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

I may look like a cheerleader - but I really am a cheetah
and after they pass those tests out - I’m going to beat ya.
I heard a student say, in the cafeteria near where I sat
“They really don’t expect us to read all of that.”
and I chuckled to see the many headshakes of agreement.

Don’t these people know that this is really an arena?
I was accepted to Yale before I finished ninth grade and now
I’m surrounded by these “A” types who think they have it made
- until I eviscerate them with curve-crushing grades.

Learning is a passion, an exhilaration and release.
The last place on earth, that you ever want to be
is sitting in a classroom, competing against me.

“How’d the test go?” He asks.
“Oh,” I shrug and say, “I think I did ok.”
Let me translate that for you, “I made a feekin’ A.”

The sky is a cloudless crystal blue
with a breeze to chap your lips
I’m grateful for it, it’s heaven-sent
the dawn was a celestially stamped, angry red
sailors take warning

It’s going to get feisty cold,
I’m told
about the time we go back to school.
A polar-bear vortex with all its features
will spread its icy paws

What jumps out at me first
is how it could be worse.
if unapologetic nature
pounced sans disclaimers
with a cold worth semi-Shakespearean verse

What follows, star-crossed
is a week storm-tossed
a winter holocaust
with heaven-kissed frost
that only madness would call a judgement

We’re steered from harm
by precision alarms
stay warm
sweet friends
wrap up, stay in
.
.
Songs for this:
Come In from the Cold by Marc Broussard
World's A Changing by The Bingtones

Ok, so you're cooler
than me - logically, then...
I'm hotter than you.

The school year’s ending.  ‘Spring Fling’ is tonight (Saturday) the biggest event (concert) of the year, and next week - final exams. It’s hard to believe that I’ll be a senior in about 2 weeks - when the chips are counted, and junior year is cashed out.

I can remember sitting in my little covid-prison (childhood room), in 11th grade, thinking “If I don’t get out of here (and go to college), I’ll go crazy!” And here we are. My plan - my dreams - actually happened.

“Embrace your potential, celebrate your uniqueness, and explore the infinite possibilities of your future!
That bit of self-affirming encouragement was in an ad for Kosas concealer (makeup) - which, in a clever, psychological twist they call ‘revealer concealer.’ The stresses of finals weeks (2 weeks) can cause dark circles, breakouts, and other skin frustrations. A good concealer hides imperfections, so girls don’t look too human.
What do guys do??

Don’t get me wrong, I love advertising, the world needs advertising - I’m glad someone thought of it. How else could we learn about new things? I know I get excited when I try something new out and it works. If heaven, for instance, turns out to be ‘as advertised’ - I think we’ll all be happy.

poetically…
Our ancestors navigated their world by
stories of doomed lovers, troubled kings,
love triangles and magical beings.

In story we learned about loyalties,
the gods, mistaken identities and empathy.
In narratives, we labeled absolutes,
the world made sense and we defined truths.

Today, we’re wiser - we rely on advertisers.
We consume whims endlessly, like appetizers.
We’re blessed with consumerism and avarice,
for the new and exciting thing, we’re ravenous.

My school plans have changed. We must be flexible (I’m assured).
My mom’s research (she’s my personal oracle) clearly showed that Med-schools are taking longer to accept students these days.

So, we came up with a plan 'B' last August. The theory is that an MPH (Master of Public Health) program lasts 11 months and would give me something palpable to show (a master’s degree) for my time between Yale and med-school.

What’s another year of school, when the alternatives were laying on a beach in Saint Tropez or enjoying a Mafalda, Latte Macchiato while shopping in Geneva’s City Center? (my bf works for CERN)

Anyway, not thinking it would come to anything, I applied to several schools (last August), and yesterday I found out I’ve been accepted to Harvard’s summer 2025, MPH program. Color me apathetic, for now, I mean, isn't Harvard a step down? (I applied to Johns Hopkins and Emory University (in Atlanta) as we'll.)

I’d have just 3 weeks between graduating here (next year) and starting there. Ugg, how exciting (but is it?).
It’s important to believe, when we make plans, that if we apply ourselves, they'll go ‘as advertised.’
.
.
(Summer, beach) songs for this:
Summer Dreaming by Harmony Grass
Girls on the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart

As we all know, April is “National Poetry Month.”
Last year’s Poetry month, was like a month-long superbowl.
We all enjoyed the fireworks, the rhyming-parades,
live televised poetry jams and interpretive dances (ick).

Speaking about last year, once again, the Academy of American Poets
has asked me to take the month off - for ”the sake of  poets everywhere.”

“Dear Anais
Don’t betray us.
April’s our month to shine.
We’re asking you to confine,
your poetry to the other 11 months,
please listen to us - just this once.
Your poetry isn’t that popular,
and we think your work is subtacular.”

They’d rhymed it, of course.

I was moved.
I mean, if you write my kind of poetry,
It’s a good idea to keep moving,

Happy Poetry Month!

We were calculating theoretical yields on chemcollective
and somehow we ended up dancing to ”go left.”

We were finding oxidation numbers on labster
but somehow we started laughing.

We were balancing chemical equations on PhET
but now we’re singing “World we created” with hair-bush microphones.

Believe your competence - be impressed with your progress.
Attack every challenge with self-contained ease.
Armor yourself with confidence.
You’ll like the way you enjoy it.

It’s hard to meet someone serious at college. Everyone’s busy,
self-centeredly grinding away at their dreams. So much so that
people tell you to not even try (especially as a freshman).

I was mostly at ease with myself—as a freshman. I had an
excellent skincare routine—it was downright luxuriant, and it
kept me going, through that romantically baren and lonely year.

But we humans hope—we buy lotto tickets to dream on—though we know the awful math. We Gen Z’s seem to have our own unique brand of loneliness, born of covid and Internet-age experience.

My romantic expectations, sophomore year, were low—ok, unmeasurable.

Looking around was depressing. There were socially awkward STEM majors, jocks, frat men (sure the world’s laid-out just for them) and ‘CSOM Bros" (business majors more interested in parlaying my Grandmère’s money than me) and the elusive, emotionally reserved, ‘regular guys.’

But the unexpected can happen. We all know how crowded campus coffee shops are—the students move in and out in tides as noisy as the real, salty ocean. And then there you were, a rumpled, 25-year-old doctoral student—from another world—asking to share my table.

The loudest thing in that room was your sense of stillness. You seemed to be a new and distinct species, and as we talked, you seemed to somehow smooth my anxious edges. After a few meets, the thought, ‘I really like this guy,’ seemed to have its own gravity.

We somehow managed to thread the ‘too busy to care’ dynamic, and as time went by, you helped me channel my absurd, fiery, pastel-painted, first-love, early-twenty girlhood heat into something longer lasting, deep and authentic. Congratulations! It’s been two years.

Separating now, would be like removing the salt from the sea.
.
.
Songs for this:
Playing House by Kudu
So Much Mine by The Story
After Last Night by The Revlons

I received a re-invitation email this morning. A ‘come on, why don’t you want to?’ note that struck me as odd. See, I’ve been ‘tapped’ for a couple of final clubs at Yale. It can happen if you earn top grades and interact easily with male friends by day (the crew club scene is ol’ school patriarchal).

Three of my roommates have been tapped - for one thing or another. The upper-crust, traditional networks and secret societies are a huge part of why young men and women choose Ivy League schools.

I’m not talking about frats - I enjoy flippant misogyny as much as the next breasted-American and really, does “Yo bruh,” sloppy binge drinking, and ****** assault ever really get old? Yeah, it kind-of does.

And I’m not talking about the more open and popular ‘eating clubs’ - no - I’m on-about the elite social orders that enjoy a subversive and exclusive appeal.

Some students desperately want to be ‘IN’ and believe those memberships prove they’ve somehow ‘made it’. Let’s face it, someday - if you can’t actually earn it - that skull & bones handshake might open some doors.

I’ve attended a few meetings, meals, and parties in “tombs” (in upstairs libraries and houses) around New Haven, but I guess I’m just not a ‘joiner.’ Groucho Marx once said that he wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would have someone like him as a member, maybe that’s it for me too.

Anyway, this harangue is sponsored by the glower that that silly email put on my face.
“What’s the matter?” Leeza asked, seeing my expression.
It reminded me of watching people ****-up and ‘social mountain climb’ to get into my grandmère’s (boring) circle. If your club is so exclusive (email sender), why on God’s confused earth would you want me?

Hey, I like parties, dances and hanging out with eskimos - but I'm a pre-med student and the time/value equation just doesn't stack up for me - I’ve got the M-CAT tests next summer and prepping for those has taken over my life.

It’s ironic though, how by day students at Yale go-on about ‘elitism’ - in stylized outrage - and then by night they strain to join these crew clubs.

slang...
final clubs = elite clubs and secret societies
eskimos - really cool people
crew = elite (crewing is seen as a sport for the elite)

I dream of love
like bankers dream of fees

Our hot girl summer rolls on - like lava downhill or male models doing - anything.
We’re in Athens, Georgia, yes, it’s hotter elsewhere - but you can die in the sun - is this really a competition?

Fashionistas and trendsetters are adorning themselves in fluorescent lime green this summer. Making it the must-have statement color for the cool kid's club. The whole aesthetic was inspired by Charli XCX’s lime-green album cover for ‘Brat.’

Now, before you roll your eyes at the state of America, where silly people are bilked by influencers - isn't that what happened in the 60s with ‘flower-power?’ Wasn’t that ‘counterculture’ flagging, where everything from school buses to bikinis were flower adorned, driven by bands like the Beatles and umm.. [fill in the blank]?

So, we tripped (sounded psychedelic) to the mall of Georgia, to shop for unnecessary, lime-green things. Nail polish (which I think eats), beach bags, coverups, Crocs, friendship bracelets (cause we’re 13-year-olds), Cinnabon's - which aren’t technically green but are delicious and the Apple store - because it makes us happy.

I’ve read, or heard it said that “malls are dying.” Not this one, on a weekday mid-morning it was packed. The line for the eighteen-movie-plex looked like Spring Festival (Chinese New Years) at the Beijing airport.

Sadly, it’s time to admit that as 20-year-olds we’ve aged out of the “Clare’s” esthetic. A 12-year-old in line to get her ears pierced, looked at me, while I was looking at friendship bracelets, like I was her grandmother and I felt it - it was real.
.
.
Two songs to go with this:
This Girl's In Love (Live At HMH) by Trijntje Oosterhuis
Riviera Life by Caro Emerald

Yesterday, I saw a NASA announcement.
it said they found “Unambiguous”
water on the moon.

I had just finished my morning walk
and frankly, that sounded delicious
and refreshing.

So, I went to Amazon and searched.
I couldn’t find ANY reference to
“Unambiguous moon water” at ALL.

How ridiculous, I mean, why go
and ADVERTISE something that
We can’t get on AMAZON??

*** people. This is AMERICA.

I’m surprised that I’m not upset,
I suppose It hasn’t hit me yet,
that I won’t be home this year,
and I won’t have my family near
for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Just another hard discipline
that, I suppose, is part of growing up,
but this tradition blowing up
is the comfort of home.

Still, I suppose I won’t be alone,
‘cause we’ll visit on our phones.

I swear, my parents act like they were never teens in a pandemic growing up.

I was watching “Perry Mason,” an HBO show set in the 1930s. Perry gets mail out of his mailbox and I think “no GLOVES??” This pandemic has a hold of me.

6:30am  I’m finishing my shower - wrapping my hair in a towel.
Mom: from my room “I have something for you!”
Me: “OK.” (I’m curious)
I step out of the shower, wrap on a towel, and my mom steps up and gives me a flu shot without so much as a “by your leave.”  Dr. Surprise strikes again.
My arm hurts  =/

Writing a paper, on my computer, in class - I try to use the perfect word but I spell it so badly the spell checker gives up and in effect, says “I got nothin’.” I switch words.

Telling a girl to calm down is like trying to put a cat in a tub.
My parents think every guy I talk to is my boyfriend.
If I’m texting and smiling my parents think I have a boyfriend.
I say, I don’t know” when I don’t care.

For ALL of its downsides virtual school is better because:
  My two BFF and I have a facetime call going ALL school day so
    we can say snarky things about everyone..
  I can listen to music on my headphones during classes.
  I have multiple screens so I can web-surf during classes.
  I don’t have to wear shoes or a skirt!
  I can put a video up so it looks like I’m paying attention.
  I can snack/take a bathroom break whenever I want to.
  I don’t have to carry a backpack or make locker stops.
  I can be late or leave early and blame it on “tech issues”.

I just finished Face Timing with Sunny, one of Lisa and my roommates.
She’s an edgy half-a-laugh, and I can’t wait to see her in person.
Sunny’s a slipa and seductive gadabout - this poem is about her summer:

She’s a treacherous lover whose infidelities could populate
a city of confessions. Apparently, the streets we ignorantly
travel, are crowded with immediate, sordid, physical wants.

And Sunny, she can see them, like blinking neon bar lights,
feel them, like radio waves the rest of us monkeys miss.

Does she ****** the Waffle House waitress (in the restroom),
the professor (in the closet), the Urban Outfitter salesgirl
(dressing room), the dental receptionist (supply room),
the bar girl who rejects everyone else that hits on her
(backroom), or do they ****** her?

“How do you know?” I asked her once.
“I know,” she said, nonchalantly purring like a big, Serengeti cat after a ****. Now, you might ask - it’s legit - how do I know these trysts are real?

Well, at school, she brings a different girl to her room almost every night.
They pass through our common area quietly, on the way to her room.
And, like you and all of us - she carries a camera - and uses it.
Her cloud archive is an ******, deep dive into a hidden America.

Flipping through it leaves me breathless, and I’m not fem-facing.
If she sold it to ‘The Getty’ they’d have to open a new wing.
.
.
Songs for this:
i wanna be your girlfriend by girl in red [E]
Lava by Still Woozy
.
08.16.2:30p

I have several toxic habits - I know - because I read this article on the web.
It’s a miracle I’m not an axe murderer, based on what the experts said.

I use “should” biased judgements - when things go amiss.
I think about the future, when settling down to rest.
I obsess on defining the “best part” in each of my experiences.
I often think in poetic terms  - which has driven wise men delirious.
I have nova bursts of interest - which escalate into crushes.
I keep a mental list of incidents which, if left unmanaged, lead to grudges.

The flaws go on and on - God, I simply am a mess.
I need to face my many flaws so that they might be addressed.

Do you think anyone is ever perfect?
Is it like playing whack-a-mole?

So that no one ever ends up perfect - they simply end up old?

(a thought rendered as a Senryu poem string)

A thought - proffered
by a jackal of a boy
that I dislike.

Has stayed with me
with an irritating,
cold dissonance.

For several days
- I’ve been turning it over
- somehow, it rings true.

“All romance aside,
in the long run, we must be
mutual *** objects.”

When it stopped and I saw the target, a handsome 16 year old, part of me wanted to jump up and run. This party wasn’t with my usual friends - except my BFF Kim was there. These kids were 15 and maybe 16. I had just turned 14. We had been invited by an older girl-friend.

I couldn’t have been more nervous - the party had turned just short of terrifying - but there’s no way on God’s earth that I could chicken out. John and I shuffled towards each other on our knees.

He’s taller and as we drew together he bent toward me and I looked up - our lips touched, I felt his warm breath - WOW, his lips were soft.. I had to force myself not to pull back - my heart was pounding with the fear of embarrassment - what if he stopped - like, YUCK, and declared the whole idea an impossibly silly joke??

He didn’t - after a second I felt his strong left hand gently on the back of my head and he slightly rotated my head to the right and - OH, YEAH - we were able to draw deeper into the kiss (I’d seen that in MOVES - now I understood). His lips were so smooth, slightly slippery and warm - I was breathing WAY deeper then and felt a twining in interesting places.

His right hand pressed my lower back and he fetched me closer and, boy, we REALLY fit - I felt my ******* pressed to his chest - I wasn't sure what to do with my hands - they were sort of out to the side. His tongue fleetingly touched my lips and the tickle was electric.

My lips parted a little - he drew me even closer - his tongue playfully connected with mine and I seemed to short circuit - I drew in breath sharply, through my nose - which sounded enormously loud to me. WOAH, this was getting intense, I put my palms to his shoulders - should I push away??

“Time!,” the girl timing the kiss called.

We stopped actively kissing and he started easing off the pressure holding us together - I leaned back on his hands a bit as I searched for balance. Our kiss-seal broke and I gasped a little, which fortunately, sounded like a laugh and everyone laughed as we pulled apart. I glanced at his face and he was smiling warmly - I blushed explosively and looked down.

I put my right hand on my skirt as I scooched back in place and someone placed the bottle back on the center of the circle.

I was still looking down because I could tell my face was beet-red but my eyes found Kim, I smiled and give her a telepathic holy-COW. My first REAL kiss.

I left the circle before someone could spin me. There's no way that I was going to do that again.

Is the wind alive? That’s what the Choctaw believed.
The Apache called it, apocryphally, “the breath of the world.”

To them, the wind is the trickster you never see,
a joker on the plain of life.

What’s always arriving and always leaving?

What’s as old as the world, yet forever current?

Ever present and tireless, it seldom sleeps,
holding up jets, herding clouds like sheep,
filling sails, stirring leaves, causing rough seas.

What’s always passing, but already everywhere?

The Cherokee named ‘air’ the ‘keeper of spirits,”
because it sighs, cries, whispers and moans.
They credited it with great power and influence.

Today, we watch the skies with doppler witchery,
we forecast its path, with the gambler's odds - see,
the wind has turned on us, many times - like a tornado.
.
.
Songs for this;
Colors Of the Wind - End Title by Vanessa Williams
They Call the Wind Maria by Harve Presnell
Windy by The Association

American citizens in “bread-lines” to get little boxes of food. How desperate do you have to be to join that line? The sad, generous, little boxes of nutrition. We are all human, we all need our next breath and our children’s next meal. We all need shelter.

It’s a carnival of pleasure to mock human need. Tell me my mistake.

Watch our President’s Daily Briefing. He doesn’t mention bread-lines. He chooses not to. How counterfeit is his competence. No “fire side chat”, no promise of hope. How mean is this fat, grubby, “rich” man who s*s on golden toilet seats and ignores starving Americans’ desperation.

The tyrant’s plea, as the collapse begins, is “I’m not responsible”. Tell me my mistake.

We have lost our immeasurable strength. We are become callous. We are robbed, of our better, more generous selves by narrow focus, by zero sum greed. Our collapse will be just, like verse set down in primitive times when the margin of error was clear and understood.

It’s a calm discrimination to choose carelessness. Tell me my mistake.

This unfolding viral nightmare is but one of the fires along the tree line. The encroaching environmental disaster, the loss of our political system’s integrity, the militarization of police racism.

Maybe China will do better - if I’m reading my score card correctly, it looks like they’re up next as the world’s great superpower.

Summer’s in the rearview mirror,
re-experience it at your peril,
it’ll only distract you now, and maybe depress you.

Summer shifts your orbit, from classrooms and remote zooms,
to lollygagging by beaches and snuggling in cozy hotel rooms.

As intense and vital as last summer was - as they all are -
it’s already blurring in memory.

Soon only the memory of sensations will remain,
like the warmth of the breeze and the sun on my skin
and sigh the warmth of a certain boy’s skin on my skin.

Those flashbacks ache, late at night, like phantom limbs.
.
.
Songs for this:
All I Wanna Do by Sheryl Crow

I've got a reading!
And the venue's all sold out.
It's an old phone booth,
that some company threw out.

It's standing room only,
but you can get in by arrangement.
I'll just hop out, for the term
of your engagement.

If you show up
you won't even need a mask,
'cause you'll be standing
on the other side of the glass.

My voice sounds muffled
in the sound-proof enclosure
so my poetry won't be getting
very much exposure.

For my fan base,
it's the ideal place to show.
See, I can do the reading,
and no one else will know.

Let's wax poetic - wax on..

We’re in for it
When we enter
the insubstantial country of love

That secret theater, in an invisible mansion of moods

it’s a resort that houses its share of speechless monologues and sore disappointments, all lovers know that, but there are infinite discoveries too—secret, intimate delights and sensual confidences.

Ok, wax off.

My horoscope this morning said, “any tension you’re experiencing now is just part of the process.”

Peter (my bf), flew in last night. When we’re separated too long, remembering him, remembering us, can at times, seem like a memory exercise and I find myself wondering if I’m wasting my bikini years on a handshake deal. Then we’re reunited and bam, I’m reminded why it’s a ‘dub-u, dub’ again.

He’s a delectation—in a Christmas bauble kind of way—shiny and dangerous because I want to touch him—but not be loud or showy about it. Leeza (Lisa’s 14-year-old sister) whispered to me, when I was getting some ice, “You watch him with the too-still poise of a cat about to strike.” I smiled at the complement because I love cats.

Every once in a while I’ll pinch him, to make sure he’s real. “Oww! Stop that!
“What?!” I ask, pulling back as if innocently confused.

I got him a room at the Marriott Essex House. It’s 400 feet down W59th from Lisa’s building entrance to the front door of his hotel. I measured it off, with urgent steps—then I helped him unpack. We unpacked a lot.

Later, we joined Dave and Lisa for a Christmas light tour—Manhattan’s flexing its wow-factor for us.

I didn’t get to sit on Santas lap this year, I’m a little old for that,
but I did get what I wanted most—I’m sure I’m grinning like an idiot.
It’s not quite Christmas yet, but thanks, Santa.

🎄Merry Christmas🎄🕎Happy Hanukkah 🕎🌟Merry Kwanzaa🌟
💈Happy Festivas!💈
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Same Songs by Kelly Jones
.
.
Two days until Christmas.. how ‘bout some Christmas playlists?
https://daweb.us/xmas/
.
dub-u, dub = a big win

Are we really in complete, control of our heart?
What about natural selection?

True to its own necessities
its as inescapable as mica in marble
its influence uncoiling
throughout our everyday existence.

The emotional future decided by pheromones
by unconscious laws of pattern, form and complexity.
Decisions independent of what is fleeting and fashionable,
based on actions without social polish.

Natural selection in the age of lasers,
terrifying hierarchies of secret signals.
Layers of strangeness glinting and winking at us.
Chemical commands by tide of electrical impulse to warm the heart.

To end one love in favor of another.
The choosing of one heart over another,
as if, at my age, the situation demanded such sacrifice.
To refocus the heart like the skipping of a pebble
from one spot to another. Self inflicted sabotage.. dreadful gamble..

My room, the suite, seemed too small.
I felt like I’d been in my room forever.
I’d developed a scratchy sense of stuckness
and a fresh, itchy awareness of dust particles
floating in the stifling, still air that made me
want to stop breathing in so much.

But I didn’t, categorically, have the energy
to get up and focusing seemed like a lot of effort.
I had a big midterm test, first thing this morning
and it laid me to waste, mentally. I think I did well
but it was a feat. Whenever I feel lifeless and weak,
I start to fear I’m coming down with something.

But then, everyone’s tired. The suite seems unnaturally
quiet, as if no one even has the energy to command
our ever-listening AI to play a playlist, so silence
ruled by exhausted default. It’s as if a low-pressure area had
descended to hold off a brush of refreshing ozone and rain.

Could I rouse my posse of symbiotic sort-of siblings
for an outing somewhere - like Toad’s bar - just across the street?
My door was open, so I called out, rather weakly, “Let’s go out!”
Someone, (Lisa sprawled out on the red corduroy couch?)
groaned listlessly from the common area. “My treat!” I updogged.

Five minutes later, it was showers all around. I love a good shower.
A shower’s where I ponder over the big questions, because
answers seem to come quickly there. I imagine I’d be wise
beyond words if I had a house with a waterfall running through it,
like one of those amazing, Frank Loid Wright masterpieces.
.
.
Songs for this:
The Duke Is Gone by Chuck Senrick
Cannock Chase by Labi Siffre

Simple is exact - uncomplicated,
with power to relax the unmotivated.
Silence, except a counting clock
where time’s passing is illustrated.

Simple is enough, and it awaits
me in this familiar place.
I wish I could stay,
spend the whole day
and live just awhile at this pace.

Complex seems to call me
it waits just outside the door
I come here to breathe in memories
and bask in simplicity once more.

I’m daughtering in place and it’s a full time job.
I'm a posable figurine, like a Barbie for my mom.
She's been shopping in a frenzy, to fill the empty hours.
I think we have an Amazon truck dedicated to our house.
I needed another closet so we took my sister's room
It looks like a Dior outlet-store or maybe King Tut's tomb.
"I think you've gotten carried away," I said to her last night.
Looking at all the loot arranged, she said, "you may be right."

My father died when I was seven.

Like a girl in a museum
I'm drawn to his pictures.
Those inadequate reproductions,
hypnotize me.

Pictures, what do they have to give?
Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look.
They exist, for me, like Cassandra of troy,
full of endless secrets that can never be told.

A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue
rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars
rushing, rushing... somewhere.

Why do  the details I can't remember haunt me so?
A flash of light, the tearing of metal
like the screaming of dogs in a devouring
dance of energy.

The nuclear family detonating
with death inches away.

Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?"
"I don't know."  7 year old me said.

The family man leaving a gravestone like a calling card.

Sometimes, just before I fall asleep,
memories of him - which I hold dear -
come to me like the ghosts of departed friends.
Image after image in the embracing dark.

Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?

Those images and that voice are strangely silent
in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened
to a world I'd rather reassemble.

Kim (one of my BFF) brightened with inspiration, “Oooo! Send him a **** pic!”
“I’m NOT going to sext a guy out of the BLUE,” I grumbled, indignantly.

Kim turned to her phone, “No, No, of COURSE not.” She said as she texted.

“Come on” she said, as she pulled me off my chair and out the door. We raced over, on foot, to my friend Bili’s house (two houses away). We entered without knocking (as usual) and ran upstairs.

Bili lay on her stomach on her unmade bed, fiddling with her phone, ankles up and crossed but she twisted up to attention when we came in.
“What should we do first?” She said, as if there were a million things to do.

They set upon me and had my regular clothes off in a heartbeat. Like all makeovers, this had a prelapsarian purity - the ritual stripping down to blankness before rebuilding.

They quickly went through about half of Bili’s closet - selecting just the right combination of ****** and classy clothes designed to ******.

They finally settled on a black slip under an ivory peignoir, stockings with garters and black strappy heels.

Kim twisted my hair up into a loose “Gibson Girl.”

“Hold still,” Bili said, as she grasped my chin and expertly blended red, gold and black glittery eyeshadows followed by lip liner and gloss. “This is just a quickie job,” she reminded me.

I stared at this strange version of myself in the vanity.

Kim frowned and looking around, she spread a pink scarf over the desk light to give the room a rosy glow. They went into studio mode - posing me in various ways from coquettish to bored lounging - suggesting expressions and taking endless pictures with my phone.

Finally, they were satisfied and handed me my phone.
“Shall we go through them?” Bili asked

“Naah,” I said, “I’ll go through ‘em and pick one - or two.”

Later, at home, I looked through them - I looked SO different - and I had to admit - **** even. But was that ME? I cringed, what if my mom saw these ******, Kardashian-like photos somewhere?

I never sent them. I thought I’d have to explain it to my girls.
“HA!” They laughed, “We KNEW you’d never use ‘em” Bili said, as Kim shook her head “Nope.”
“It was fun though!” We all agreed.
.
.
.
*NOTE: This is a pre-pandemic story from August 2019. I was 15 - the idea wasn’t to ****** this guy, it was to get his interest so he would ask me out 🙃

(inspired by ‘Dusty Rose Dreaming’ by vb)

We’re powdered city girls heading into a club,
bright orchids entering the hothouse,
spreading fun with noblesse oblige,
qua somethings suited for silver screens.

Our attention’s as uncertain as the stock market.

Experts at mixing trickery and disguise,
we’re but vague summations of nature,
as we sparkling preen, like excited atoms.

Rouged and kohled to unnatural colors,
dressed in silk-whispers to tease and entice,
in neon-light, broken by par-cans, scanners
and champagne flutes, we’re superhero-like
immune to societal judgment and aghast rebuke.

In our few, fleeting nights of youth
let our voices chorus in laughter.
What’s it to you? Tell the truth.
.
.
Songs for this piece:
Baby You’re a Superstar by NuDisco
Love Land by the Blenders
Nostalgie Du Voyage by Nightflight

Angrily hanging up a smartphone lacks gravitas - jabbing a virtual button doesn’t offer the satisfying, physical release of slamming down a receiver.

In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.

Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?

Repose is something grinding-study denies her.

Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like, we’re going there?

What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist

Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig Caesar up, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up

One benefit of being my friend
is gaining access to my near encyclopedic
knowledge of cartoon shows.

The virus will fade in the summer heat.
It's Trumps hoax folks - it’s a joke folks.

Drink your Lysol and get back on the street.
Look, it’s a hoax folks - it’s a joke folks.

We can trade those masks in for some caskets
Yes, it’s a hoax folks - you’ll be ok folks.

Send your kids to school - some will die, but that’s cool.
This is no hoax folks - some kids will die folks.

Or they’ll bring the virus right back to you.
Safety’s a joke folks - do the republican choke folks.

The average bill for ICU care - is 20K folks
chump change folks - just pay the man, folks

One Hundred and Fifty Thousand dead
But vote for Trump folks - if your family's alive folks

(a disastrous morning Sonnet)

I am the very model of a girl who’s late for morning meal,
my charger failed, the printer jammed, the morning’s start has been surreal
I lost a scrunchy and a shoe, I had to use some dry shampoo
my Keurig had no k-cups too, I’m feeling like a total shrew!

Our pre-dawn jog went really well, but now the morning's gone to hell
I couldn’t find clean underwear, I’m desperate to charge my cell,
I got some soap in my left eye, I stubbed my toe and nearly cried
While brushing teeth and hair in haste, I wonder why I even try.

Anna’s got an attitude, she’s not someone who’s normally rude
her hookup so ‘experimental’ has an irregular sleep-in schedule
how’s she going to get to class if she’s babysitting sleeping-lass
I guess I’m not the only one, who’s schedules simply come undone.

I woke her with a gentle voice and soothed her out—we had no choice
My morning happened to sideways go—but it fueled this grandiloquent tale of woe!
.
.
A song for this:
Something Stupid by Michael Bublé and Reese Witherspoon

(this one has a limited audience - but what’s new?)

Some of the best advice from my Fro-Co (seniors who volunteer as freshman advisors):

If you’re stuck in your room (due to the pandemic) open the windows.
Exercise every day - outside if you can (pandemic).
YOU, ain’t ALL THAT. Get used to it - maybe you were hot-crap in high school - but not HERE. You got a 1590 SAT and a 34 ACT score?
Congratulations, you’re one of the average students.
Never, ever, EVER miss a class (as a freshmen).
Visualize your morning the night before and GET UP EARLY.
Time management - TIME MANAGEMENT - TIME MANAGEMENT
Complete assignments as soon as you can.
You’re going to have 4 to 6 hours of homework every night - STUDY
Procrastination will **** you - STUDY
Go to events - be social - but leave early. “Popularity” isn’t important here - this isn’t high school.
Don’t expect to meet besties right away.
Don’t go to frat parties alone.
Hookup culture can be toxic.
Don’t date seniors - just don’t.
Never get a razor cut, your ends will split.

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

Have you ever lived in a tall building? Dawn strikes suddenly and irradiates these glass-walled, high-rise rooms. Lisa showed me how quickly the thick windows - if you press your face against them - go from cold to warm in the morning's stark glare.

On the streets below, beneath the horizon, darkness remains
as if there were, briefly, two worlds separate but side by side -
one, a night place and the other bleached in fierce sunbeams.

The rooms have no curtains, just motorized shades that go up and down as needed - but in reality, they’re always up. Central Park is the only thing across the street and we’re so high up (50th floor) no one can see in. It’s odd, dressing in uncurtained, glass lined rooms or bathing in curtain-less bathrooms - there’s a titillating freedom to it.

I find myself imagining that we’re angels floating in the clouds,
looking down upon man and his creations - but then I’m reminded,
by vertigo or by digging a charger out of my luggage, that I’m just
a mortal, sporting a temporary visa to this high-rise heaven.
.
.
*ps
In proofing this before posting it, I had to smirk at how,
of all the qualities of high-rise life, I wrote about the
curtain-less feature and I wonder if that paints me either
a perv or a *****. I even debated deleting it, but *shrug

(a poem in Senryus)

Let’s rerun the play,
take up strings, so the puppets
can start fresh their dance.

Summon the old ghosts—
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
—pronounce them reborn.

Recall the actors,
lead horses from their pastures,
raise the curtains.

Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Viola love anew.

Old, ever-hallowed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stage.

Human suffering,
live—don’t fret, you won’t miss it
—it’ll come to you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kool Thing by Sonic Youth
End of the innocence by Don Henley
The Perfect Idiot by Fievel Is Glauque

When not slaved to school
work I rush to do all of
my favorite things.

All at once in a
mad multitasking-fun-storm
of pleasure-chaos.

I was just sampling
Spotify tracks, playing my
iPod and writing.

While backing up my
music collection, planning
dinner and sewing.

And I thought maybe
I should make more coffee and
print my homework.

Sorry, mom says I can’t
kiss you - even with grape,
Lysol, safety lipstick  =/

Harsh pandemic facts
and parents stand against us.
What a hazardous waste!

Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.

In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.

I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.

You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.

You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.

All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.

I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.

I can’t make the blind walk,
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.

God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.

Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29mp3

When a class is boring, the air can feel close and rebreathed - not a comfortable feeling for a COVID child. When the class is finally over, it’s like you’ve escaped something.

Did you know an hour has 60 minutes because ancient Babylonians used a seximal system? (base six).

The class I was in was small, just eight of us around a table in a small room (four students were missing that day) and somehow the class had wandered into the unstable, waring, state of the world.

The professor ended his unscheduled thought, on the result of nuclear war, by saying, “After the nuclear exchanges, when cockroaches take over..”

“No,” I interrupted - it was a flashbulb moment - an impulse. I don’t usually interrupt professors, “Ants. Ants would take over - they’re mobile super-organisms, cockroaches are just meat to them.”

His smile and nod of approval felt warm and cozy, as if my emotions had a texture and temperature - but I knew it was something assigned to me briefly, like a motel room.

Nuclear survival isn’t exactly my bailiwick, I’m not sure where I picked that thought up or why I had the confidence to offer it. Confidence is a thin lever to work with when talking to a professor. I’ve seen professors crush brash students.

The bell rang, I had survived, and Leong was waiting for me in the hall. The crowd in the hall was moving on toward their classes, like water splashing in every direction. Leong barked a laugh. “What?” I asked.

“Neh,” she said, waving her hand (meaning forget it).
“What?” I asked again.
“When I was little, I would visit my grandparents' farm, in Shandong (province, China). They would call their cows in with a bell,” she said, motioning, with both hands to include the crowded hall.
“We’re the most privileged cows in the universe,” she suggested smilingly.
“I suppose we are,” I agreed, as we passed out into a wind as cold and harsh as witches' breath.

Don't let anyone
with bad eyebrows give you life
advice - it ends badly.

I don't mind seeing my ex with
someone else - I usually donate
unused things to the less fortunate.

I wonder how many
calories I burn jumping
to wrong conclusions.

I have this talent - I can create an ex-boyfriend out of thin air. snapping fingers

Lisa and I had just gotten back to school from Thanksgiving break and my soon to be ex-study-partner arrives all passively-angry - with that withering, unmistakable, male-balance of harshness and ambivalence. I don’t even know what triggered his moral panic.

I was bewildered at first. “We aren't dating,” I said, “we're study-partners.” We’d agreed early on and I saw the relationship as defined - with a period. He, apparently, saw it as more of an ellipsis…

Then, we kissed one night. We were happy because we’d slammed the midterms. I thought of It as a “champagne kiss” moment of celebration - but it was a mistake that seemed to break some spell between us.

After that, I could never utter the “yes” he wanted and our friendship momentum stalled.

You could say that I’ve been slowly contracting around him to ordinariness - like an infatuation balloon deflating into disappointment.

Still, I feel this stupid, hurtful sense of loss. Why am I so bad with guys?? Perhaps I should take the scientific approach and conduct exit-interviews.

I’d LIKE to have a boyfriend, sometimes, but all I can see are negative
consequences - and who has the TIME?  Most nights, when my homework is finished, there’s only a few hours left over for sleep.

He left me in a lurch, but I went through my class list and managed to study-group-up before finals (thank God).

The evening stars were gone, replaced
by a spreading, ominous purple bruise of cloud.
When the wind rose, in sudden violent
crisscrossing gusts, everything went into motion.

White cabanas shook, like staked swans
flapping to fly, lavender bushes thrashed
their thorny arms as if in panic, umbrella pines
creaked and writhed like tethered balloons.

Lightning lit the winding, stony stairs, like ornamental
neon lights, as we’d run up the path from the beach.
Shockwaves of thunder accompanied the flashes
- there was no lag - the storm was there and upon us.

We were laughing and screaming, like children
chased through a dark Halloween funhouse.
The first, fat drops of rain popped behind us,
like a giant’s, arrhythmic, snapping fingers.

As we reached the open, French, louvered doors,
that led from our suite down to the shoreline,
we body-slammed them against the tempest.

And braced them fully closed with our backs, as if to vilify the
natural courses of wind and rain with an animal will to break in.

The lashing monsoon heralded our urgent, stormy union.
We were like the storm - insistent, wild and untamed.
All was revealed in that flashing, tempestuous darkness
as need, euphoria and lightning lit the naked night
.
.
A song for this:
Walk Between Raindrops by Donald Fagen
Hurricane Waters by Citizen Cope

Happiness isn’t forbidden, so reach for it.
Look for missing love, or sip the wine of love.
If love demands, pay the price and rejoice, delight,
enjoy - this holiday, put your heart into it.
Reach out and Zoom with friends far away from home.
Have a happy turkey day, let nothing take your joy away.

I dreamed my way here
I’ve had my cringe moments
I feel pressure, I lose perspective
I’ve wholeheartedly failed
I misspeak, underthink, overreact
I try to do the right thing
the right thing isn’t always clear
I’ve tried to hold on
I’ve let go with grace
I’ve charged ahead
I’ve stepped aside
I self-sabotage, then try to do better
I’ve self-consciously retreated
I’ve stood up for others
I’ve backed down and apologized
I’ve rinsed and repeated
I’m a chameleon, but I’ve never been perfect
I’ve under-reacted to challenges
I’ve overreacted to the ordinary
I devalue likeability
I indulge the language of play
I share my human experience
I don’t know what else to say.

A summer house-boat party - Matey - toss those cares overboard. The scout boat found a deserted cove so the party can be privately fierce.

The lake's broken reflections of moonlight look like jewels on black satin.

There are all kinds of drinks - ALL kinds - and herbal refreshments flare like lightning bugs. It isn’t long before perfumed bodies are flexing to music in the hot, moist, summer air.

Dance, swim and repeat as needed - cool water evaporates off bathing suits immediately - replaced by prickled sweat. It’s too hot - I’m staying in the water. There’s a group of us in tubes tied, spider-web like, around the boat.

There’s a guy who’s been watching us (Bili, my BFF, is my tube-mate). He’s extremely fair, and he’s gotten a bit too much sun giving him a feverish appearance.

At one point, I meet his gaze - to see what he’d do. His irises are a light blue that, in the lights, reflect like little blue flames - unwavering and alien.

I don’t mind a bit of attention - I think that’s how the system works - attraction, pursuit, investigation, and eventually seduction. But usually from someone we know. A stranger's attention can make one feel as if they're in enemy territory.

He gave me a nod and a smile that seemed like a proposition. I whisper about this “encounter” to Bili who takes command and just rows us over to him.

He’s older than I first thought - 22 - with cream-colored hair - thick, like horse mane and eyelashes and brows so pale they’re almost invisible. His name is “Noud” and he’s from Holland - at Georgia Tech studying atmospheric something or other - and girl watching.

“What are you doing at some random Georgia lake party?”, I ask.
“Soaking up the local atmosphere, of course.” He says. Which makes sense, I suppose, because that IS his chosen field.

I do an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, arbitrarily, which I think is pretty good (you can’t beat the classics) - Noud, does an even better one.
His, “I’m going to take [pause] you OUT” got a laugh.
His later, “You need to take [pause] that OFF” earned a “nuh-uh” finger wag.

Thanks to vaccinations, the atmosphere around here is a lot more fun.