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.

life happens.
It’s fall, it’s midterms
It’s election time.

New Haven’s giving a lot of fall.
I’ve been starting to feel the chills,
but things are turning cold and extra breezy,
so it all maks sense.

The good and bad can coexist closely,
is our energy dropping? Nope.

Whenever I think of voting,
I go back to American Idol.
My first voting experience.
It was 2009 and I was 14.
I was into Adam Lambert.
he didn’t win, and sure, I felt
a child's appreciable sense of outrage
millions and millions of us did
but we didn’t storm FOX Network
We cried into pillows and took it in stride.
Now Adam sings with Queen.
So I guess it worked out.
.
.
Songs for this
​​Bohemian Rhapsody by Adam Lambert
Do It Again (feat. Carolyn Leonhart & Robert Smith) by The Juju Orchestra

(a poem in Senryus)

You don’t have to count,
when you lose a boyfriend, you
know. There was just one.

He was gone before
I knew it - he wasn’t, you know,
******* or anything.

For a moment I
toy with saying, “Alexa, add
rope to my shopping list."

In High School boyfriends
come and go - it's like shopping
- where you return things.

Shakespeare said, “make
pieces of the beast and his
confederates”

My parents voted
today - filling out and then
casting their ballots.

It was a pleasing
privilege - even as an
anxious observer.

Their two small darts at
the heart of the snarling beast.
Saints let them strike true.

Sometimes I
want to yell "I don't care"
in my mom's face.

When she blithely tries
to measure my sad prison
world to her own youth.

That prehistoric
reality, of phonebooths and
whatever, back then.

But I know those
words would freeze in the air
like a neon sign.

And very probably be
etched on my tombstone
as an epitaph.

I used to be excited on Fridays.
I used to have interesting plans.
My weekends were non-stop hectic,
my time was in high demand.

Now I live in repeated patterns,
I’m a servant to boring routines.
A fleshy teenage automaton,
waiting for science to intervene.

Oh, I'm readier than a girl-scout,
I’m more prepared than a marine,
I’ll be out the door like a cartoon coyote,
the second I’m shot with vaccine.

If you speak of love
speak again

For glorious moonlight
adds thrice such power

Happy messenger
your words sail upon air
striking valentine true

So, if you speak of love
I’m leaning in
speak again

Kim: “So, your plan was to win him with awkwardness?”
Me: “No, my plan is to be as sarcastic as humanly possible and see if he can handle it.”
Kim: “You are SO good at the interpersonal stuff”
Me:  “ I so hope college guys get me - I’m out of sync with these high school durks.“

I’m so excited about this election
about America and our direction

We’ll trust old men
to make big decisions
elderly men
of compassion and vision

Men who were there
when the work was done
when we went to the moon
and warred in Vietnam

A glorious age is at hand
we’ll be safe in those trembling hands

One who launched an insidious insurrection
Another who can’t follow simple directions

They will grasp what needs to be done,
our land will be free and efficiently run

We’ll trust old men
who think with precision
to keep us safe
with complex decisions

Men who were there
when the work was done
promoting corporate advantage
and environmental damage

A glorious age is at hand
we’ll be safe in those trembling hands

I’m so excited about this election
about America and our direction

I am
fermenting in tedium
emotionally over-reactive
frequently inappropriate
irresponsible but trustworthy
discontentedly powerless
and frequently overwhelmed.

Lisa, Leong and I were supposed to eat at a sushi place called “Bow Wow.” Lisa and I were coming back from our last class. I covered my face with the back of my hand and yawned as we reached the quad. Lisa put her phone in her jacket pocket and said, “She isn’t answering, I’ll go get her.” I nodded and gave her my backpack (we’re all suitemates).

I sat down, cross legged, under a (Japanese maple?) tree, arranging my skirt - the tree had shed most of its leaves, since I’d met it in September. A drift of papery bronze leaves spread out in all directions.

A breeze delicately swayed the tree branches, making flickering patterns of light in the shade. I went from sitting to lying down in the grass, angling for the most of the limited shade. The sky was subtly beginning to darken, as if an Instagram filter on the scene was being tweaked.

How many seasons has this tree observed, I wondered, with all the embellishments those brought - sun, rain, stars, rainbows and flickering, ever changing moons. ​​All from within the limited, open sky frame of the quad. A tree has to be patient - and tough - I thought, there’s no rescue from the New England elements.

The whistling breeze seemed like music and the tree began to dance for me - its branches became waving arms, its leaves making jazz hands - I laughed and clapped. It made a twisting bow at the waist, like a performer.

I woke up when I heard Lisa say, “‘Here she is!” - as if I’d been lost.

Classes started up again today. Soon, we’ll be gloriously stressed, and clocked-up on whatever. Our hearts will swell to the pre-med symphony - a frantic opus, composed in the key of no sleep.

In seminars for rising pre-med seniors, (What's needed to get that med-school slot!), it’s obvious that 60% of the students who started out with us, on this track, are gone - left for other majors.
“I wasn’t happy, it was too much,” they said.

I feel a pang when I hear that undergrads we’ve shared a trench with have switched their major to basket weaving (political science), TikTok (computer science) or Phys-Ed.

I envy those deserters, I pity those deserters, I envy.. Wait, aren’t deserters supposed to be, well, you know.

Meanwhile, the rest of us, the stubborn few, cling to the dream. It’s a waking dream, for caffeinated zombies, obsessive-compulsive workaholics and maladjusted wonks who neglect personal needs, relationships and in some cases personal hygiene (not me, of course) in favor of a goal.

Maybe there’s something wrong with us?

I’m listening to a song,
that’s captured my mood.
What’s the singer saying?
If it knew, I’d sing along.
but the slurry words elude.
It’s an artistic choice, I suppose,
and I don’t require deeper meanings.

A squirrel stands defiantly in the middle of the path,
A tiny, furry-tailed, usurper - quite out of the routine.
“Hello fluffy rodent,” I baby-sing, as it watches me,
“What an odd meeting, are you hoping for a feeding?”
I try to pass but it jittery-scampers and cuts me off.
"I have a test, get out of the way, you crazy nut-thief”
I glance at my watch; l might really be late to lab.

So, I leave the path to the possibly rabid rat.
if it comes at me, on-God, I swear I’ll kick it,
launch it ballistically into the evergreen thicket.
How I long for a coffee, hot and sweet,
or a sandwich and salty chips - that would be nice -
but then I would be late for class. I sigh in defeat.
It started to drizzle. This afternoon will be miserable.
.
.
*Songs for this:
Out of Myself by Bebo Best & The Super Lounge Orchestra
Jettin' by Digable Planets
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_15.mp3

Hello again
nagging dissatisfaction
diminish me again
corrupt everything
with your whispers of truth.

(Senryus about crushes)

I'd never say to
a guy "Oh, and by the way,
have a crush on you."

I'd never stalk my
crush on the Internet - that's
what our friends are for.

Never let a guy
treat you like licorice - you're
a red gummy bear.

I saw a turkey circling, high above Manhattan
his bronze and copper feathers ripped in the sun,
and it looked like it was having an awful lot of fun.

He looked proud, in those clouds—majestic and delicious,
I could picture him sprawled out, on our Thanksgiving dishes.
Then I thought, chastisingly, “Wow, in a way, that’s kind of vicious.”

I opened the glass doors—we were sitting on the sky-high terrace.
I thought I’d better check—so I wouldn’t later be embarrassed.
I called Karen (Lisa’s Mom), “You already got a turkey to prepare us?”

She was hand making apple and cherry pies, lining crust in the pans
“You bet!” She called, “One's dressed-up—and a honey-baked ham!”  
Closing the door, I yelled, through cupped hands, “Fly on Turkey—DO NOT LAND!”
.
.
Songs for this:
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year - Shrift remix by Andy Williams and Shrift
One Day More by Les Misérables Original London Cast Ensemble

.
I made this year's Christmas playlist!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_34.mp3

In 7th grade we took
some personality tests
- they were intriguing.

I’m a hustler
- the very opposite of a
procrastinator.

I take on future
projects early, impatient
to sandpaper issues.

It’s calming to
know why I stress - it helps me
navigate my fears.

While my friends are panicked
that SAT testing time is here
- I took them last year.

It’s easier
to submit to the lash if
we know what drives it.

What I love about Star Trek isn’t the plots or even the characters. It’s their casual, daily use of fantastic technologies (think replicators) - for them, the ordinary. It mirrors our own banal use of magic-like wireless, google searches and air travel.
We are marvelous monkeys.

I’m a teenager. I am new and agog - Jesus, I have a lot to learn. How are the many marvels that elevate our lives actually made? The millions of cars, the fuel distribution systems, our skyscrapers. Who thought of all this?
We’re marvelous monkeys.

We can almost cheat death - I saw Marilyn Monroe on TV last night.
It wasn't the real star - just the image of her purring sexuality. The her without the messy adopted-child neuroses, chemical dependencies, loneliness and deeper longings. But it's early days - her DNA is lying around here somewhere.
We’re marvelous monkeys.

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

Dear boy who finished the three hour Chemistry test in 9 minutes,

I hope you FAILED.
Sincerely, Girl still on question 2.

Outside it’s breezy and twenty degrees
in here the air feels humid and still
the floor’s elbow-to-elbow and I guarantee
dance for 40 minutes and the heat can ****

I left the dance floor
fully drenched
we drank at the bar
til our thirst was quenched

I peeled off my overshirt
but that didn’t work
I still felt flushed and sweaty
a guy motioned me to dance
but I wasn’t ready

Then someone opened the door
the icy air rushed in—I didn’t flinch
It felt like heaven—I wanted more
dance guy was back, the entitled prince

the 05611 is full of pushy guys
when they want something
they try and try and try
I pretend I can’t hear them
cause the music is bumping

Friday nights are such a release
a time for fun and controlled caprice
but it’s also a hot-point time to do-a-prendy
when you say no, divers can turn unfriendly

I’m not Julie Andrews—I’m not offended
It’s kind of a complement, I’m just not interested
If you can take a yes, then you should take a no
I could be protecting you, for all you know, (******/aids)
so chill-out playas don’t be so gung-**.
.
.
Songs for this:
Hit My Heart by BOY
Cake By The Ocean by DNCE

There should be clearer signs,
as a relationship starts to break up
- the hiss of steam, a twist of smoke perhaps
or debris distributed across a hot,
cloudless, summer evening sky.
That way, the force of recognition
wouldn’t be so much of a slap.

(A Senryu poem)

Oh Cupid, God of
desire & ****** love, please,
next time hit us both.

It’s a broken world
we need imperfect solutions
and there are plenty of questions

is it even possible to correct systemic
problems with individual solutions?

I recycle, so everything’s ok, ya?

some would usher in a revolution
while others would stand pat, thinking
they can marginally beat the house

the young believe the old are problematic,
out of touch and largely to blame for the world
the old push back on youthful, impractical,
self-indulgent and self-righteous idealisms

both groups must eventually wrestle with thorny questions

I doubt we could all agree on a short manifesto
or even a pithy rallying cry.
How about something brutal, almost offensive?

Dylan Thomas suggested we rage against the dying of the light,
but then again, it seems that's all we do these days—rage.

There’s a Korean concept called hwabyung,
or “burning sickness”—an intense, suppressed rage
that can blind and destroy us if we’re not careful

Science says we face a direct and bludgeoning future,
that we must be tenacious with the next phase of our evolution
—but must we be adults? Science is so 2014, and we’re all so smart.
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance the Night Away by The Mavericks
I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack

Yay!! There’s snow on Science Hill.
Finally - snow, I love it. Cold, I love it.

Science says men evolved from apes.
Maybe I evolved from polar bears
or those abominable snow people
—yeti—that no one can photograph.

You can’t just reject that outright,
say the odds are minuscule,
just because it’s new and edgy.
I mean, where’s your science—
your unbiased, clinical perspective?

We could end up in the National Geographic.
This kind of story is very much their aesthetic.
I can provide lots of material—I have baby photos
and I’m not uncomfortable about the pressure.

Maybe it’s time to put your voice out there.
The world always needs the comfort of new voices.
You could influence social media—everyone wants THAT.
This is a buffalo, a skibidi, blessing in disguise.
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
Unlike me by Kate Havnevik

Mad kings are sly devils,
and like math homework,
they’re hard to get rid of.

Like ex-boyfriends they
waltz the line of patience
with dawdling acknowledgements
and sluggish departures.

You find yourself the airline
agent, “Sorry sir, your departure
is booked and ticket printed -
please proceed to the gate."

I’m overthinking,
tired of the endless waiting,
about to blow up.

Even my mom sees it.
She starts some cutting remark
only to pull it back.

Me: "Argh! I have this anger, just below the surface."
My brother: "Uhh, it's not that far below the surface."

I'm like a Vulcan when you aren't around -
logical, distant, evaluating you
like a product with my friends,
the consumer with a lifetime of buying.

But near you I'm a prisoner
of some consciousness independent of thought,
like a fever or the dreamer,
with the merest semblance of control.

You are light and loose, hair like Spanish moss
and skin like cedar resin, all laughter and agonizing beauty.
The way you lean across the table I only think of kissing you.

I'm sure at times it must show,
like a red stain on a white dress
or some inconvenient *******..

You have some license on me,
a key to a place in me I keep hidden and close,
you fit some interior template of desire.

What good is freedom if I can't tell you‽
Oh, The ragged vagaries of loves games.

1000 emotions and I am deserted
to silence by some rule of thumb -
by a faltering consumer confidence
or some feeling of inward nakedness -
when all I want in the world is an open kiss
or to give you an intimate scented something...

Yale student radio (wybcx) is playing throughout the suite. I’m working on chemistry problems but when a song I don’t know is good enough to catch my attention, I add it to one of my gazillion Spotify playlists - God, I love the Internet.

One of our roommates, Sophy, is from California. She’s brilliant and friendly but almost never leaves her room, which she keeps hot and airless. If I’m in there for more than two minutes I have to start peeling off layers of clothing, one by one. She didn’t seem this odd last semester. We take turns, mediating between Sophy and the living, picking up her meals and packages, like vampire assistants.

Then there’s a nice but nerdy guy named Andy, who Anna’s adopted. He’s sitting on our deep, red, four cushion corduroy couch, crafting an essay on his laptop. He’s a divinity student who I rely on to answer my deeper religious questions.

“Do you think Jesus went around telling people his mother is a ******?,” I’d asked.
“Jesus had brothers,” he answered, “Have you ever read the bible?” He asks.
“My bible is Seventeen magazine.” I say, hand to heart.

“Listen to this!” Andy says - a peremptory order to the room - as he begins reading from his paper. “Disruptivist writers who no longer strive for agency, circumventing narrative in order to resemble the fiction construct, risk losing what Robbe-Grillet called the “intelligibility of the world” and themselves illustrate the exhaustion of forms.” Andy paused. “What do you think?” He asked the room.

No-one says anything. No-one ever understands what Andy’s talking about.

Anna and Sunny are studying and sunbathing in the common room like they’re on some kind of permanent holiday. They occupy two generous rectangles of sunlight streaming in through the closed picture windows.

They’re laying on yoga mats, almost shoulder to shoulder, wearing bikinis and Wayfarer Ray-Bans. It’s 12° degrees outside but there’s an oil heater with a fan blowing across it that provides them with a sun-like warmth.

Welcome to higher learning 2022

What's the scariest book you ever read? ... Some Stephen King book like Salem's Lot or The Shining? For me it's Kate Millett's ****** Politics ... Oh, man ... Now THAT will scare you to death if you're female.

I discovered a man, overheard at my church, who actually believes his *** is a sign of power and of superiority. WHY am I so startled? Some childish trust not yet scrubbed off?" Or worse yet, some belief, not yet strangled, in a better world? See, stupid me, I thought this bill had been paid, by sufferance, by real people like Elizabeth Stanton, Carrie Catt and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. ... by entire generations who ran through those tangled woods emerging cut and bruised ... if at all.

What is it like for HIM? I see him eyeing us, his little inferiors who bleed with the moon, with secret, catlike distaste ... regarding female opinions as slightly impure ... then, with calm, Godlike grace, granting females the forms of servant to assume.

Can I, can we, be forced to accept this inheritance? I don't know ... All I know is that this prejudice, so strangely without substance, strikes me like a dueler's lucky ******, robbing me of attendant rights and wit ... springing a tender trap of doubt in the future and abandoning me to stammering.

I'm in line at a store, and I'm bored,
Typing on my phone, restless and alone.

I’ve got light-blue nails, like the sky or your eyes.
I like them, it’s my favorite color - don’t know why.

I’m buying flavors for my coffee, nutmeg and pumpkin spice.
I like having coffee in the morning, when it’s cold, they’ll taste nice.

There’s a really old lady at the check-out, she’s moving very slowly.
She’s paying with cash and coin, from a pouch, counting carefully.

She’s frail and reminds me of my Grandmère, with her white hair,
her sturdy shoes, I want to pick her up and hug her - but laissez-faire.

When my turn came, I waved my Apple watch over the pay terminal
- it’s fast and contactless - like the whole modern world.

Does anyone hug old ladies anymore?

(a piece from high school (I’ve been reorganizing))

I am simply at my worst these days.
Wild and unpredictable emotions rush on me - it's a place where the layer of control and composure are very thin.

This school year has been an endless working, always desperate, collection of days.

Each passing week seemed to unmask some flaw in me.. Like peeling a rotten onion.

Emotionally, spiritually, I’m drubbed—I droop like a hanged man.

It's not the work—I survive (piano) competitions and academic battles as if by some brand of magic..

No, it's more.
I have lost my goal. Like biblical engineers raising the tower of Babel on the plain of Sennaar, I am struck by a lack of focus. My direction, my original plans, seem shallow—I stand purposefully gelded.

It's worse because I'm somehow so much less who I want to be.

Like an asymptotic curve I constantly miss my ideal. I am hunted, internally, by my own inner voice, that ruthless, pittyless, seeker of perfection.. it lurks like the prowling wolf, stalk bent walk.. sifting my every thought, my every action for flaws.. until like the wing weary hunted pray I could almost welcome the killers warmth for sweet silence

In a mood somewhere between cowardly and courageous I finally approached my mom..

In a speech from the scaffold, I told her of my black, tight, treacherous spiral.. of my doubts about everything.

I expected the worst.. a disappointment, in less than cryptic, ciphered messages, a slow sharpening of her claws on me for endless shortcomings..

Instead, I got miracles..
as if rigid constellations had shifted.. an atmosphere of freedom earned.. and at least for that moment, the mom who used to sing me awake in the mornings as a girl.. and a delicious summer of rest.
.
.
A song for this:
Everyday Is A Winding Road by Sheryl Crow
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_02.mp3

I do foolish things
when I'm blue
when I'm sad
and missing you

I do foolish things
like dancing all night
foolish things
drinking everything in sight
foolish things
shopping til I drop
foolish things
somehow, I cannot stop

doing foolish things
when I'm blue
when I'm sad
and missing you

I do foolish things
watching ‘parks & rec' all night
foolish things
drinking coffee until daylight
foolish things
dragging friends on crazy romps
foolish things
somehow I cannot stop

doing foolish things
when I'm blue
when I'm sad
and missing you

I do foolish things
acting like spring breakers
foolish things
*****-dirping strangers
foolish things
acting like some whack-job
foolish things
but somehow I cannot stop

doing foolish things
when I'm blue
when I'm sad
and missing you

I do foolish things
making badong decisions
foolish things
I'm in an awkweird position
foolish things
I've begun precrastinating
foolish things
a change is indicated

so come back soon
cause when you do
there are foolish things
I want to do with you

foolish things
foolish things
crazy foolish things
foolish things
.
.
Songs for this:
We're All Alone by Kennedy Ryon
Another Man's Jeans by Ashe
.
.
A Christmas platlist - because there's 12 days til Christmas!!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_16.mp3
.
.
slang
badong = bad / wrong
*****-dirping = saying silly or outrageous things to strangers for effect.
awkweird = combination of 'awkward' and 'weird'.
precrastinating = procrastinating before procrastinating

Do you think we’re the sort of girls to sit around on a Sunday night?
EAH (loud buzzer sound) you’d be wrong!!

What’s the opposite of seasonal depression - seasonal euphoria?
I’m self-diagnosing here, but I think I’ve got it.
I have all the symptoms:

Excessive happiness: a level of joy statistically improbable.
Compulsive smiling: grinning under the most mundane circumstances.
Irrational optimism: the feeling everything will turn out all right.
Compulsive socializing: relentlessly engaging in parties and outings.
Impulsive behavior: capricious decisions that lead to.. stuff.
Difficulty focusing: trouble concentrating on ‘serious subjects.’
Increased appetites: A craving for.. everything fun.

I have to call it. The symptoms are limpid, my diagnosis is:
Summer, seasonal euphoria, and it feels pretty good.
.
.
Songs for this:
Rooftop by Kelly Jones
The Game of Love by Katrina & the Waves
DeadBeat Club by The B-52s

You begin your journey lonely beyond imagination - an emotional place I can barely begin to describe to the uninitiated.

Your body, primed by puberty, has these new, natural abilities - you develop these secret ambitions for yourself that push you hard.

You search for that someone. To use the technical term you “kiss a few frogs” to fine tune the impossibly fragile internal instruments that detect the elusive, magical “it.”

You pretend you’ve simply struck up friendships, the girl and the boy. It can’t last, this state of congenial denial - there are too many unspoken pressures - the suspense weighs on you both

I’ve been to counseling.
Uni-life can be stressful, it's a 'judgy' environment.
We're under constant evaluation.
So there’s free counseling.

Have you ever been to counseling, dear reader?
What I love about counseling is that someone has to sit and listen to MY issues..

Wait, doesn’t that sound a lot like poetry!?

My roommates and I
always have something to say.
We talk incessantly, like chirping birds.

We’re all reading the same large print here, and It suggests that college is almost over.
We’re bleeding time and there are dreams in need of scheming.
It’s time to stack our chips with transactional relationships and hoard the things that matter most.

I have to admire the sheer attitude and bravado of these girls—their defiant strides,
as they face the invisible indignities and constant obstacles of job hunting.
(Where they’re required to behave while they’re observed and evaluated).

They have their resumes and they’re complaisantly ready to flex their appealing gregariousness.
All of the major playas are passing through—from established giants like (Amgen, Bayer and Genentech)
to biotech startups and research Institutes—to cull through the herd of Yale biomedical graduates.

I don’t get to play (interview) this time and it’s rough just watching the signs and plays from the sidelines.
I can’t help the feeling that I’m underperforming—even though my ‘Master of Public Health (MPH)’ program starts 10 days after we graduate. ‘Baby, I was born to run’— to steal a line from Bruce Springsteen.

Despite our separate paths—we’re like cats getting ready to jump in all directions—a bouillabaisse of intoxicating and terrifying excitement for the future is brewing, and we still have the constrictions of our current curriculum to deal with—like a snake, it still wraps around every aspect of our lives.
.
.
Songs for this:
born to run by Bruce Springstein
Time by Tom Waits
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Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_03.mp3

Republican Vice-Presidential nominee JD Vance’s comments on the catastrophe, that is Donald Trump:

In DMs, he wondered whether Trump, “Is America’s ******.” (2015)
“Fellow Christians, everyone is watching us when we apologize for this man. Lord help us.” (2016)
“Donald Trump is a moral disaster.” (2016)
After one meeting with Trump, Vance wrote “My god what an idiot.” (2016)
“What percentage of the American population has DonaldTrump sexually assaulted?” (JD Vance, 2016)
Vance tweeted: “Trump makes people I care about afraid. Immigrants, Muslims, etc. Because of this I find him reprehensible. (2016)
“I’m definitely not gonna vote for Trump because I think that he’s projecting very complex problems onto simple villains.” (2016)
“Trump’s a total fraud who doesn’t care if regular people call him reprehensible.” (2017)
“Trump’s cultural ******, just another opioid for Middle America.” (2017)

On Twitter (X) Vance liked tweets saying Trump committed “serial ****** assault.”
and called Trump “One of USA’s most hated, villainous, and ******* celebs.”
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A song for this:
The End of the Innocence by Don Henley

All my #2 pencils are chewed and the erasers are gone.
Half the pages of my books have been folded.

Sections are highlighted and notes are scribbled  
all over the place!  shaking head

The page margins are jammed with doodles,  
of flowers, cats, stars, hearts and names.

flipping pages to early in the year

September doodles are all John, john, JOHN.

Who’s John? thinking back
Oh, yeah. smiling  OH YEAH.

It’s good to review the book before midterms.

My cat’s become so critical
of the pieces that I write
he kneads to express his opinion
and he always thinks he’s right.

He twitches his ear-itation
if I don't write in Senryus.
If what I write displeases him
he’s under the bed for refuge.

He’s worse than many teachers -
his reviews are seldom neutered -
he pointedly wags that twitchy tail
or cat-calls disapproval.

He laid across my laptop
for half the afternoon
‘til I promised an ode to tuna
which earned purrs of hallelujah!

Breathless summer heat retreats with the sun. People come out after dusk - like nocturnal animals. We’re hunting ice-cream, at a carnival-painted shop. There are four serving windows, hundreds of flavors and crickets serenading from the dark.

My BFF Kim and I are with my older brother - we run to the line and he follows. We’re waiting in line when the noisy muscle car roars up. The driver is Kim’s ex-boyfriend - Rob. Dumped but still, somehow, on the planet.

We fear the contamination of simple ice-cream pleasures with sour drama. We turn our backs as they park and then join a nearby line. I feel Rob watching us, we’re tense, like maybe there’s a spider nearby.

Rob comes over - he wants something from her - she’s bored with understanding. He stands close - private-space-invader close - he’s high-school-junior smooth. His assertions have no creativity - just history repeating itself - the talk is brief.

After a minute, he storms off - his friends are disappointed - I think they wanted ice-cream. Tire squealing and motor roaring announce his departure - his reputation is upheld.

I got two gigantic scoops- one Banana Peanut Butter Ripple the other Key Lime pie.  *YUM

Three days in - three days of school - and it’s like I never left.

In school, you can get oversaturated with screens. I like books.
They have a sense of permanence, they don’t glare back at you,
and I want something physical I can grip, markup and push off
the bed onto the floor when I get over it.

After three days of class, I’m asking (no one in particular), "Are we there yet?"

I can speed-read if I have a pointer - I use cocktail picks (swizzle sticks?) - you know, the little olive skewers you get in a martini? I have a collection from all over the world.

If I go to a bar and they have nice swizzle sticks, I’ll gather a few up. “What are you DOing,” Karen, (Lisa’s mom) asked me as I scarfed up several from patron’s empty glasses at the elegant, Refinery Rooftop bar in Manhattan.

“I have a TON of reading to do,” I explained, helpfully.
“Don’t even ask,” Lisa shrugged, rolling her eyes, when her mom looked confused.

The trick to speed reading is your eyes (and brain) pickup more than you realize and people tend to pronounce things, in their minds, as they read, which REALLY slows you down. So, you swivel the pointer down the page, following the pointer with your eyes, and Walla!

You can’t do THAT with a computer screen. You need a book, and when you have 2 or 3 hundred pages (or more) a night to read, you can’t just hold your breath and refuse - like a seven-year-old - can you? Seriously, I mean, can we? I’m asking - though it’s probably a little late (senior year).

Now, of course, not just any appetizer toothpick or fruit pick will do - the selection process can be rather byzantine. They must be a certain length, about 2 inches longer than my finger, so my hand doesn’t block the text, and square ones are the easiest to grip. Finally, if they have a little arrow-point on the tip? Well, that’s true love.

The problem is, I can get a little intense when reading and they tend to break. When my roommates hear me exclaim, “God **** it!” At 2am. They usually know why.
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A song for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls

Should I write a poem about Halloween,
full of psychological horrors and gruesome things?

Like deep romantic wounds getting infected,
herpe kisses or Donald Trump getting elected?

I could lean on shuddery tropes, like haunted houses
or more real world threats, like cutthroat spouses.

I could make you look up scary looking words, like Syncretism.

gasp What caused that creek in the floor?!
Who’s that banging on the door?

Is that blood on that rag?
Is there a body in that bag?
Is that your husband in drag!?

Relax, have fun, chill-out,
Oh, better get a bowl of candy out.

Happy Halloween!
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Songs for this:
Monster Mash by Bobby "Boris" Pickett & The Crypt-Kickers
I Killed You by Tyler, The Creator

The flags are waving brightly,
hypnotizing the naive,
they shimmer like carnival balloons.

There are merry andrews waltzing,
to the themes of marching bands,
they’re camouflaged to blend in with the moon.

The party’s getting started,
so we better get in line
- the wind is breathing something like a sigh.

The smell of cotton candy
drowns out the barkers script,
and multicolored lights announce the mood.

There’s rain off in the distance
- you can feel on your skin
- the children refuse to stay in line.

Dogs are barking somewhere,
and lanterns dance like birds
- there’s nothing left to do but step in time,
two, three, four.

The tent is Chinese silk,
as silver as a coin
- acrobats take tickets with their lips.

The sawdust smells like bacon,
and the seats are way too small,
but the crowd is pushing in
because red rain is falling.

Elephants turn like dancers,
and trumpet to the night
- the sound shakes the world like my alarm.

Another **-hum morning,
soon the sky will tell a lie,
- that lemon light has something to proclaim.

My bags are packed for boredom,
the trip will last all day,
- there’s nothing left to do but step in time,
two, three, four.

If freshman year was aspirational
and sophomore year was unhinged
junior year was put up or shut up
and senior year is a dash to the finish line

This year’s on fast forward—and it’s for keeps
every to-do list has value-laden questions
things seem sharp edged, single use and intense
it’s all about trajectories and ‘landing spots”

Let’s wax poetic..

Produce now, or spend fury on thyself—all else is untenable
we’re past youth and ignorance—your honour’s at stake

Suitors call you by name, like well-acquainted friends
they took your measure—you’re beyond the mark of others
they ****** with money—the future brings liberty and noble deeds.

So don the the garland and prove thyself—take the field
join the battle—now’s the reward—aidless, perpetual toil
with every motion be right, it’s thy shunless destiny.
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A song for this:
A Man of Great Promise by The Style Council
Headstart For Happiness by The Style Council

The pre-dawn rang
as cat choirs sang
in waring gangs
sharp and rank
before they sprang
with claw and fang.

Isn’t it an overweening piety
to think that diverse cat societies
would address conflicts more politely
observe more cultural propriety
and politic more peacefully and quietly
than our own species, which behaves so violently

Are we not, in part, their masters?
Don’t we war for goals we’re after?
Aren’t some of our leaders practically gangsters?

Humans are - frankly - alpha-predator *******.
Does any species author more disasters?

If the language of cats, we could unscramble,
and into their feral dialogs we could wrangle,
perhaps we’d see that they’re just following our example.

Wow, it turns out Trump was right.
I saw it on “the Onion” - posted overnight.

Scientists woke up today and the virus
was simply gone - the miracle - has happened.
And they said that Trump was wrong!

The once dying - started laughing
first responders broke into song
patients shrugged off ventilators
they can go back home where they belong.

That God has been so merciful
is a story ripped from scripture
and since Trump - the antichrist - is here
we can move on to the rapture!

****** with callous authority
****** with casual face
behold guilt and indifference
behold helpless public pleading
cries to mothers past and mothers now
behold public death - oh, watching eyes

behold the citizens’ fear to interpose
behold the helpless sheep, oh lion!
where came such fear?
behold the face of arrogance
behold the face of tyranny
are you safe in your coop, chicken?
where came such power?

Share the barking dogs’ epiphany
wake the half-asleep and world-weary
clutch the scoundrels
Let the pain of others be warning
And the alarm of villains ring like music

We’re the crew of the spaceship boring - on a one year mission.
The situation's literally life or death - this isn’t science-fiction.

The crew is an actual family - ideal for such a quest,
but none of us volunteered for this - it’s more like house arrest.

We seek out no adventures, we avoid interaction if we can.
We boldly go absolutely nowhere - isolation is the plan.

Wander into our orbit - we’ll scan you with our sensors.
Our station's sealed to aliens and we don't let any enter.

Our voyage is just symbolic we're not in outer space,
the commission is simple self-sacrifice and it happens at turtle pace.

If you need me I'll be me in my capsule, safe in my virtual void,
sequestered for the greater good and shelved like an unwanted toy.

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!
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Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
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A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3