s room
and threw myself on the bed where she lay reading
in a near virtuoso, Fosbury flop.
She bounced, jostled by my mechanical bed wave.
“I hate goodbyes,” I said, indignantly.
“You’re not strong on hellos” she said, not looking up.
“They’re so bone-marrow deep,” I went on, “they steal hope away.”
“Did that sound pretentious?” I asked her silence, a minute later, somewhat self-consciously.
Lisa took the yellow, #2-pencil out of her mouth—just long enough to answer.
When she studies, she chews on them, seemingly eating them like french fries.
“Yeah,” she says, “but I get cha.”
“I know,” I said, smiling at the ceiling, because in a rooted and real way, she always has.
I’d be a different person if we’d never met.
I feel very grateful for that.
“Your boy’s flown?” She asked, using her pencil to hold her page and finally looking up.
It was an ironic, near-rhetorical question, she knows he’s gone and she knows I know she knows he’s gone.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
.
.
Songs for this:
4am by girl in red
Don't Stop The Music by Rihanna
blushing! by BETWEEN FRIENDS

E - Everyone
T - That
H - Has
E - Eggs
R - Really
E - Expended
A - A
L - Lot
.
.
A song for this:
bad idea! by girl in red [E]

I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and doesn’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time

I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic

Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory

When it came to love
I had no real plan
I know I wanted to connect in an intimate way
with experimentation and playfulness

I was short on experience
there was a pandemic
I’d had few ‘at-bats’
that’s a sports metaphor

Much of it seemed surreal and abstract
like we’d entered another realm of everyday places
there was a subtle unpredictability
that was unfiltered, instinctive and unapologetically unhinged

freedom permeated every element
still, our collaboration allowed for honest conversation
I remember asking, “What are we doing?”
Thinking back, It underlined how vastly different our two experiences were
.
.
Songs for this:
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee  [E]
Blur by embrs & astralcurrent

(It’s that vernal, infernal, tax season. How about a tax avoidance vignette? It’s poetic—in it’s own way)

Some students at a table near us in the dining hall were discussing America’s financial inequities. One guy was saying that we ought to “tax the crap” out of billionaires and their billions—and there was agreement all around—the consensus was downright mob-like.

I had to chuckle though, because these guys have no idea how wealth is managed in the world today. I bet, for instance, they think Musk has 200 billion dollars in his basement somewhere, but no, Musk’s 200 billion is his ‘net worth,’ the theoretical value of his stock portfolio (or his unrealized assets).

Just between us chickens, I’m related to a few ‘filthy rich’ people, (no, NOT my parents) and I’ve met many others and I can assure you, dear reader, that the ‘filthy rich’ have nothing you can tax. Now, I’m not a finance major. Everything I know, I learned from my Grandmère and my parents who thought a girl ought to know about money. So anyway, just for fun, here’s a quick (I’m condensing and simplifying), lesson on how taxation and wealth work in 2025.

The wealth of the rich lies in their assets—the value of companies they own or stocks they’ve invested in. Those “paper assets” can only be taxed when they’re sold—or, in tax terms, when their intrinsic value is “realized.”

Now instead of selling off (taxable) assets to live, the superrich use those assets as collateral for “securities backed loans” which are nontaxable. Elon Musk, for instance, takes no salary. He uses his ($94 billion) Tesla stock as collateral for loans he uses to fund his lavish lifestyle and provide ready cash as needed.

Mark Zuckerberg, Larry Ellison, Warren Buffett and Jeff Bezos—to name a few billionaires we all know of, take little or no salary—their compensation comes in the form of untaxable stock options they can leverage.

If you think this can’t go on forever, you’re wrong. Even when these billionaires die, the value of assets gained during their lifetimes are immune to taxation. At that point, some assets can be sold by heirs to pay off the outstanding loans, again, without worrying about taxes.

TA DAAAA. Now you know how the rich do it. How they avoid taxes in both life and death, and manage to leave massive fortunes to their heirs.
.
.
Songs for this:
Done Changed My Way of Living by Taj Mahal
Run On by Elvis Presley

We’re in a young-love recession.
Gen Zers are slow to trust and averse to risk,
we have, it seems, a particular social nervousness
about interpersonal exchanges and the symbiosis of love.

So we resort to situationships (undefined relationships),
a stratagem for closeness, with zero commitment.

You can flirt; you can kiss; you can dance.
You can have a crush so big it blots out the stars
You can have transformative romantic encounters
you can care deeply and get hurt badly
you can, in fact, be absolutely wrecked by love
All without ever being in a relationship.

Thank God we’re only young once.
.
.
Songs for this:
Die With A Smile by Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars
Busy Woman by Sabrina Carpenter

It’s Saturday morning. Lisa, Leong and I were in the common area, lazing about. “This is what happened to us (Lisa and I) last night.” I said, beginning to explain last night's trauma to Leong. “We were at the event and it was dead and empty—there was just another couple there. It was made infinitely worse by the gloomy, instrumental, funeral music the on-aux (DJ) was playing. So we went up to him. His headphones were over one ear and off the other.”

“And we were like, ‘Hey, can you play something else? Do something different? Can you please change the hook and play something upbeat—with words?’
“He looked us up and down, dismissively,” Lisa added, touching Leong’s arm to emphasize the point, “then he pulled his other earphone over his previously bare ear to ignore us!

“Because you hurt his feelings,” Leong said.

“No,” I began - I literally, I, like literally don’t understand what he was doing. Being a DJ is customer service, basically. He’s supposed to be making people happy and when two of your four customers complain - you’re supposed to change.”
“You can’t make everyone happy,” Leong suggested, shrugging.
“Is that some kind of dystopian, communist logic?” Lisa asked, shocked (Leong’s from China).
“In America,” she quickly continued, “we try to make the individual happy. He could’ve made half the people in the hall happy - at least the ones that cared enough to engage him.”

“First of all,” Leong began, waving her hands, as if waving away confusion, “the question is - and don’t dodge it - she asked me, “Were you nice? Because you may have hurt his feelings.”
“No, I don’t care,” I said, dismissing ‘feelings.’ “If we’re invited to an event, then our opinions are invited too. it’s like a contract.”
“He might have taken days to plan that playlist.” Leong countered.
“Well, it didn’t matter,” Lisa snarked, “because the funeral was over.”

“Here’s the thing,” Leong said, looking first at Lisa, then at me, “let’s face it, you two aren’t usually ignored, you're both pretty, white, CIS girls—a high society princess, and an upper-crust, trust-fund baby.”
(Oh, she was lashing out over the dystopian crack.)
“Yeah, NO, I.. look, no, you know..” I searched for my words.
Lisa took over, “Look, enough of your divisive, postmodern, race theory crap. These events can only be put on by MEN. Everything here (at Yale) is an EVENT now, with a theme. Girls spend a lot of time getting ready - doing our hair, putting on makeup, picking outfits, for these themes they come up with. It’s like the MET gala out there, where we have to dress to theme every night. Everyone, it seems, has to have a theme. No one wants us to just show up anymore - and they can’t get someone on-Aux to play music with words? The DJ’s just going to play sounds? It’s aggravating when we’ve put in so much effort already.”

“Listen to what you’re say-YING.” Leong said, ‘These events ARE typically put on by MEN, Yale is a male controlled culture - women weren’t even allowed at Yale until 1969. Are men trying to make YOU happy? NO, they’re focused on their happiness.”
“It throws me off that men’s groups, certain guy groups, put these things on,” Lisa reasoned, “because guys barely care about decorations and themes.”
“CAN guys decorate?” I asked, sarcastically—”I mean the straight ones?” I chuckled.

“We put in a lot of effort,” Lisa continued, “We look fantastic and guys just show up, looking the same as ever - what I’m say-ying is - there’s social injustice at work. Last night, it really wasn’t so bad. I mean, people showed up and the DJ eventually got into a vibe, some kind of vibe - whatever. It wasn’t just last night, we’ve been to a LOT of these this year.”

“It’s rife this year, we show up - for what? To be bored?” I updogged, “There’s no music to sing or dance to - and the guys, seriously, they need to take dance lessons or something because they’re bored too—just standing to the side. Girls don’t come to these things to be stared at like circus animals— it’s borderline traumatic. We want to dance and have fun. Uhh! It makes me so angry - and I’m not alone.”
“You’re NOT alone!” Lisa piped in for the sidelines.

“We even tried enlisting the other couple," Lisa said, "asking if they wanted dance music - but they looked like scared freshmen.”
“If I known the host,” I said, “I’d have gone up to them and told them about the music.”
“That wouldn’t be embarrassing?” Leong asked.
“No,” said, “It’s called being honest with your friends and  trying to help.”
“What if..” Leong began, “your musical taste *****.”  “No, it’s not about taste,” I said.
“What if YOU ****!” Leong said. Then, after a second she added, “You ****,” and began chuckling.
“No, no..” I laughed. “YOU ****.” Lisa was heads-up and all ears now—an evil smirk beginning.
“You both ****!” Leong shrieked, swinging the first of many couch pillows wildly.
Queue pillow fight, popcorn fight, dish towel fight, vacuum cleaner fight..
.
.
Songs for this:
Femininomenon by Chappell Roan
Messy by Lola Young
Anxiety by Doechii
.
.
our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list:
Leong, (roommate) 21, a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major,’ is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia - and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). Growing up, I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) we both speak Cantonese (maybe why we were paired?) and we're able to talk a lot of secret trash together.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, (my bff) is a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. She's a (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

Our burdens are lifted—it’s spring break, after all.

Though ocean breezes, surf sounds, the smell of sunblock,
fresh tans and bottomless margaritas at the beach can be healing,
we decided to vacation on campus and find joy in small, everyday things.

Yesterday, we went to the farmer’s market, where one coffee vendor was making real cappuccinos and another was baking fresh breakfast pizzas. The combination reminded me of the 'Antico Forno Roscioli' caffe, near Campo de' Fiori, in Rome.

Then we hit the gym pool, climbed a rock wall (slowly) and played racquetball (rather poorly). We tried a dance & fitness class too—I thought I was in shape but ugg, it was hard to keep up. Peter (my 27-year-old bf) practically collapsed, but maybe he was angling for mouth-2-mouth.

Straight brag: Peter and I are getting new laptops today—MacBook Air M4s—mine’s baby blue, his is silver. So today seems like Christmas.
I don’t know if you people have computers, or use the Internet, but if you do, you’ll get it. I don’t know exactly when it’ll arrive, of course, so I’m pacing our suite.

I’ve always loved tech. My brother started teaching me about computers when I was 10—you know—hard drives, logic boards, power supplies, all of it. I remember it taking about two days to set one up and move all of the data. Today all I’ll have to do is set the new computer next to the old one and click migrate.

You gotta doff your hat to the tech wizards that came up with that, but the hours spent doing it the old way were fun.
“Something’s lost yet something's gained” - I think Joni Mitchell sang that.
.
.
Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
Mountain or a Molehill by Kris Berry
.
.
our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list:

Peter, (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, his jet-black hair is perpetually uncombed and his skin is pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

University midterm periods bring early mornings charged with energy drinks and espresso shots. Evenings are spent trading quizlets in Bass Library or in late night cram sessions in the common room. After several days of stressful testing, midterms suddenly end.

But we’re like those Indianapolis race cars that’ve just run 500 laps, we come off our midterm tracks with our proverbial metal popping and creaking from intense heat and stress. For the first day or so after midterms I can’t sit still. I pace around like I’ve forgotten something—then it sinks in—I can have fun, in fact, it may be mandatory.

My bf Peter is spending spring break with me—for the most part in my dorm room. It’s night two of our 18 romantic days and nights. We spent our first day wending around campus. Peter went here for years—earning his master’s and PhD here. He knows Yale even better than I do—it’s a nostalgia tour for him—he works for CERN in Geneva now (Europe’s most boring city—I think that’s their tourism tagline).

As we lay snuggled in my twin-sized dorm room bed, beneath one of my very freshly laundered sheets, it’s about 41°F and windy. I keep my lattice windows wide open, because I like to sleep cold, with just a sheet. Peter complained once, when he’d first earned sleepover privileges—until I explained the alternatives.

We’ve been dating for over two years now, and I think he’s learned to enjoy it. An arm or a leg left outside the sheet will start to tingle after a minute but the touch of a human hand is like a soothing flame. Snuggles are welcomed and spoonings are almost required for survival.

Looking up and out, we can see the cloudless and deeply azure, New Haven sky. My mind is drifting and lazily unfocused when I realize Peter’s been talking about something.. the search for extraterrestrial life?

I begin to focus on his words, mid sentence. His voice is a low, rumbly, western drawl - think Henry Fonda in some old black & white western.
“.. when SETI’s searching the heavens (for electronic signals), they listen across a sliver of two microwave regions that are unpolluted by radio waves from natural sources.”

My head’s on his chest and I’m listening more to his warm tones than the words. I say, “Mmm-hmm” and snuggle more deeply into his warmth.

“They call these frequencies the ‘water hole,’ because they correspond to hydrogen and hydroxyl wave lengths (key components of water), in hopes that intelligent life will pick these quiet zones for communication.”

I yawn, drawing in air like a gasp and sink deliciously into his slow breathing rhythms. Peter’s a physicist (that’s spelled ‘nerd’) and I can’t say I understand more than a third of his ellipticals, but the next thing I know it’s morning.

His astronomy lesson was a lullaby.
.
.
The Flower Called Nowhere by Stereolab
Stick Figures In Love by Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
Moby Octopad by Yo La Tengo
If I Didn't Have You (Live) by Tim Minchin

The pressure to create constantly
makes those creations feel disposable

It’s Thursday morning, usually no one’s favorite, but this one seems sugary new, as if beamed in from a different, better universe. The clouds look fluffy and freshly washed.

Even the freshmen, who’re everywhere, multiplied, as if they’d been cloned overnight, seem less dramatic with their endless droning-on about insignificant political points.

Could this explosive sunniness be because midterms were stupidly easy and spring break is one day away? Hmm, maybe, but it’s not the whole story. Peter (my bf) will be here tomorrow night and for 18 romantic days (and nights) we’re going nowhere except New Haven night spots and my dorm room. I’m so happy, in a pure pop euphoria way, I almost feel guilty about it.

It’s 45°, the high will be 52°. New Haven’s warming up, I think we have winter on the run, next stop:spring, baby. Sunny, Lisa, Leong and I are breakfasting together before we scatter, like Confetti, for our day.

We’d picked a table by the windows, because it looked relatively clean. We dumped our stuff and began raiding the breakfast bar. All of the choices look depressingly healthy—does anyone else miss grease for breakfast—you know, bacon? Anyone? Oh, well, at least there’s ‘specialty coffee’.

After we’d all settled in, we were quiet. Most were visualizing their day, I supposed. I wasn’t. I was thinking about last night. Last night, Leong was making Chinese soup—she’s a gourmand—and teaching us how to make it. It’s elaborate, and as she worked she married the instructions with details from her life growing up in China.

Like how, back in Macau, they lived in this great house with many servants (her dad is an industrialist) but her grandmother insisted on raising chickens and growing a garden—and somewhere in the mix she added, with heart-on-her-sleeve vulnerability, “My dad doesn’t know how to show his love.”

And we were like, “Oh, wow, Ok, that got real - quickly.” It seemed sudden and off-kilter, at first, but as we talked it out, I decided that there was something kind of poetic about using food to talk about the emotional barriers you’re facing with your Chinese father.

“I need some high energy, smashing,” Sunny confided, after her first few sips of coffee.
“It’s 8:23am,” Leong moaned, closing her eyes as if to say, “It’s too early to start.”
“Who says femininity is shy and retiring?” Lisa asked, rhetorically.
I made a face. The pastry I’d gotten was stale. I dropped it, but I didn’t spit out my first bite. “It’s the non-stop of disappointing little things that **** our joy,” I stated sagely, around the stale mush.
“Epicureanism?” Sunny asked no one in particular. But no one entered the debate.
.
.
Songs for this:
You Can Have It All by Yo La Tengo
Cry! by Caroline Rose

He’s a peculiar star
he comes from TV
ambition is his sphere
and his every line is a trick

all know him a notorious liar
whose business is schadenfreude
but many curry his sweet favour
for he has the cowards fury
and an actors need to be flatter'd

He has no quality worthy of entertainment
but we must see him every hour
for he is an hourly promise-breaker
for rashness, superfluous folly and thievery
the world has noted, he has no historical equal

In moral retreat, he outruns any jockey
the treasures of his idolatrous worshipers
he straightway began to strip away, by tariff
too late their despair they will proclaim
but the misery will be well earned
.
.
Fool by bôa
TROUBLE (feat. Nikki Williams) by Parov Stelar
Who Let the **** out of the Bag by Tape Five

How many women here
have been impregnated
by Elon Musk? looking for hands

He plans to repopulate the planet
single handedly - well, not handed
exactly - you know what I mean.

In Australia, great swaths of Texas,
and of course Mar-a-Lago, he’s a serial offender,
because his ***** is legal tender.

Factoid: you might catch a disease,
he’s sleeping with everyone north of Belize
and several of them, frankly, look ******.

Of course, you’d have to listen to him talk. shivers
Unless you say, “Hey, can we do this without conversation?”
That’s when you’d slip on your sleep mask, and, well, you know.
But what would you be thinking about?
.
.
FUN! by KiNG MALA [E]
BLOODONTHETIMBS by Bren Joy  [E]

Peter in the summer morning sun
his cool smile shaded by shadows run
his voice as soothing as coffee’s scent
tell me he wasn’t heaven sent

Peter of Malibu moss and Spanish rose
his lips like light-coral, in kissable repose
his legs slouched akimbo, like a tiger’s limbs
how I long to re-entangle myself in them.

Peter’s quick caress, on windy Tropez beaches
aren’t men the most delightful, of nature's invasive species?
I miss the jeweler’s precision, of his warm and playful hands
and how the sun slowly gifted him, with a model’s golden tan.

Peter sipping coffee under a brittle, New Haven sun,
his rough laugh following something silly I’d done.
There’s no cryptic, localized pathology, happening at the beach,
when the two of us are together, our worlds just seem complete.
.
.
Songs for this:
What the World Needs Now by Tori Holub & James Wilkas
be mine by strongboi

It’s Saturday morning at about 9am. I’m in the chemistry lab, a sterile looking room with 12 workstations that are like multi level kitchen islands with sinks and various lab gear. It’s the most fluorescently lit environment on earth and everything looks to be either white, stainless steel or glass.

I’m one of the two students in the lab this morning, so I’ve taken two stations at the far end of the room and I’m performing two experiments at once, I mean, why not get ahead?

Before I start a lab, I do a ‘cutsheet,’ It’s something I learned from my sister, Annick. The cutsheet lists every piece of equipment I’ll use (like a magnetic stirrer), every step I’ll perform (control the atmosphere), every safety measure I need to take (fume hoods), every chemical I will use (for instance alkyl halide in 0.1 concentration) and what my results should be. This is all more-or-less textbook - but I still hand-write it out myself.

It’s a quiet environment, I have my AirPods in and I’m listening to cello music - it’s relaxing. I’m performing two variations of nucleophilic substitution reactions - creating new carbon-carbon bonds. It’s Pretty standard stuff and I’m at the stage, in both experiments, where I combine reagents. When suddenly, a TA (teaching assistant) is stooping over my hunched, left shoulder.
“What do you have there?” He asked - let’s call him Lewis. I flinched. Ok, I jumped.

Lewis’ breaking the silence was sudden and intrusive. I hadn’t noticed him prowling about and for a moment I was flummoxed. I tapped my AirPods to stop the music.

This was irritating. See, anything I would say to him would sound like a child talking to an adult. He’s a doctoral student and to him what I’m doing is stupidly simple, like stacking blocks, but he’s put me in that position.

“I’m doing both variations of (problem set/homework) problem 5,” I motioned to the other station, “and I’m ready to introduce the Grignard reagent,” I couldn’t help a note of cringy defiance creeping into my tone, like a child expecting to be reprimanded.

“Are you..,” he started to say, I’m sure he didn’t mean for it to sound like an interrogation.
But I read his mind, adding, “I’m using anhydrous conditions and an ethereal solvent,” this time I said it like it should be obvious—and again I sounded childish and brittle (like an ignoramus)—to myself anyway—but I was at a loss. ‘God, I really need to be less defensive,’ I thought, mortified. I hate looking dumb.

He nodded his head, he’d been looking over my cutsheet. I gave him an upturned, sideways glance. Was he going to stand around observing or worse yet micro-manage me?
“Very good,” he pronounced, tapping my cutsheet lightly with an index finger, “carry on.”

He walked away, off to bother the other student, I hoped. Better him than me. I had work to do. I tapped my music back on, looking at my cutsheet.
Where was I?
.
.
Songs for this:
Havana by Brooklyn Duo
Carnival of the Animals: XIII. The Swan by Yo-Yo Ma & Kathryn Stott

I was thinking that If we create an all-knowing, all-wise and all powerful AI, we should probably pay someone to sit next to its electrical plug.

There’s a lot of heat when all eight
of us suite-mates get together.
I might have mentioned it somewhere.
We’re like surround sound,
eight car alarms going off together,
it’s jabberwocky by an established team.

It can get frantic and maybe frightening
for the uninitiated or inhibited.
Some of us are pretty boy-crazy
and there’s a mix-in of twinkling girl-crazy too.
We’re basey, bugzee, spaceheads and freaks,
yeah, we're the whole emotional spice rack.

“She’s a good person to **** time with,”
is pretty high praise around here
because we have so little free time.
But these are good people to **** time with.

And we’re portable, we travel, we invade,
we’re crazy young women who’ve got it made.
So if you’re coming at us, trying to enter our enclave,
you better be brave or a situational upgrade.
.
.
Songs for this:
No New Friends (feat. Sia, Diplo & Labrinth) by LSD
Lysergic Bliss by of Montreal
Freedom Is Free by Chicano Batman
.
.
slang…
basey = a cool loser, nice but a bit odd, a ****** with style
bugzee = slightly crazy
spaceheads = people who talk about weird things

There’s an old joke, “Procrastinate NOW, because
the sooner you fall behind, the longer you’ll have to catch up.”
Ha ha.

While a lot of students around here, even the good ones,  
are procrastinators, I’m a diagnosed pre-crastinator.
I obsess over syllabuses and start things immediately.
I've got rough drafts of things due three months from now.
I’m a planner. Leisure time makes me itch.

I say that to say this, I’m reaping my rewards.
There’s a palpable layer of fret in the air.
Everyone's (the seniors) talking about their theses,
and how they need to start it—first thing yesterday.
I just listen, playing Flappy Bird on my phone, because I’m done.

When my professor handed my thesis paper back the other day,
he said, “This is good.” At first, I was delighted, quietly rocking it inside.
Then I floundered, becoming somewhat indignant. Why’d he sound surprised? Because I handed it in a little (80 days) early?
But soon enough, I was back to happiness.
I’ll have to defend it one day, but I’ll go first, wait and see.

Shall we wax poetic?

I’m like the sea, always restless
and I enjoy the flavor of honest effort.
I dub snark, and the little, jealous glances,
I blunt them with chey smiles, while thinking,
‘I’ll row my boat, and you row yours—just a little slower.’

Let them whisper me freakish
though I win a thousand crowns,
the real pleasure lies in my gun slinger’s sang-froid,
to finish the commission first and be the best.
.
.
Songs for this:
Let Me Down Easy by Gang of Youths
Let Me Go by CAKE

I was listening to roller skating tunes.
Yes, I am shallow, sir.
And though thou may say villainess or mistress,
I am content to be who I am.
One noon, we were over dull
and our hearts we serviced
like two thieves there
in the kissing place
where breaths are both as one
and the first of many kisses doubles.
He made vows in mine ear.
He has such hands and lips
and his fortunate nature fed mine eyes
oh, nothing was scarce.
Our horns locked together
with the intensest chutzpah
and we well-made our match.
We sparked feelings we all ascribe to heaven.
I would not tell you
I can serve a man
that by slow designs
men can melt.
He swore oaths
and dropped
half won.
Later he paid
the sweetest
after-debts
—he did owe it.
.
.
songs for this:
Find Me the Pulse of the Universe by Laetitia Sadier
Stormy (Bossa Mix) by S-Tone Inc

We’re just being ourselves
We’re not presenting ourselves
on a plate, commodifying ourselves.

We’re refined and pared-back—plain
but with an intriguing complexity.

We’re simple and indestructible,
our diasporic styles, assembled in a frenzy
by spontaneous instinct, need no audience.

You’ll find us in the coffee shops, the libraries
streaming and scrollin’ to unheard, noise-cancelled, beats
or in the bars kickin’—let the music play—I can’t talk much about it.

We’re not overly thought-out, sure, we ruminate, but then we’re
automatic rather than laboured, creative without overthinking.

We’re emotional and immediate, but clearly avoiding
slightly scurrilous ****** entanglements—yeah
—there are reasons. true, true, true, true true.
.
.
Songs for this:
Let the Music Play by Papik & Sarah Jane Morris
Soda Pop Confusion by Variety Lab & Kidsaredead

I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.

Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically

A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.

Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.

Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski

They’d fallen in love
as some young people do—
so that lust might rationally increase.

Their bright, valentine-red-blood fairly beat for love.

It’s good that we can name a thing—
describe it and classify it, so it’s out there,
fact-like, in the flimsy, indefinite poetry-verse

It was a day for it, as the sun, that most followed star,
was a carnotite paintball-splotch against a sky stitched of turquoise
and the quality of the light was sentimentally beyond reproach.

Their gallant love seemed to cast a radiance too, a bright, collateral light, which was of greater reassurance than any by-rote, muttered words.

No one denied the ambition of their love, it was both a mess and a revelation. And no one could pretend the moment was ordinary, that the atoms that spun and gripped our world together weren’t woven yet more inseparable by their union.

The greatest, alas, may choose to bless or deny that such a miracle as love, lasts.
.
.
Songs for this:
Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers
You Can Have It All by Yo La Tengo

I love a blank canvas
how it focuses the eyes.

It’s black and white without
the usual vestige of messy
attention-grabbing details.

We’ll color those in later,
spending our creative time
whitewashing it with the precision
of our own nervous perfectionism.

We’ll strip away minimalism for cultural
resonance and focus the razor attention
of ‘couture’ obsession and wider comment.
.
.
Songs for this:
Just Exist by Eliza & The Delusionals
Groceries by Mallrat

can I write a poem
or only rhyme
I’m not sure where I’m goin’
it’s one word at a time
like data through a modem
still, I hope for the sublime
a psychospiritual novum
to delight a reader's mind,
show how jaded skepticism is **-hum,
and like ***, ecstatically manifest the divine
.
.
A song for this:
The Deepest Sighs, the Frankest Shadows by Gang of Youths
Palo Alto by Jack River

I’m standing in the common room, turning in circles. I’ve so many things to do, all at once, I can’t figure out which way to jump. A time management problem, I suppose, maybe I should have taken that 1 credit
‘project management’ class I sloughed off. We live and we learn.

Leong was sitting, leg crossed on the red corduroy couch reading.
“Can you do me a favor?” I asked her sweetly (a poker player would call that a ‘tell’).
“I can’t get involved,” she replied, not even looking up, “I have my own problems.”
I thought for a second, “What problems do you have?” (We talk, I know ALL of her problems.)
“Internal problems,” she said, “the kind you can’t see.”
“I need to take a lab tonight, so I can go to a secret society meeting tomorrow,” I confessed, “can I swipe your ID, when I put my laundry in the dryer, so it notifies you to pick it up?”

“You’re telling me about a secret meeting?” she asked, finally looking up, “AND, you’re asking me to get your laundry?“ she added devilishly, “Is it because I’m Chinese? THATs racist.”
“Ok” I laughed, “that was funny,” I congratulated her, “I hadn’t thought of THAT.” She fairly preened at the complement. “WELL?” I followed up, giving her a head-tilt.
“On the hook,” she said, meaning her ID was hanging on the 3M scotch fastener by her door.
“Thanks,” I said, “you’re a lifesaver—a cherry lifesaver—I updogged.” I’d finally found a direction.
“Zong gwai,” she mumbled, turning back to her book.
*Zong gwai (Cantonese) literally means "encounter a ghost," but the colloquial meaning is "**** right."

As I walked up science hill to the extra lab. I was so tired, it felt like I fell asleep between each step, but every step jarred me awake—it was like a child playing with a light switch.
As I got up near the main entrance, there were these two guys I don’t know standing around.
“Hey there,” one of them said. At first I thought he was going to ask for something innocuous, like directions but he broke into a smirk and I realized this was some kind of catcall and I took an angle away from him.

When I first started school, three years ago, you’d get catcalled once or twice a week, at most, but it seems like it’s more frequent now, three or four times a week (roommates compare notes) like some barrier is breaking down. What nomenclature would you use, for a catcalling guy? Most of ours are unfavorable.

There were other people around, so I wasn’t worried about him—still, he stepped towards me—smirking.
“Are there any other mediocre men where you come from?” I inquired across the distance, still angling away.
“Who said I’m mediocre?” he asked, but his smirk slipped and he stopped moving. I was 20 feet from the door.
“If I’m gonna bouncy with someone,” I shared sarcastically, “it has to be done with authenticity.”
“My GPA is solidly in the median,” he admitted, with a half chuckle, as I crossed the center point of our arch.
“I’m sure you’re being your best self,” I assured him, as the automatic doors to the lab opened and I entered, shaking my head to myself.
.
.
Songs for this:
When Did We Stop by New Move
Stopping a Garden Hose With Your Thumb by The Narcissist Cookbook
.
.
Our cast:
Leong, (roommate) 21, a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major,’ is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). Growing up, I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) we both speak Cantonese (maybe why we were paired?) and we're able to talk a lot of secret trash together.

Your author, a simple country girl from Athens, Georgia is also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

Show a little finesse, place a bet.
You’re just in time for the game, get some skin, the fix is in.

What’s more American than cashing in?
The real winners do, and now that could be you.

With suckers out there waiting, scamming is as easy as creating
an NFT, bitcoin, an online bet or a romance baiting.

You’ll be a witness, as the wise guys step in, for the NFL it’s a win-win
You get the excitement you need and the real playas get the proceeds.

Come on, Mr slick ricky, you know you’ve got to be bold to win gold
winners double-down, they never fold—the thrill never gets old.

The winners will add your measly bucks to their ***.
Let's admit, all you’ve got, isn’t a lot - it wouldn’t, say, fuel a yacht.

So, step up, place your bets, you’re in the digital front row all the time,
don’t be lame, be part of the game, it’s greasy, ******, organized crime.
.
.
A song for this:
Vicious Games by Yello
The Game of Love (feat. Michelle Branch) [Main/Radio Mix] by Santana

Thoughts can be thin fractures in the order of things.
Sometimes my dorm room seems a sterile sarcophagus, like an accusation, or an interrogation of my romantic choices, with nothing warm or inviting there. Sometimes I’ve just got to get out.

Leong and I decided to go to ‘Toads Place’—a bar right across
the street from campus. Still, it was a 10 minute walk from our
residence.

This night seemed different, not the usual, winter, claustrophobic gray. No, the burning heavens were a canopy of spirals and light events—a show put on by an insecure deity needing to overawe.

It was Charles and Chinthia’s anniversary, so Leong and I went alone. The place was busy, and unsurprisingly, we met up with a few friends, including this guy I’ve been calling soccer-boy. His name is Troy. As the night went on, and the martinis flowed, we kind of hit it off.

I have a boyfriend. He’s far away. Sometimes, his memory’s like a warm beacon broadcasting from that far away. Other times, our connection seems to bleed across that distance, and his questions and concerns seem foreign.

At the end of the night, no, well ok, the start of the morning, a group of us began strolling back to our dorm. It’s safe to say that none of us were feeling any pain. At one point Leong paused to chat with a friend and Troy and I carried on alone.

After a certain amount of Facetiming with the boyfriend, the texture of face-to-face is immediate and mesmerizing. Troy’s eyes are the blue of gas flame and there are a thousand flickery reflections dancing there. When I looked in them, I felt like an astronaut heading out for oblivion

At one point, I realized that we’d left Leong behind and we paused under a streetlamp. After a moment, I leaned back on the pole—it was steadying—and Troy took the opportunity to move in close. Have you ever felt a molasses-feeling of lust that made your legs feel ropey?

I half-began to hum a nonsense song as a distraction from the closeness of him and to regain some mental, objective distance. Then he moved very, very close and I could feel my resolve wavering, like a cardboard construct.

He leaned in and kissed me, quickly and so softly that it was almost a whisper. Then the edge of his fingers brushed against me and faded away. When he really committed to touching me, it was with a coiled restraint, backed by the urgency of a ticking bomb.

He nuzzled my neck as hands moved slowly, with the overflourish of an amateur magician—there was no disguise in it—but there was a kind of magic. The breeze had taken to moaning, or was that me?
It didn’t encompass the full range of my thoughts, but it was a strong, representative sample.

However, something dark was rippling beneath the pleasure, like a shark beneath a sea’s reflective aqua surface—it was common sense, and restraint. At first it felt like I was fighting something that wouldn’t properly show itself. I mean, the pleasures were real, but there was an unreal mechanical overlay to them.

We humans are such blunt instruments. Nature’s given us buttons that can be pushed for its own purposes.

With a quick dart, like a bluebird from a bush, I gained the upper hand on my foggy, lecherous emotions.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, gently pushing him away, “I’m going to have to opt out.” I offered a weak smile.
He was a gentleman, he backed away with a shrug. “Another time,” He said, with a wide devouring smile.
“I have a boyfriend,” I said, kind of late—like it was a matter-of-fact that shouldn’t need repeating.

That’s when Leong arrived, she gave Troy a look like a feral cat. She can have cold, flat, judgmental eyes. For me, she had a frown that I could feel—it was that powerful. She likes Peter—I’d get a talking-to.
“G-night, Troy” she said, her disregard for him made him seem like an outline, not a real person.

As we turned to go on to the dorm, I saw that we’d been under one of those stations they have on campus where you can summon help, and there was a little obsidian surveillance camera.

I wondered how many other 2am noir-romance scenes were playing out on the darkened campus.
.
.
Songs for this:
Beautiful Trash by Lanu & Meg Washington
Princess Crocodile by Gry with FM Einheit and His Orchestra
.
.
our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question)
Leong, (roommate) 21, a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major,’ is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia - and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). Growing up, I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) we both speak Cantonese (maybe why we were paired?) and we're able to talk a lot of secret trash together.
Troy, (soccer boy) He’s 6 feet tall and fit. His hair's a rich, thick, mahogany "collegiate mop" (Think Hough Grant) and there's an easy, uncomplicated strength about him—something polished and fresh, he's like a shiny new phone. When he crosses a room, he seems to move in slo-mo. He's a environmental studies major - whatever that is.
Charles, a 54-year-old 6'4" retired NYC cop, has been my escort, driver, security and surrogate parent since I was 9 years old. His wife Cynthia is also an ex-cop and the VP of a cyber-security company. My Grandmère hired Charles for me when a classmate was murdered in Year 7 (6th grade).
Your author, a simple country girl from Athens Georgia, is also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

Maybe I’m too simple
or too shallow
but I’m not angry.
What’s wrong with me?

I was trying to think
of someone I hate,
Jews, CIS guys, republicans,
palestinians, blacks, democrats,
the left handed, authority figures,
central americans, parents, vagrants,
the usual suspects, but I’m coming up empty

Things aren’t perfect
don’t get me wrong
I’ve got a pug nose
a flat chest
a giant forehead
and too much work to do
but I’m trying my best—

Worse yet, I’ve no plummeting anxieties
no obvious neurosis
—that one could be a misdiagnosis
no painful hangnails
no sad life tales
no addictions to defend
or hated ex-boyfriends
I have no emo hooks to pin my verse.
no current melodramas to cozen and coerce
between you and me, I think I’m off the rails
It’s really no wonder my poetry pales.

Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with me.
.
.
Songs for this:
Gee, Doctor by Dimie Cat
Sweet Lovin' (feat. Anna-Luca & Iain Mackenzie) by Club des Belugas

This poem was mused by:
"Shakespeare won't look at me" by ThomasW.Case
-----------------------------------  -------------­-------------------

We fill our lives with work and stress
in the lust for new possessions
we're taught that this is called success
and it makes for good impressions

But pleasures we’re taught to suppress
so our souls will fly up to the heavens
but this flesh that god has gifted us
are our only true possessions

If we find ourselves casually undressed
which is frankly, our natural condition
and if ****** needs should be addressed
there’s no need for ****** confessions

for pleasure is something to be expressed
if we’re alone or in a marvelous coalition
So I wish you satisfaction in elations quest
as you work the knobs, slants and levers
because this isn’t some kind of competition

P.S. Will Shakespeare was familiar with *******'s guilty thrills.
"The expense of spirit, in a waste of shame is lust in action"
.
.
A song for this:
Flowers by Miley Cyrus

It was dark and cold night. Looking back and up, the moon
was a thin and useless crescent, barely visible.
‘What a wasted moon,’ I thought.
“A stupid moon,” I mumbled to myself as if to finish a conversation.
It looked deflated, artificial, soulless, and cold. Not poetic at all.

I’m coping with tough decisions
a victory and perhaps one martini too many.
Peter (my bf) called, when I was at Toads (a local bar).
We usually talk on Tuesdays at about 11.
It was noisy in there
I was a little tipsy.
He became a little irritated.
It didn’t go well.
Martinis and authority don’t mix.

I handed my thesis in today, 80 days early.
I've been working on it obsessively.
finger to lips, like a secret  I can be obsessive.
It’s a 60 page ‘first draft,’ theoretically.
“Can I turn in a first draft for your review?”
He looked surprised, “Sure.” I handed it over, and that’s that.
Every ‘first draft’ I’ve ever handed in has gotten an A.
“You’re CrAzY,” Sunny chuckled, “We gotta celebrate!”

“Please don’t hold the door open,” the librarian said.
I jumped, I hadn’t seen her sneaking up on me.
How long had I been standing there?
I’d been lost in thought.
I focused on her now.
She was 50 maybe, or a hundred—who knew?
Her face needed moisturizing badly,
her wrinkles were like cracks in marble.
She looked frowny.

Why is everyone frowny tonight?
“Sure,” I said, facetiously, throwing my arm up like the door was hot.
The door was now free to close.
And the world was a better place.
Once I’d turned and stepped into the library,
I decided It was too bright and too hot there.
So I left.

The second I was outside, in the refreshing cold, Sunny appeared.
“There you are,” she said, like she had lost something.
“You walk too fast,” and the girl with her laughed.
Sunny can always pick up a girl—it’s like she’s magnetic.
"Let's go home,” she added, “we’re going to pay for this tomorrow.”
She hooked my arm in hers and we followed the path,
the three of us, like the yellow brick road.
.
.
A song for this:
Drunk On Love by Basia
Data & Picard by Pogo

Fight the algorithms
that tell us what to do,
to make us predictable,
unoriginal and bankable.

Have you witnessed how
increasingly bland and homogenous
our lives are becoming?

Choose freedom
avoid the diaries of commerce
that riff on the ubiquity of apps

resist the reductive tropes
of our published and circulated,
perspective customer identities.

Fight the algorithms
with their embedded backlot
familiarity, built around class
and consumerism.

Try to understand the
vague, inscrutable and
purposefully circuitous.

Or stop overthinking
and embrace liberating surrender.
That’s the path I’ve chosen.
.
.
Broken People by The Narcissist Cookbook
Talk Down Dijon