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

We’re in Paris, staying with my Grandmère (Grandmother) for a few days around Mother’s day.
Peter (my bf) is getting to know my Grandmère. They’ve started to relax and enjoy each other. This time, when they met, they hugged.
“You look great!” Peter said, “Have you had some work done?”
She made a face that acknowledged the absurd, and shook her head ‘no’.
“A rib removed?” He followed up.

Last night she told him a story about the strict and regimented world she’d grown up in.
When she was 8, she and her mom (‘GG’), had visited a friends' home for tea. Afterwards, GG asked her, “Did you see that?” In a horrified voice.
“What?” Young Grandmère had asked.
“When the houseman brought in that calling card?” GG asked, watching her daughter like she was taking a test.
Grandmère thought about it - but couldn’t find the fault, “What about it?” she’d finally asked.
“He just HANDED it to her - without a (silver) tray.” GG was scandalized at this debacle of civilized standards.

“That’s what WE were up against,” Grandmère said, “It was a strict and judgmental world.. back then.”
“But you were a strict-old-bird with my mom, right?” I asked (because I live to get a reaction from her).
“Oh, nothing like the OLD days,” she sighed, looking to heaven in reverie.
“Now YOU,” she said, (indicating me) like she was revealing some melodramatic truth, “get away with ******.”
“Yep,” I admitted, “That’s me - I’m guilty.” I shrugged.

Every June, there’s a grand masked ball at Versailles Palace and it’s AMAZING. Like the MET Gala, there are only some 400 tickets and those are instantly sold out. This year, my Grandmère has four extra - in an envelope.
“Give them to meeeeee!” I begged, shamelessly, stretching out a quivering arm, like a ****** in withdrawal. “We’ll see,” she said cruelly.
“If you do,” I bargained, “I’ll buy you some land in Camargue (an area of worthless swampland in southern France)."
When she didn’t give in immediately, I decided to try and keep her engaged with sparkling conversation.

“Ever noticed that the word ‘perfect’ has 7 letters?
So does meeeeee,” I said. “Coincidence? I think NOT”

My mind searched for leverage. Grandmère had taken Peter and I to a horse jumping competition earlier that day. I love the smells of horse, hay and leather - you know - all that - but I can barely ride. I continued to bargain.

“You know,” I began (like an actress on stage), in a shaky voice meant to convey extreme, past suffering, ”my parents never bought me a horse.”
It felt like there were tears in my eyes.
“Ok,” she said, boredly, tapping the envelope with ******* then sliding it, my way, across her desk.
I picked up the envelope - counting the tickets. Grandmère wasn’t above withholding one as a ‘business lesson.”

“Can I bring Peter, Lisa, and Dave?” I asked innocently. ‘Bring’s’ the magic word - what I’m asking is whether she’ll pay for everything (airfare, hotels, cash cards, designer costumes - maybe €60k in all).
She’s no fool, she’d offered those tickets knowing this - but it’s only polite to ask. (I could pay for it myself, dip-tha-fund as they say).
“Of course,” she said, offhandedly, “call François.” She’d moved on to the next thing on her desk.

François, a handsome, 27ish, perfectly tailored, hipster with straight blonde fringe-hair and a Sorbonne Université MBA, is one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive-secretarial minions who’ll now coordinate all aspects of our travel and expenses.

I came around that desk and gave her a big hug, which she endured as she read something.
“You’re the Beatles,” I pronounced, before scurrying off to tell Peter.

songs for this:
Love Is Strange by Frenchy
Depression Royale by De-Phazz
Take Three by Club des Belugas
Inesaurible Tu by St. Project

I’m publishing my poetry telepathically today.
So, if you think of a particularly clever rhyme - it was me.

I’m in a psychology class and as part of it we filled out several, detailed, personality evaluations. They said these were helpful in forming a psychological profile of the freshmen classes each year and of particular interest were these COVID years.

The professor said she’d be available, before finals, to review them with us if we were interested - and I volunteered. So in our review we’re going over my results and she says: “Your trauma history could produce this constellation of wit, wiriness and attachment-anxiety.”

I flinch, irritably, thinking, my “trauma history?” What, “trauma history?” Wondering if - maybe the professor was looking at the wrong paper?

She read my reaction and the consternation on my face, started flipping through the papers, and said, “According to the history you submitted, your father was killed when you were seven and you were hospitalized for...”

“***” I thought, blanking out what she was saying, “How could I have forgotten THAT?” Even for a moment. Then I sag with this oppressive, blanket-like wave of guilt at having put the crash so far out of my mind.

“The dismissal of childhood trauma is quite normal,” she said, putting her hand on my arm, “You have to put trauma out of your everyday thoughts - to get on with your life.” She assured me. “It’s quite normal.”

How many blind sides do I have? I wondered

Dear careless whisperer,
Some sharings are dagger-edged
and there is no escape when they’re turned on you
no countermagic for the soul crushing embarrassment
dropped as if from a great height.
Did you hear the gun-shot thunderclap of confidence
leaving the room?

If you’re looking for yuletide cynicism here,
you’re shopping in the wrong place.

This is New York City’s time of year.
It’s stood the test of time and it fairly sparkles,
proving that the ordinary can be extraordinary.
With the right lighting.

Lisa’s (parent’s) apartment glitters like our promised heaven on high.
When we left at Thanksgiving, Michael (Lisa’s dad) had the concierge
service stressed, toting boxes of decorations up from their storage area.
When I waved my goodbyes, he appeared to be wrestling an octopus of
cool-white fairy lights into submission. Now everything glitters pyrite bright.

Our holiday time is limited—and this is our chance to unwind—so we’re
selective about what we decide to embrace. For instance, there was a sale
at Michael Kors where, no big deal, I got a pair of brogue, black
leather wingtips that’ll be straight fire with a little black dress.
The bargains were so good that I decided the store must be a drug front.
Not that I’m complaining. Do I ever complain? Nope, I’m stoic.

Like Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, Lisa and I’ve
been “testing the product” of Manhattan's club scene.
We’re searching diligently for the new and unfamiliar.

When it comes to picking which clubs we want to visit,
Charles, our driver and escort (a retired NYPD cop),
has gone as far as to suggest, we’re “out of our depth,”
and refused to let us even try one or two DJ’d, pop-up clubs
in Queens that were getting a lot of heat and likes.
“Roosevelt Avenue is the new 42nd Street,” he’d said.
What does that even mean??
Indignant silence

Anyway,
I hope Christmas finds you all merry and bright and that your holidays—whichever you celebrate— are carnivals of food, music, friendship and love—for those are the luxuries that count the most.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus!
.
.
Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
.
.
A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(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

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

There’s no substitute for life.

I find myself,
seduced by yearnings.

I’m flourishing here,
contemplating sin.

I’ve nothing to do
when I’ve nothing but time.

I’m reusing solitudes -
they’ve become ragged.

What’s the answer then?
Should I seal my girly heart,
engage in uncaring kisses
like it’s ‘casual friday’ -
connive brief excitements
- just to feel a pulse?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The earth is twirling,
oh, God, make it stop.
If it keeps on spinning,
I think I’ll throw up.

The way Earth orbits the sun,
it's dangerous and thoughtless.
Can we just knock it off?
It's making me nauseous.

I have a slight fear, in relating these vignettes, that musically we're too basic. I doubt anyone could say we don’t know new music, after all, we listen to WYBCx, which plays unusual tracks but we just share this silly place that fits us. So go ahead, judge us. No, I mean it’s fine, so fine.

In my suite we liaison with Cinderella Sundays, once a month, where we ALL clean our suite. We put on rediscovered disco classics - like Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” Dana Summer’s “On the Radio,” and the Bee Gees “How deep is your love,” bumping these songs as we sano things. As part of this effort, we usually order some wings.

When we get deliveries we have to pick them up at the front gate. I was wearing this short, cropped shirt, shorts and no bra and as I headed for the door, Leong said, “No! You can go outside like THAT! So I grabbed a cover shirt and absentmindedly put my Airpods in one of the pockets. I always do my laundry on Sunday - ALWAYS - if I don’t it’s because of something tragic like nuclear war.

That’s how I destroyed my second set of Airpods in less than a month. They drowned in the wash. I’ll miss them. They were dear to me and served me well. We buried them in a flower *** as part of a martini fueled funeral service. I decided to name my new ones “Miley” because I’ve been listening to her “Jolene” backyard session endlessly.

My suitemates and I decided to do this friendship exercise where we exchange playlists of songs that remind us of that person. All 8 of us chose a song that reminded us of Lisa, for instance, and she got that playlist.

The song Lisa picked for me was “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton. I couldn’t discern why, so I asked her. She explained: We all go to this local NailPro to get our nails done (although It’s not the greatest place and there’s always a wait - it services) and I like Acrylic nails. She says that when I’m reading, with my headphones on, I unconsciously rub my nails together, making a little washboard sound with my nails similar to what Dolly used at the start of the song.

The song I picked for Lisa was “Way too ****” by Drake - that future and young ****. She had it on a loop last fall. If we were studying or deep talking Lisa would say, “You know what would make this moment better?” And, she’d call it up. That song is pure Lisa.

Anna plays guitar and sings sometimes (she’s really good) and one song I particularly liked her version of - which I didn’t know the name of for the longest time - I’d say, “play the night song,” is “Because the Night” by Pati Smith. So I gave her that.

Sophy got Zendaya’s “Dynamite,” because she IS and Leong got “Year of love” by Jenny Hval - because, well, that’s what it’s been for us.

One lowkey pastime of our little group was re-watching “The crown” and we were ignited by a scene where Lady Di is roller skating to a song called “Girls on Film” by Duran Duran. If you spend much time in our suite you’ll hear that song and how everyone dances it out.

Peace y'all.

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

I’d like you to feel how it feels.
We could share the experience,
or you could own it, be the boss of it.
Like always.

I was angry, I didn't mean what I said.
I was happy, I didn't mean what I said.
I never know what to say to you -
what exactly you want, moment to moment.
Like always.

I don’t think it was me.
I figured out what I didn’t want.
I didn’t want you.
For always

(A repost from 2019)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(a throwback poem from High school)

I'm the most popular girl in my homeroom.
Of course, that's my own bedroom -
cause we're on COVID lockdown, zoom.

My bedroom is the math class, which doubles as the gym,
it triples as the theater - you should see the shows I'm in.

They're only in my mirror, so my cats get free admission.
My sudden popularity's due, to a matter of attrition.

If I play my cards right, I can probably be prom queen
I'll hold the ceremony in the garden, so the travesty goes unseen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You called me "temperamental."
You said I’m “taciturn and I'm spoiled.”

We were in the crowded cafeteria,
so I refused to become embroiled.

I wanted to say you’re conceited -
a know-it all , with stupid hair and
between your ears there’s nothing there.

But what you said stuck in my head.
No more texts! I'm ignoring your thread.

I have things to tell you - to your face -
and that would be Monday (I'll have to wait).

You think you’re hot - but NO, your NOT
- and I'm done helping you study.
Your jokes are lame
your kisses tame
and by the way - your dog is ugly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you ever tried choking?" He asked nonchalantly.
“No,” she said. with a wrinkled nose of disapproval

“Want to try it?” His approach couldn't hide his excitement
“Ok,” she said, absent-mindedly running her index finger over his lips.

“you  can  choke  me,” she added slowly,
“if I can stab you repeatedly
with the 7 inch stainless steel
nail-file I keep under my pillow.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin
Better By Myself by Hey Violet

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.

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).

(a sonnet)

Two realities, both alike in dignity,
In fair America, where we lay our scene,
There fallacious grudges explode into mutiny,
and lawful-blood makes patriot-hands unclean.

From common bonds these neighborly foes,
sail contrary seas of truth; on which they stake their lives.
Some, stoked for misadventure, by the host of a TV show,
do with their scurrilous deeds bury their futures for strife.

The fearful passage of compatriots love,
by continued embrace of marketed rage,
which, admitted truth and humility could dispose of,
fills now our breathless hours and sets our stage.

Which of you, with angry hearts, will patient peace attend,
and back away from martial games so pointless strife can end?

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

(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

Have you had enough of childish lies
and incompetent response?
Have you bathed in toxic manhood
until you long for nuance?
Are we going to save this planet?
Or will we all move somewhere else?

Will we turn our eyes toward justice
or become a failed police state?
I propose a national "makeover"
a new "US" to change our fate.
You adults will have to do this -
I only hope it's not too late.

Let’s talk about feelings - feelz.
Does anything else really matter?
Ok, sure - health - yeah, right up there.

Covid was my generation’s depression (literally).
Maybe not for everyone, there were places that ignored covid, I think.

We didn’t ignore it, not any of it, not at my parent’s house.
Do I sound bitter? I got fifteen long months of ‘social isolation.’
In most states, you can shoot someone and not get fifteen-months.

At one point, we sprayed Lysol on everything that came into the house. Except the cats.
Anyway, that lock-down mess was reason #1 why I skipped senior year of high school for college.

If you look-up ‘desperate’ in the right dictionary, they used my high-school junior-year photo to illustrate it.

University felt so far, so different from my covid, remote video, no-touch high school life that it was, in the most basic sense, like going to a foreign country.

It felt dreamy, in a jet-lagy, out of sync, science fiction, not part of real-life way. I landed in this wonderland where I didn’t know anyone, or where anything was and there was a different sense of fashion, of music, of freedom and I didn’t quite speak the language (not snack bar, buttery).

It was like there was a soundtrack, that’s how serious it was.

You know how, when you’re intoxicated, you can be half awake and still excited? I didn’t want to miss any of it, I’d rub my eyes to stay focused.

Everything was so stimulating - the sights, the sounds. I had this idea about writing - a fealty to the idea that I could capture the experience and share it with others.

Now, I think that idea was so 2021.

OK, before it’s too late - poetry time!

Now-a-days I feel like I’m in the know
hold on, I’ll I paint the celestial afterglow
uhh, this might take a while..
.
.
Songs for this:
Dreamin' by G. Love & Special Sauce
VIRGO'S GROOVE by Beyoncé

Suddenly, the 502s were back
those unexpected disconnects
that make posting whack
and my nerves a wreck

Like blank spots in time
that made me backtrack
unable to use rhymes
I felt trapped and  highjacked

Did the server choke on a bone?
Was 5G stalling me, wordless and postponed?
Did the firewall collapse, did DNS lapse?
Was it my laptop, was it my phone?

People watched me, on the metro,
as I frowned and moaned at my useless iPhone.
The issues seemed flagrant, I was becoming impatient
Was I some kind of nut? I was showing emotion.
We don’t DO that in Paris - have public implosions.

Did it happen to you?
Or was I one of a few.
What were the chances
that it only happened to poets in France?
.
.
Song for this:
Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert O'Sullivan
La Vie en Rose by Allison Adams Tucker

Can we celebrate, do we have that choice,
to fight against sour momentum and rejoice?

Of course we do - there've been vaccine changes,
hope hangs like fragrance, so let’s be courageous.

Forget anger, forgive old grudges and stop tiring judgments,
catch those old phantoms in the open and sever the attachments.

Stop, drop and roll - this year necessitated endurance -
be honest and transparent, tell children and inform parents:

This year’s celebration will need to be realistic -
but Christmas '21 we’re goin’ BALLISTIC!

I visit you in dreams,
and my visit is always unexpected.
I’m always excited and more
than a little apprehensive.

In dream variations, your reactions shuffle
like poker cards - you’re surprised and pleased,
or wary, or even politely disappointed.

Dreams can be a harsh mirror and as in real life,
my emotions are poorly protected.

Brushstrokes of truth hide behind the
tricksy falsehoods of dream-scapes. After all,
I’m an unworthy suitor in practically every way.

In the real world, I’m sure early, favorable
impressions would fade to inevitable boredom.
I have that effect on adults - I’ve seen it
- a quick nod my way and I become invisible.

I should be a bank robber - “What did the
robber look like?” the police would ask.
“Well... the teller would say,” fading off to vagueness.

I could stand right there looking at my phone.

“Did YOU see anything?” The cop would ask me.
“I was playing candy crush...” I’d begin,
but the cop would walk distractedly away.

By the time they got the video evidence, I’d be long gone.

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.

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??

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 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

The force of desire
stalks the very boundary
of my confidence.

In simple wanting
do I trespass on taboo?
How will I then learn?

Even in fantasy
my corrosive self-distrust
twists ****** vision.

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.

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?

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

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

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

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

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

Build your fort and be its watchman
Wound me with silence or cut me with words
Humiliate me, remove happiness
Put me in lonely company
Make me autarkic

I will battle with whispers
I will hide in plain sight
I will sulk in the now
I will **** with looks
I can cry in secret

Someone broke my best friend’s heart.
They’d been together throughout the entire lock-down.
And even though it looks like we’re entering a freer time,
he said it felt like she’d become part of the claustrophobia.

Explanations can snag on nerves like fishhooks.

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.

Poems don’t have to rhyme, free verse it isn’t a crime
I can write what I please—don’t call the police.
Must I play the game, both rhyme and spill intimate things?
Can I develop leitmotifs without rhyming riffs?
I could claim I’m writing prose - yeah, be one of those.
No one can rhyme all the time.
I can refuse—I’m no Dr F-ing Seuss,
**** it! ← See? THAT didn’t rhyme.
(sirens in the distance)
.
.
Fun songs for this:
Ain't It Fun by Paramore
It's All Your Fault (with Katie Shore) by Asleep At The Wheel

I’ve been remembering dreams lately. I don’t know why.
I dreamed I had a conversation with God, last night.

We’d finished moving into the university residential dorm - this dream was ripped, directly, from reality.

We (God and I) were on a bench in my residential courtyard, and she asked me what she’d gotten right - in creation.

My mind went blank, I mean, what do you say to THAT? But she was patient, like she had all the time in the world and finally, I came up with something.

“Porcelain tubs,” I said, watching her for a reaction, “beaches, kisses, oysters on the half-shell.” My voice goes all singy-songy when I’m nervous.

“Fashion,” I added, a moment later,  “At SOME point we’d have had to have clothes, ya?”

After a bit, she stood up and I knew she was leaving. “About that touching thing,” I started, hesitantly.

She fluttered her hand dismissively, “everyone does it.” She said as she faded away.

When I woke up, I was disappointed with myself. It seemed like such a softball interview.

There are so many mysteries she could have explained, like UFOs, bigfoot, republicans, why people say “heads-up” when they should say “duck” or if running away from my problems could, henceforth, be counted as exercise.