You can twist the way a man sees the world.
Do you think that sounds ridiculous?
What if you did it over time with subtlety and diligence?

The audience is largely uneducated, so remind them of their impotence; tell them any other source of facts must be regarded with suspiciousness.

Whisper to them over breakfast and slowly introduce corrosive dissonance; outright lie to them at dinner,salting in some truth for spicy antithesis.

Those who run the country are up to something mischievous; their lives, their fine America, have been eroding with precipitance.

Remember empowered yesterdays with a sad and tearful wistfulness; twist the needs and rights of others with pernicious lies and maliciousness.

Invest their government with conspiracy and its policies with wickedness. Remind your audience that freedom was torn from kings by well-armed militias.

Introduce the savior as a shining instrument of religiousness; defend his faults as small and frivolous and his right to rule as unambiguous.

When shocking reality dares assert itself, denials must be vicious and officious.

A rescue mission must be launched and certainly they must be participants; banners from the gift shop will form a team identity and a certain moral equivalence.

The leader will whip the angry crowd, stoking resentment with fabricated incidents, swearing, “I will be with you on this great crusade and you will be my instruments”

As the mob storms off he will slink away; he was only there for stimulus.

Hear the old republic creak as the President flexes his insolence; he’s seen that no blame can touch him, so he’s filled with proud ambivalence.

What will it take to rein him in? What kind of obvious stimulant, with thousands already dying every day and our society marbled with brittleness?

A child is somewhere scribbling,
not quite knowing what to say,
a ****** with a habit of empty words.

The smart money’s on failure
and I can’t seem to sleep,
because the moon is leaking sliver fears.

The polar-bear cocktail,
paints a chalk barricade,
that incoherent scolding's cannot climb.

Hope went unnoticed,
until it was lost,
but sudden silence
- came to make me new.

The marks of quiet panic
- those flickering tattoos,
fade - like specters in the sun.

In the company of kindness,
peace glitters just like glass,
and the witch in the mirror slinks away.

You’ll find me at the exit,
heading for a steady sea,
my uninformed perspective’s in my bag.

I navigate like driftwood,
hoping for a return trip,
my plans are coherent in my dreams .

Have you ever pretended a guy was interesting?
Have you slow danced and let him sniff you up close?
I gives you somewhere to go, if you decide to.

Or given a little kiss—nothing slutty in that.
You know, a 'person' isn’t a good kisser - it takes two.
I’m not talking about me, of course.

There’s a two-way interrogation going on
complete with our own internal narratives
—we reenact it’s rituals in the strangest places

like quiet libraries or the lerch and spin of a dance club
we process by analogy and approximation and it works
until it doesn’t, like cold water poured into a glass.

Then we settle back into the dull rhythms of study
I’m not talking about me, of course.
.
.
Songs for this:
This Girl's In Love (Live At HMH) by Trijntje Oosterhuis
The Men of Your Dreams by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince

I got my drivers license!!!!

Now, excitement lies an easy walk from boredom.
The second school ends, I reach for the keys,
like a seedling stalk turns to the sun.
I’m soaking in this new freedom with litmus thirst.

What a spell - “combine gravel and motors for miracles,”
I say, in my best crackly witch’s voice.

True, my mom keeps turning the music down,
someone has to chaperone - at first
- aren’t old people supposed to be hard of hearing?

I'm anfractuous in my approach to driving.
“What are you laughing at,” My mom asks.
“Nothing.” I answer, confused.
Was I laughing??

I'm wearing the same old clothes,
binging the same ol’ shows,
seeing the days anastomose.
and waiting for my vaccine dose.

I’m humming the same ol’ songs,
dreading the rerun dawns,
trying to at least appear strong,
but becoming angry and withdrawn.

I'm tired of the same old faces,
of being stuck in these boring places,
of feeling my nights are wasted,
and dreaming of friends embraces.

I'm writing the same ol’ verse.
becoming increasingly terse,
knowing it could be worse,
waiting for the end of this curse.

Why is it so interesting when someone else falls in love?
Is our fascination purely voyeuristic, like the you-are-there of reality-TV?
Is it jealousy or some unwavering belief in lovers as heroes?

What is this relationship? We ask ourselves - and them - let’s take it apart and find out.
Like those YouTube videos where you’re shown how to do French-tip nails.

Is love an impulse, a one-time hookup or even a summer fling, or is it about finding ‘the one’ in the face of our own obligations and ineptitudes?

Love’s ‘high concept’ - it’s many things at once - it’s physical, emotional, intimate - maybe even ******.
Part of our interest has to be our affection (or dislike) of the characters involved.

A relationship isn’t a ‘performance,’ of course, but as friends we might be considered an ‘audience’.

Love is drama. There’s a cast - with their chemistry. There’s a plot - shot through with compelling incidents, difficult situations, tear-jerking agonies, and shocking twists.

The sweet moments, between the actual ‘wow, this is happening’ and everyone finding out. The time the secret belongs to the lovers - that’s their chance to privately define their ungainly new reality - but soon enough, the world finds out, and there’s interest.

At its best, love is the gentle handling of consciousness itself, to evoke the effective resonance of pleasure.

But has it ever truly been a private experience?
.
.
Songs for this:
Me and Mrs. Jones by Michael Bublé (maybe the sexiest song ever)
Me and Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse

My houseplant committed suicide.
It came out of the blue - or at least - I didn’t catch the signs.

I’d put it on my window ledge so it could catch some sun
- it appeared to be having a good time.

I brushed it with my elbow - the wispy kiss of a butterfly
and it leapt to its shattering end - I never will know why.

The girl it barely missed, looked up - in accusatory alarm.
“What if that had been a BABY!” I yelled, to keep her calm.

We had a terra-cotta funeral - my roommates seemed really sad -
and a reception where no plant-life was consumed.

Lisa, acted quickly - she’s a fashionable 911
and at the funeral she buried the corpse, in a new ***, in her room.

I don’t know, I don’t care,
if you’re going to the party
or you won’t be there

I don’t give you a thought
you’re not on my mind
and if I ever think of you
I’m not very kind

Now that you’re gone
I’m feeling better
Now that you’re gone
I’ll feel that way forever

I laugh when I hear,
that you’re under pressure
or under the weather -
the last one is better

Look, I’m not irate -
and I haven’t any doubts
- you were like a bad taste,
that I had to spit out.

You proved a consternation,
a mistake on my part,
thanks again, LUzer
I actually learned a lot
.
.
a song for this:
Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter

We children gathered around the table.
The aromas were rich and dense, we fidgeted.

But we had one last thing to do - before we began the feast.
We all, in our places, held hands, smiling, as my dad began to sing
- and, after a beat, we all joined in.

To the tune: “Rudolph the red nose reindeer”

“Leonard the big leg turkey
had two great big turkey legs
and if you ever saw them
you would actually say, “they’re big.”

All of the other turkeys
they would laugh and call him names
they never let poor Leonard
join in any turkey games

Then one foggy Thanksgiving eve
The pilgrims came to say,
“Leonard with your legs so big”
“How’d you like to join our Thanksgiving gig?”

Then how all the turkeys loved him
and they shouted out with glee
“Leonard the big legged turkey,”
“you’ll go down in history.”  (like the light bulb)
“you’ll go down in history.”
“you’ll go down well with graveyyyyyyyyyy.”

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

What a small room - my finger traces dust across the plain table.
What did Grandma DO here? I glance around for electrical sockets - none to be seen.
Her life was spent staring out the window, at 3D life, but only seeing memories.

I go to the wall and test the switch
a bare light bulb illuminates an area with a hot plate.
"Jesus", I mumble.

Why would she live in this shabby room?
Was this a punishment? Like a place where a nun would live?
No, I self correct in my mind Gramma was the sweetest person on earth.

I walk three steps, twirl and flop on my back, on the bed.
Dust explodes off the bare mattress in the sunlight
slanting through the grimy, half-open, shadeless window.

I wave and blow the dust away and now I'M lost in memory..
She was ninety-three - I never heard her say an unkind word
In that tiny, sand-papery whisper of a voice.

She always wanted me to sit in her lap, she wanted to brush my hair.
From 10 on I was bigger than she was and afraid I'd break her.

"Don't you worry over ME", she'd say with a chuckle, "I'm an old piece of leather."
Her cheeks were pink and wrinkled like old rose petals. Her hair a white bun.

"I miss you Gramma", I whisper.

I get a little look from the guy sitting beside me.
I find I’m tapping my pencil to the cadence of the rain
I give a little “sorry” head nod and he goes back to work.

Hhmm.. I’ve chewed up my pencil again.
It looks wood chopped or shark mauled.
Maybe I should quit university and invent flavored #2 pencils.

She knew she wasn't the
first shy girl conned beneath
a scintillant moon.

Why do boys lie so
- inveigling fabrications
- hoping to impress?

Why interlace fibs,
when, from first sight, she had longed
for his carnal lips?

Now doubts danced - as if
evil spirits were called and
asked to watch, and gloat.

"I can't talk to you
again," she said, "after all
- you’re a stranger."

She doubted he cared
- she doubted everything, like
she had a soiled heart.

I’m under the Christmas tree like a present,
yeah, to rifle packages with my name on them,
but I’m caught, transfixed, looking up through the shrine
forgetting myself in delight at this multi-color heaven.

I’ve never lost my wonder at fulgid Christmas lights -
driving around gawking at decorations half the night.
If only the world could stay like this - but we can’t
sustain rhapsody - we can only trespass on bliss.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Life isn’t a poem
dive in it, splash in it,
celebrate the refreshment,
like a bird in a puddle.

The question is:
“Are people still collecting
memories, these days?”

"This isolation
isn't bothering me much.”
I say, if I'm asked.

But I’m not sure that’s
true. After hundreds of nights
of dull solitude.

I think each night might
carry a value - of dear,
and unmeasured loss.

Loss of memories
- because they never happened.
How have we all changed?

(tales from the viral lock-down)

Brice (my brother) is cutting through what smells like a stack of cinnamon french toast.
My stomach growls at the aroma like a hunting cat.
I jump out of bed, grab my robe and rush excitedly to the kitchen.
I see the pan in the sink.
gasp “You didn’t MAKE me any!!?” I accuse, in indignant shock.
Brice, looking up, “JESUS, get on some fu-kin' clothes!”
He waves his arms like he's fighting a flock of birds.
I look down, “GOD, I AM wearing clothes, you PERV! - and a bathrobe”
"Who says THAT’S a bathrobe??” He says, sarcastically.
Me: “Kiki Montparnasse!”, I say, indignantly.
My mom enters to fill her coffee cup.
Brice: “Will you please tell YOUR DAUGHTER to get on some clothes?”
My mom inspects me and I twirl for my audience.
“That IS a little sheer”, she pronounces.
“ARGH!, FINE,” I say, before stomping off to change.
I start to fume."HE CAN GO ALL OVER IN BOXER SHORTS BUT I CAN'T WEAR A BATHROBE?!!"
“And HE didn’t make EXTRA TOAST”, I yell back in pointed accusation.
“Get to work,” (on more toast) I hear her tell him, just before I slam my door.

another day…

My brother Brice is fighting with his girl-friend on the phone.
Of course, I'm only hearing 1/2 the conversation - but he sounds like a ****.
Me: "apologize," I silently, slowly, exaggeratedly mouth
Brice: "fu-kovv," he mouths back, silently
Me: "I'm your sister," I say, "I get to boss you around, besides, I KNOW what’s BEST"
A minute later - He actually apologizes!!! And they make up.
(I dance around the room like Rocky)

The sharpened mind - with care - takes aim
- at university, we play ruthless games.
Where pencils scratch, their graphite gray,
and scholarly answers take the day.

I've finished midterms!
It was like one of those TV shows, ‘survivor’ or something.

Enzyme kinetics, metabolic pathways, protein structures and functions be ****** - no, be double ******.

I’d been working problems raw in dreams, waking up tired.

Sunday, I was so stressed I'd felt calm, like I’d accepted my fate.
I can tell you that now - now that I survived.

“I was strazzled but controlled - there's a difference in how
I struggle internally - and what I let show.” I told Leong.
“Is that why you were yelling at everyone?” she replied.

“Now that midterms are over, I feel luminary,” I informed Leong, “am I glowing?”
She looked up and said, “No.” Communists aren’t sentimental.
Of course I meant luminary in both achievement and radiance.

My Uncle Remy used to tell me:
“Little one, don’t worry about being a failure,
that’s your parent’s job.”

I Love you Uncle Remy.

Although we’re just moving in,
It feels like we’re lived in these rooms forever.

I can’t look around without the past coming out to play.
These ivy halls are sticky with memories now.

The movers left a while ago and I took a moment to loiter,
on our red corduroy couch, and watch my roommates settling in.

There’s an irony, for me, in the subconscious ways I adapt
to the people who surround me. Whether it’s the way I dress, talk,
laugh, act, or the things I become interested in. There’s no ossifying here.

We’ll pick up our books tomorrow and do some last minute shopping.
I’ll walk out paths to classes. I know the campus but I’m a relentless planner.

Classes start Wednesday, that’s when circumstances will take over -
the schedules and studies - we’ll mold our lives into the larger ecosystem.
.
.
A song for this:
Dreams Via Memories by Ceramic Animal
The Hardest Part by Olivia Dean

Do angels, those exchequers
of heaven’s golden shores,
have hearts or humor
as they focus on us with
their greedy, eternal attention?

They must be well-acquainted
with vice and the offending elements
of our ingrained, mortal weaknesses.

I’ve read those frampold canaries
- at man’s creation - coveted the gift
of choice, cruelly denied them - freedoms
that can corrupt the weak and too human.

How do those singers of exquisite songs
still find worthy peers to invite home
unless they pity, forgive or grant
endless sufferance which must,
at least in practice, resemble love.

What if a ghost loves
me and using its powers
to keep boys away...

That would explain a
Lot. Does that sound childish? We're
seeped in illusion.

I spend all my school
days with the inhabitants
of a virtual realm.

Doot do, doot doot - News FLASH from boredom central.

I’ve got extra New Year plans.
My Ladybug & Cat Noir Onesie pajamas are at the ready.
I’ve got all six Totinos pizza roll flavors and a 12 pack of Grape soda.
My Nintendo switch is charged and I have 4 screens for Zooming.
If you have something for me - slip it under the door.
I’m staying up this New Years to be sure 2020 leaves.

*Happy New Years everyone!

simply awake
No music lulls
No quiet snoozes
No counting naps
No stretching tires
My clock taunts me
No comfort lullabies
No breathing relaxes
Pajamas strangle me
No coolness soothes
No meditation stupors
No visualization sleeps
No position tranquilizes
No supplements sedate
No aromatherapy calms
or finger painting slumbers
I am insomnia’s vigilant sentry.
Where, oh where's the sandman?

Have you ever been wrong?
I was wrong.
Ugly, smugly wrong.
Psephologically wrong.
Hit the iceberg,
smoking’s good for you,
the treaty of Versailles,
left on red,
Copernicus, Aristotle, Custer,
wrong.
I’m not claiming an excuse,
wrong.
It wasn’t you,
it was me,
wrong.
Just fricking
kiss a frog
wrong.
Wrong all along,
wrong about the world,
reevaluate me wrong,
wrong, wrong, wrong.
I can admit I was wrong.
Can you forgive me,
can I forgive me,
wrong
.
.
Songs for this:
Waters of March by John Roseboro & Mei Semones
Stabilise by Nilüfer Yanya

I just won a medal
I wasn’t in a war
I think it’s made of gold
I don’t know what it’s for.

I’m shocked at what it weighs.
They threw me a parade
I got an honorary degree
Jimmy Fallon had me on TV
now everyone recognizes me

My old friends told me I was fickle
by the paparazzi I became heckled
I was notified that it’s ‘taxable’
It seemed the medal was quite valuable
I became afraid that it might be stolen
so I donated it to the Smithsonian.

Now that I’m not wearing it
people have started to forget
now no one buys me drinks
or cares about what I think.
I’m no longer on the Wheaties box
fame was a drug and I’m in detox

The whole thing was bizarre,
should I do ‘Dancing with the Stars’?
or simply let it go - fadeout gracefully?
I think anonymity suits me.

Vibe-check, it’s Friday. Yay! A delightfully cool Friday at that! I’d like to thank the democratic party (which I’ve heard controls the weather now). Has the heat finally surrendered to the inevitable freshness of fall?
Can we please proceed directly to a cruel winter?

“What are we doing tonight?” I asked Lisa as she sat on the edge of a chair to put on her Nine West tunic pointed-toe booties. She has class this morning and I don’t. I’m sipping coffee, curled up on our red-corduroy couch, under a school themed throw, trying to grasp the plot of a fascinating chemistry book.

“Something fun,” she said, verbatim, offering little concrete as she picked up her slouchy silhouette, hobo bag.
“See ya,” she said, shouldering the door open with her right arm and securing her coffee with her left.
She’s got one of those giant coffee cups that are so vogue. She gives herself 30 minutes, after our morning jog, to get ready for class and that whole time, she’s brewing cup after k-cup of Keurig coffee to fill that monster.
“Byeeeeee,” I responded, before the door clunked closed.

Sunny, came to the door of her room, “Do you separate your whites and darks?” She asked.
“Of course,” I said, not looking up, to save my page-place, “we’re not animals.”
“I never separate,” she confessed.
“That’s why your white socks are pink,” I updogged.
“They are pink,” she said, pulling up her pajama leg to expose her pink socks, “bright pink.”

The serious events have started. Parties thrown by groups, always to a theme, offering whimsical, rainbow palates of fun. We’re here for it, my room and suitemates, all of us. There’s no better way to spend a Friday or Saturday night, than dressing up as a Disney princess, jedi princess or streetwalking zombie princess.

Some nights, there’s more than one and we jump gatherings until we find the perfect one. We easily feed off of each another’s energy. We’re all 21-year-olds now and pushing past painfully obvious insecurities, legal restrictions and occasionally, moral boundaries.

Ok, let’s reach for some Friday night rhymes:

Fridays are reserved for revelry, for noise and crazy mirth,
you can find a rave or masquerade with very little research.

The venues are themed and adorned for festive cheer,
and the turned-up music ignites those dance-like atmospheres.

Picture tapestries of youthful fun and you’ve grasped the vibe of the night.
In fleeting moments, we reach for it - I hope you brought your invite.

There was a disappointing ‘jungle rave’ where people were smoking inside!
Are you a ‘master of the universe,’ if you can’t get air-quality right?

Way too soon the revels cease
and in the Saturday morning quiet, we search out tasty eats.
We did it for memories, to give our dull lives a makeover
and good news! I didn’t wake up with a hangover.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nite Becomes Day by Citizen Cope
Breathe In by Frou Frou

Winter tested my endurance with its sharp and burning cold and now the warm lavender evening, with its smells and sounds of spring seems like a gift. The breeze is warm, and even the broad zones of shadow contain an inviting warmth.

The campus lamps should ignite soon but groups of students are milling, talking and laughing as if no one wants to let go of the day.

As Lisa enters the courtyard the campus lights flicker to life. As she approaches, she lets her book bag slide off her shoulder. Catching it by its strap a millisecond before it hits the ground as she reaches me - without looking - like a practiced trick.

Taking my hand in hers, she asks, head tilted slightly to see my eyes, “How’d the test go?”

I’m the first one in our squad to take a final - most are next week. “Cinchy,” I say with a grin and a flick of my free wrist, “not comprehensive - it just covered the last section.”

“Yea,” she says, “look at you go!” A warm breeze wells to obscure her face with her flaxen, cornsilk hair. She lets her bag fall the last inch, and ponytails it, two-handed, with smooth, practiced ease.

Finals existed, like ancient, cultural crucibles, long before our time, but these are ours, as if they’ve always been waiting - just for us.

Yale is still new to us, but we talk, juxtaposing experiences, challenging and comforting each other, even though we’re on slightly different paths. It seems that everyone is pumped up though, a little stressed maybe, but more than ready to hit it.

Midterms are over
I’m coming up for air
now that they’re done
I’ll admit I was scared
- that physics three -
was nearly the death of me.

What comes next?
The Manhattan express
for November recess
some November excess
with Lisa, my BFF princess,
my doughty, NYC adventuress,
I’m blessed, she’s the best.
Ooo! and some turducken bliss,
much needed rest and time to de-stress

New York City is like a cobblestone symphony,
where jackhammers and footsteps form the rhythmic timpani,
sirens and honking taxis, are the cymbals, that provide sudden bursts of energy,
traffic’s hum could be the violins and pigeon squawks a chorus of industry.
The sounds of life never seem to stop because they echo around continually.

Fifth Ave is fashions seat and in every store we saw teenagers tweeting,
perfecting an offhanded pout to pair with their newest, elite treats.

Envisage a High-(snob)-society playground, a cathedral of style in concrete,
where high fashion brands compete, with glittering displays meant to tease and entreat.
Bergdorf's windows are a whimsical winter wonderland, without a single touch of green,
and Tiffany's underwater dreamscape, contends with Cartier’s minimalist sheen.

At night, the buzzy bars ignite, and laughter spills like sparkling champagne,
flanged martini glasses clink in chorus, to silly school year stories, and tipsy holiday refrains.

We all know that times like a ballet dancer, who pirouettes in increasing haste,
holidays don’t last forever, Yale’s not known for leisure and new terms must be faced.
But for now, we’ll steal kisses in Central Park, because we don’t have a second to waste.

I’m excited - the
republican convention!
I love magic shows.

They will reveal, with
sorcerous skills a new Trump
- bighearted, and selfless.

The man we all know,
the emotionally crippled
horror, will wear disguise.

Who will be deceived?
The children in cages will cheer,
the virus dead will smile.

Our Nazis will march,
ghosts of veterans will wail,  
What a fine party.

There’re so many sad love poems around here.
If you guys need help negotiating love’s slippery *****,
let me offer you, your own, romantic horoscope!:

Don’t court romantic disaster
don’t mistake a lightbulb for the moon
Titanic wasn't a rom com

and a sad update:
Grand romantic gestures don’t happen anymore,
you're lucky to get a vibration in our pocket with a "sorry" text

I know what you're thinking though, “We didn’t know the moon was useless until we landed on it,” but once you’ve ‘landed’ on a guy (or girl), once or twice, it’s too late—you’re likely ‘in it.’

Big picture-wise, I think we all have Shakespeare to thank for unrealistic, romantic storylines. Romeo & Juliet are the perfect example—they meet, fall in love and marry the very next day.

In Shakespeare’s defense though, love in his world-building was always messy and imperfect, and there were few "happily ever after" narratives. (The exception being Beatrice and Benedick, in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’).

In a side note, my weekly horoscope (Libra) for the Thanksgiving holiday reads:
“You’ve become so self-centered, It’s all about you. What about your family? Before you go emo and angry, change your perspective—own it—strive to improve relationships.”
Sarsh (so harsh), in this writer’s opinion.
.
.
(Songs for this):
Love Is In Town by Brenda Boykin
Do You Even Know? by Rae Morris

I lived in Shenzhen, China, for my 6th and 7th grades.
- China was AMAZING.

In China, blond hair is unusual, I stood out like neon
and touching blond hair was considered good luck.

In a train station, if I stood still, I could draw a curious mob
- especially in the provinces like Heubi and Shanxi. I was in
more than a few selfies but people were polite and respectful.

China is much more advanced than the U.S..
Everything is new, clean and modern - the Internet is faster.
Most trains are bullet trains that travel 325kph (>200mph).
There are more than 10 new, gleaming cities larger (and newer) than New York.

An App called WeChat (used on your phone) runs the world.
imagine Facebook, iMessage, PayPal and Uber combined
- with that one App you could do anything.

At restaurants, you paid your bill at your table using WeChat from a QR code that the electronic corner of your table displayed. You even paid street vendors with the app - no one used cash.

Cameras are everywhere - if you break a law like jaywalking and BBBZZZZ you get a text and the fine is deducted from your WeChat account - all automatically.

Public TV screens, located on corners, show recent violations with the perps picture and the fine they paid - again, automatic.

Does this sound Orwellian? Well, maybe, but Chinese police
don't **** people - or even engage people for minor offenses.

America, you're broke and on the edge of being a third world country.

Yeah, yeah, I know that China is free-market-communist
and certainly imperfect - but if you saw China, you'd be impressed
and you'd know the ugly truth - America has squandered it's wealth on military macho and forty years of war. China's last, small war was in 1980 (With Vietnam who they beat in 3 weeks and 2 days).

Middle America looks almost bombed-out with closed businesses
(even before the pandemic) - but in China, you can’t look anywhere
without seeing building cranes - like a forest of trees. A physical
illustration of Americas loss of wealth.

I LOVE America - it’s sad to see. We've gotta wake up.

I’m taking control, making changes.
Some for the worst, others for the best.
I don’t like to evade or retreat.
My secrets are inconsequential.
I’m taking things into my own hands
- I kissed my therapist. On the lips.
Life is but a game of ‘Smash or pass’
and I hate waiting for ice cream.
“I like the way you move,” he said, “I like your skin.”
“It’s what people notice first” I admitted, “want to see it?”
Or maybe I dreamed that - I dream about him, sometimes. shrug
I think the helpless, astringent, professional intimacy fires me.
I want him to ask me about my jerkwater *** life, he has a concomitant
passport, but he never does. Isn’t that important - what about Freud?
What do you think you inherited from your parents? He asked.
“What a question!” I observed, “You mean genetically?”
“Come on,” he prompted, and I thought for a long minute.
“I have my mother’s impatience, her drive to succeed
and her thick blonde hair that seems to dry instantly.”
He nodded, indicating he liked where I was going.
“I have my father’s eyes, his flashing temper and flat chest.”
He chuckled, but I could tell he wanted me to stay serious.
“Then there’s my Stepfather (Step), he taught me humor,
patience and self-control - oh, and how to drive.”
He ****** on his pencil eraser and nodded.
He always blurs the line between performance and approval.
.
.
Songs for this:
Secrets (Your Fire) by Magdalena Bay
The Spot by Your Smith

“I’m going to become a nun,” I announce to no one in particular between Sprite sips.

“You’re Catholic, I suppose you could,” Lisa says, with a mouth half full of pizza.

“Why do socially distant guys look extra attractive?” I ask dazedly.

I reach my hand out slowly - towards a sweaty, chiseled, guy entering the pizza place, who looks like he’s just coming from the gym - like someone lost in the desert reaches for a mirage of water.

“No!” Lisa says, protectively lowering my arm “you’ll just have to put him back.”

I sigh. “I want to do something interesting or shameless.” I say.

“Don’t we ALL.” Lisa agrees, knowing all we have ahead is 4 hours of reading.

(A Christmas vacation vignette)

Lisa and I choppered onto Manhattan island yesterday morning. We’d both felt toasted—so we took naps—and yay! We awoke recharged.

Later that evening, Lisa and I were at the ‘Elsie’ Rooftop Bar, in Manhattan, waiting for Lisa’s boyfriend, David.
Ok, man-friend? More age appropriate I suppose, he’s 27, but that description doesn’t have the same bf slap.
Dave’s a Wall Street M&A guy and they’ve been together for over a year - a future for them seems very real.

Slinky, jazz-like versions of secular Christmas favorites were playing somewhere and it’s a groove I slipped into immediately. We had reservations and I’d misbegottenly hoped for a five-star, breathtaking city view, but the indoor tables turned out to have these uncomfortable, high-backed, bench-like seats that face away from the windows—***? I made a mental note to check website pix in the future. The place is in need of some serious feng shui-ing.

Disappointed, I asked for a side table where there was, at least, a pitiable skyline view and I placed my iPad, volume down, on the table so I could side-watch the Thursday Night football game—hey, I’m not meeting MY boyfriend, ok? As the official third-wheel, I figured I’d need a little entertainment.

After a few moments, a waitress came by and she paused to look us over with a cat-like indifference that signaled she was better than me, better than us really. She was just cooler.
I was delighted—why am I drawn to people who look down on me?
I suppose I need years of psychoanalysis—but who’s got the time?

I glanced at Lisa. We know each other at a cellular level. With a milli-second of lash flutterings and eye dilations, I asked “are you getting this?” And she affirmed that she was. Because we’re cyborgs. A couple of cyborgs.
Just kidding. We’re not cyborgs, neither of us. We wish we were sometimes—think of the advantages, you could complete college in a blink—wirelessly.

Anyway, back to the narrative. The waitress reminded me of when I was starting high school and my mom and I toured colleges, how snooty the Harvard people were, even though I’d been accepted and offered a free-ride scholarship—I mean, shouldn’t we all have been one, big, self-congratulatory snooty-group together?
(Of course, I chose Yale because the people were totally friendly).

“I better get used to it,” I side-bar’d Lisa, who got the reference to my upcoming, year-long, master's program at Harvard—because we’re cyborgs. I handed ‘Laura’ (our snooty waitress was tagged) my Black American Express card, which got her attention, and said, “start a tab please—someone will join us—run a 40% tip too,” I added with a smile. She practically jogged off to get our drinks and hors d'oeuvres and I turned my attention to the game, you know, to catch up.

I love Pro football—it’s not really fall without football—is it? Even though Tom Brady retired. This all goes to say that I’m a pro football ******. Lisa likes it too, though she’s not totally obsessed.

Just after Laura brought us our martinis and ‘poached lobster’ slides, a random, well-dressed man (he was wearing an expensive Brioni, wool linen silk suit), 35-ish, receding mousy-brown hairline, high-ball glass in hand, took the opportunity to stop by and chat. “SO,” he said, in a deep, jolly, ice-breaking salesman’s voice,
“You girls like football?”
I decided that the suit was too shiny for a Brioni—was it a Zegna?—I idly wondered.
“We’ve boyfriends,” Lisa announced, almost apologetically, nodding to include me—in case he missed the plural. Undeterred, he swiveled my way—as if he needed a second opinion—and asked me,
“What do you like about football?” He sounded somewhat condescending to me, so I did what I always do with condescending males—I played the ‘ditzy-girl’ card, “The costumes,” I answered.
“The uniforms,” he gently, fatherly, corrected—before rocking back a little on his heels and sipping his drink.
“And the hats,” I updogged, but before he could digest my reply, David, Lisa’s man-friend, arrived on the scene.
“Sorry to be so late,” he said, giving me a little, jiggly, 4-finger wave, shedding his coat and giving Lisa a smooch on the top of her hair.
The salesman wordlessly took his leave.
It’s a night on the town—let the 3rd-wheeling begin!
.
.
Songs for this:
Diamond Dave by The Bird and the Bee
You Belong to Me by Vonda Shepard
.
.
And a Christmas Playlist - because the big day is 8 days away!
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_24.mp3

Students everywhere feel a close relationship with summer. It develops early and you never lose it. It’s durable.

Let's  poeticize..
It was a youthful summer of unblemished mirth.
In play, our youthful hours were freely spent.
We bore such idleness - we were indulgent.
Until Lisa confessed she was less so content
and longed desperately for a ‘wholesome reunion’
with her love (Dave) and to resume that courtship in the same
fevered spirit as when they last parted, in Paris.

“Life’s complicated,” Lisa offered, at the end of our talk.
“So complicated,” I agreed.
It’s amazing how quickly a plan can coalesce.

ANNND, we’re back in Manhattan, at Lisa’s (parents) 50th floor residence.
I asked Karen (Lisa’s Mom) once, “If you own this (a floor of a building) is it called an apartment, a condominium..,” my voice faded on the question.
“A residence,” she answered after a moment’s thought. She’s a lawyer.

Georgia got too hot. Not to dwell on the grotesque side of girlhood - but enough sweat already.
Shakespeare (Henry IV) wrote, “sweat extraordinarily, if it be a hot day.” Yep, done that - for really.

In lieu of all our pains, we now want AC, high-end amenities, constant concierge services and stunning views.
We’ll be back in New Haven in nine short days - and back in class in eighteen.
Call 911, someone’s stolen our summer!
.
.
Songs for this:
New York City Serenade by Bruce Springsteen
New York State of Mind by Billy Joel

Girls have naughty thoughts,
like boys, but we're better at
hiding evidence.

Why do the texts keep on coming?
Why does my phone have to chirp?
Don’t they know,
the election is over..
It ended when I cast my vote.
.
.
Songs for this:
Bring Me to Silence by Fievel Is Glauque
The End Of The World by Skeeter Davis

The British royal family is front and center this weekend. How unusual is that?

The empire may be gone, but it’s time to recall its ghost, dust it off and invoke the ancient spell of monarchy.

A coronation, the original dog & pony show - God’s kingly sinecure. I can’t remember the last one.

You have to know who your great, great, great, grandfather was to be nobility-class smug or to don those getups, with medals that would have made Caesar blush and Attila laugh.

The cast is familiar, if somewhat balding, the too-old king, his - whatever - wife.

I can’t help mourning Diana. Accident, treachery or karma, grown men cried at her passing, Shakespeare’s darkened heavens blazed in sorrow and, eventually, even the gray queen bowed her head.

There’s no more honor, in 2023, and if there’s any glory, its light has grown as dim as the glitter of gold.

The fact that the royals are better than us, is axiomatic. Not morally superior, of course. That’s the Pope’s job. The royals are like Britain’s Mickey Mouse, and any civilized man, who’d strike at that, would have to be a fool.

We’re in the common room, Lisa and I. It’s Friday afternoon, about 2 - It’s partly-sunny and 45°f. outside. We’ve claimed the two squares of temporary rectangular sunlight like the Spanish conquistadors of old once claimed everything.

I’m just drowsing, I had a test this morning, I got up at 3:30am to study for it and although I’m confident I did ok, I find myself rehashing it when I close my eyes. So I’m determinedly not closing my eyes - much. Lisa has a book open and she’s working on a chemistry problem set (called a pset) assigned as homework.

Looking out and up, there’s only one, lonely, cumulonimbus cloud in the sky. It's there, as if placed - a piece of art - the rest of the sky remaining defiantly blank. At first glance, it resembled a man, hanging by his neck, blowing in the wind under a giant mushroom gallows - but he soon detached and floated away like a tattered kite.

Lisa starts asking a question, without looking up from her book. “Ok, so when hydrogen acts as a metal instead of a nonmetal..”

“Please don’t make me think,” I whisper in a tired monotone, “I’m unprepared.”

“Ugh.” Lisa, grunted. She absorbed her disappointment quietly, without taking offense.

We’re like two disparate species coexisting in the same landscape: the chemistry-tested and the soon-to-be-tested - neither diminished the other but we’re separate.

Leong and Anna come in together, breaking off to their rooms to shed bookbags and coats but soon they’re filling the room with restless energy. “Has anyone heard from Sophy?” Leong asks.

Sophy failed a rapid test yesterday morning and was hewn from the population like a cancer on the student body - and swooped off to isolation housing. “Yeah, I took her some stuff this morning,” I report, “She seems ok.”

People are dropping to covid like flies. None of us are invincible, we roommates watch each other - as if any one of us could go full-on-zombie at any moment - not unlike I imagine dinner at the Trumps these days - everyone looking around, nonchalantly, wondering who’ll flip first - but here, if you cough, you’ll start a panic.

You can think of this
pandemic as an novel
slowly unfolding.

We are characters
caught up in the plot - we're the
heroes and villains.

We bring our desires,
educations, biases and
social reflexes.

All the small sins and
great vanities of mankind
have a home in us.

The challenges we
face, in chapters yet turned
would scare the angels.

Will, we, the people,
psychologically flinch
in this, our great hour?

If so, expect no
Crispian Day speech of legend
to mark our passing.

I flew to Chicago last Friday night
my great uncle was turning a hundred.
The plan was to fly-in Friday, party Saturday,
and fly out Sunday. No missed school.

The air felt colder in Chicago, the wind really bit,
and the sun seemed to be at an odd angle.
We stopped by the beach of a lake so large
that there were waves breaking on the beach.
The party was great. EVERYONE was there.

But then there was the choreography of luck.
I woke up sick Sunday morning - really sick -
deathly sick, you know the drill, weak
like my muscles were falling off my bones.
At 8am Charles called - I should have met him.
I couldn’t lift the phone - I poked the button.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I told him before falling back asleep.
KLUNK I heard my hotel room door open, it was Charles.
He came in looking like he expected a threat.

I could only open my eyes for a second.
“I’ve GOT it,” I told him, (not knowing what ‘it’ was)
“Get out, save yourself.”
So went Sunday and Monday - I didn’t eat or drink.
Charles canceled flights, extended hotel room bookings,
and the car rental. Finally, Tuesday morning, he said,
“I think you’d better try.” So somehow, we flew and we made it.

There was a famous football player across the aisle from me
He’s retired now, like all of my heroes - Brady, Manning.
He played for the Ravens, I’d hated the ravens, I’d hated him,
the way you hate someone just because they’re great
but they play for the other team. I didn’t tell him, and sadly,
I didn’t warn him that I might just throw up on him (I was masked).
Charles bought me one of those horseshoe pillows and I passed out.

Before I knew it I was back in the dorm.
Being sick and helpless, away from the comforts of home is the worst.
I’ll have to remember that - someday - If I’m a doctor.

I’m Mz Mortenson, if you please.
I dispensed with the charade
when I went to my grave.

Life can be tricky
if you’re pretty.

My life was a role,
I couldn’t always control.

How unaware the dumb bombshell seemed.
Still, I was labeled the obscene Norma Jeane.

in reel life’s small doses,
the role was emotionally corrosive,
merely etching away my fragile identity.

In real life it proved erotically explosive
destroying my privacy, serenity, and sanity.

I thrilled in some 29 films, I took a few pills,
was a plaything for mobsters and tabloid mills.

When I started a fling with the president,
did I have any idea what I was up against?

Some free advice - beware of counterintelligence.

Homicide, suicide - what does it matter
- which one is sadder?

I knew I’d always be there for you, sensuously beckoning,
at 24 frames per second, like an eternal flame - flickering.

Here comes school
again - so it's time for
some school Senryus.

Teacher: "This piece is
really good, what inspired you?"
Me: "the deadline date."

Hours of homework
are up next - 'cause seven hours
school just wasn't enough.

I've come to believe
that "studying" is a contraction
of "students dying".

Awkward moment: A
boy you don’t know that well says
“don’t I get a hug?”

A lot of people hate algebra - they think it isn't useful.

They are SO wrong - here is some practical Algebra:

Chocolate comes from Cocoa,
which grows on a tree,
which is a plant,
therefore:  Chocolate is a salad.

You're welcome.

I thought I knew the sun.
I thought I had it tamed.

When it looked dim and weak,
I’d just blow on the flames.

But now my faith is shaken -
perhaps I was mistaken.

It seems the sun has ghosted me.
I miss those rays that roasted me.

fuddle, chuckle, cuddle, fumble, subtle-supple-couple, snuggle.

It’s monsoon season here in New Haven,
gone, are the banked, fluorescent colors of sunset.

This feeling hit me, like a rogue wave.
“We have to go out tonight,” I announced, to no one in particular.

I think I’d hit my capacity for monotony.
Lisa looked up from her book.

“The moment has to happen,” I continued,
with an animal-like awareness of the immediate,

“For the ****** ****** imaginary
and as something to cherish in backward gaze.”

“I’m for that.” Lisa shrugged, almost indifferently - she was used to my purple prose.
“I’m buying,” I announced, to no one in particular.

“Then let’s DO this thing!” Sunny called-out from her room.
“Where are we going?” Leong asked, poking her head out of her room.

—-

I took an m-cat practice test earlier today.

In the dorm, before breakfast and the test, I was staring in the mirror.
“Hey you, where ya been—how ya been?” I asked myself.
I followed up with, “Are you ready for this—are you up for this?”
Lisa stuck her head in the bathroom, “Psyching yourself up?” she asked.
She’d be taking the test later too.

—-----

The tests took about 6 hours. I’ve taken the downloadable ‘practice tests’ but not strictly on-the-clock. There’s just something about sitting at that official, green terminal - on an uncomfortable plastic chair, being timed by officiously grim and callously indifferent bureaucrats. (#chefskiss)

I felt like the young, haunted governess in ‘The Turn of the *****’ by Henry James. Except my ghosts were my entire, immediate family - who’ve taken this test before me and done really well.
My mom’s apparition hovered over my shoulders - making a snarky noise when I picked certain answers.
My spectral brother sat by a window, feet-up on the desk in front of him, boredly checking his watch.
My intangible sister sat at an empty terminal, as if she too, were taking the tests, and finally Step (my stepfather’s doppelgänger) ghosted in, like a Spielberg effect, through the closed classroom door, periodically, to voice his support.
The place seemed positively crowded.

I got a 507 (out of a possible 528), in the 76th percentile (they said). Not good enough (yet).
I’ll take the real test in July (sigh).

It’s summer in Georgia, yeah, it’s warm.

In high school, they said Shakespeare
once called Georgia, "sulfurous and hot."
He wasn’t wrong.

The careless sky is letting in all of the heat.
We saw a TV news crew chasing a lone cloud.

The humidity is so thick, that the air is too dense for lungs,
but we bought a tool at Home Depot that cuts it into usable pieces.

Today’s ‘Webster word of the day’ is “glade,” which is funny, because
if you see an animal in a glade, it’s probably dead from the heat.

I saw a bird in flight burst into flames when it drifted from the safe shadows.

If you want me, I’ll be in the pool - or a friend’s pool. I taught Lisa
an old southern saying, “Lawdy Miss Scarlet, it’s hot out HE-ya.”

I love summer’s honest freedom.

My motto for the next two weeks is:
“Don’t give up on your dreams - keep sleeping.”
.
.
A song for this:
Don’t forget the sun by the explorers club
Don’t worry baby by Carrie Elkin

virtual school moments (in senryus)

I forget that I'm
virtual school, because I'm
really in my room.

And start brushing my
hair or singing a song I'm secretly
listening to - until friends text me!

My mom forgets I'm
in v.school, comes in, to yell
at me about dishes.

My cat walks across
my keyboard submitting "84;'/jifgvbzws"
as a test answer.

"It was a typo!," I complain,
“You still got an "A"," she says.
"But I LOST 4 points!!" Argh!
"Get a life!," she says.

So much to say
You’re the first one I blame
The first one I shower with anger
You’re the first one I yell at
But you’re the first one I run to
the first one I look for
the first one I need to hug
the first one I ever loved
I love you mom
Happy Birthday