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

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

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

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

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

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

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.
.
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Songs for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Summer Wind by Robert Mosci
Tomorrow by Wings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.“

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

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

I love a blank canvas
how it focuses the eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spring semester has started.
We’re all immersed in the ritual of change
and totally committed to that descent into madness
to the relentless drabness, the flatness, the blandness
for the hours, days and weeks of study
and a bone-deep fatigue that’s actually funny

We’ll live at the edge of intensity
near the the corner of drudging
and gather around the printer
at the media center
like a secular rite of passage

I think I need a daily grind—to keep my mind busy.
What’s wrong with me, that when I’m on vacation, I miss it?
What if work/study is one of my bone-marrow-deep love languages?
.
.
Songs for this:
Happy Dreamer by Laid Back
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
(You're Better) Than Ever by illuminati hotties

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.”
.
.
A song for this:
The End of the Innocence by Don Henley

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.

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

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!?

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

What happens when someone falls out of love?

Is there a single, frozen in amber, sanctimonious moment when
you decide you’re too good for whomever - the falling-out moment
- where imperfections are revealed like a magic trick?

“Huh,” you find yourself saying, “Weren’t you cuter, half-an-hour ago?

Or is it a slow, drip, drip, drip Chinese-water-torture-like seepage?

Maybe breakups are written in the stars, you know, Mercury drifts into
retrograde and suddenly there’s empty air where your lover used to be.

I’m not in a breakup, but I like to be prepared - these are just questions.

like

Isn’t every male whale a ***** whale?
.
.
A song for this:
If I Didn't Have You (Live) by Tim Minchin

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.
.
.
A song for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls

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 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

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

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."

(A Senryu poem)

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

While we’re renaming things,
can we please rename “United States” to “AAAmerica.”
I know I’m tired of scrolling to the bottom of every pop-down country list.
And ARE we united? Really, even a little?

That awkward moment when you’re already said, “what?” three times,
and you still have no idea what the conversation is about, but you can tell,
by bouncy and eager expressions, that the topic is loaded. Never sit at the end of a table, dining halls get noisy.

Has a song ever been your safe place?
What if it keeps you warm in a storm,
by getting you up and movin’?

Oh, what about the inimitable effect of a handsome guy?
Now, I don’t engage in decorous affections,
but ‘Cute Soccer Guy’ (I’ve mentioned him before),
wakes us up, by just showing up, oh, we play it loose,
and all, but he makes all of our hearts beat a little faster.

P.S. Don’t you love the AI tool that lets us scrub others out of our pix?
.
.
A song for this:
Twiggy Twiggy by [re:jazz]
The Trouble With Boys by Little Eva

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

I got a text from one of my professors yesterday saying, ‘Please stop by my office at 6 pm tomorrow.’ It didn’t say why. This was the first day after November recess, had I missed something? That night, I’d gone through the syllabus, checking every recent and upcoming assignment - I was grable. But there I was, the next evening, waiting nervously - my anxiety stripped of context.

I was one of three waiting in the hall. There was a guy and a girl there too. There were only two chairs, so I stood, and stood, set my bookbag down and stood. As the minutes rolled by. I resented them - each - individually.  It was 6:05, I had a class at 7pm but it was just down the hall.

Then the girl was called and the guy moved to the chair next to the door. I sagged into his vacated chair. It was wooden and stiff but it beat standing. I pulled my AirPods out of my bookbag and started a playlist called, “Me and the devil.” The music was hard-rock, bluesy and raunchy, but not distracting for reading.

I picked the textbook for my next class out of my bag but it was no go. I found myself re-reading everything. The girl came out of the office about five minutes later - she looked upset. The guy then knocked and was admitted.

I moved over next to the door and checked my watch. I’d been there twenty-five minutes, and it was 6:15. The guy was out in moments - he looked ok, his movements quick and business-like. I double-tapped my right Air Pod to pause the music and picked up my bookbag. The professor couldn’t see me, his window was frosted, at most I would have been a shadow.

The door was open so I peered inside, before I could knock, he looked up, as if he’d felt the pressure of my gaze. “Mz. Vionet,” he said, he didn’t smile but held his hand palm up, motioning to a chair in front of his desk.
“You’d emailed me about a reference (back in September),” he began. (In order to get into a Med school, you have to have X number of recommendations - this was something my mom had insisted I ask my professors for early.)

As he talked, something struck me. I’d heard him talking to the guy before me and he seemed to talk to me more quietly, as if I were fragile. “What are your graduate study goals?” He asked.

As I talked, I watched the way he listened to me. He looked down at his fingernails, turning them over like they were new and unknown. I was suddenly afraid this was an act of performative boredom. "****,” I thought, “he’s going to stall or turn me down.” I felt my face grow hot, but I continued, although I could feel myself deflate a bit.

By the time I was done explaining my med-school ambitions and how I’d been grinding away on M-CAT prep (the Med-school admissions test that I’ll take next summer), in my spare time, I felt spent.

He looked up and nodded. “Well,” he said, opening the top drawer of his desk and extracting a sealed envelope, “you’re certainly killing it here. I have no doubt you’ll do well on your M-CAT.”
He smiled broadly as he handed me the envelope. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
I reached for the envelope, almost in a daze. It felt papery, thick, solid and almost electric.
“Thank YOU!” I’d said, bouncing out of my seat with relief. I somehow stopped myself from giving him a giddy Elvis impression, “Thank you, Thank you vera mush.”

I think I floated to my next class.

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

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?

He stands, mocking, full of his worth
and crowned by stinging opinion
He’s won. By one.
‘Not even one whole point’ I want to say
to everyone - ‘by a rounding error.’

We rejoice in wooden dialogue
snaps are fired, content is captured
I feel ridiculous and awkward

As the great pageant ends,
he leans in, in a hugging action
but I will not grow dainty with this - prince
- and I step out of his hands
"Seriously?” I mumble, shivering.

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

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

(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.

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.

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.

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

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!

This actual poet writes me silly poems.
He's there and I can't explain it.
A lifetime of experience and things lived I only imagine
and this actual, famous, poet writes me silly poems.

I wonder why me??  Why is he wasting time with me?
This sapient, hopelessly encouraging, ego-boosting poet
who writes me silly poems.

It's confusing.
My mind paints countless canvases of doubt,
like our connection is fragile tissue, perishable suds.
Surely one day I will find him bored and gone.
This actual, famous poet that writes me silly poems.

(a silly series of Senryus)

It’s time to cram for
final exams, again, so
here we go, mug up.

My mind, coffee dark,
drifts in academic dreams,
—think roiling oceans.

A ‘mandatory’
society meeting? You’re
not the boss of me.

I’ll shun or eschew,
if I want too, sidestepping,
like a tap dancer.

I'm not lazy - I'm
high tech and in energy
saving mode right now.

It’s a pointed and
conscious decision—I’ll do
me and you do you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Simply Couldn't Care by Tracey Thorn
Each and Every One by Everything But the Girl
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_14.mp3

Prehistoric fingerprints
amazing requiems
the song still in them
med evil number magic
all the time in the world

Healing heartbeats bottled up
prepare ye saving drafts
question the faint of heart
the first and last beat
when poets die

Keeper of morning prayers
a needful message
goodby again
words of love forgive
pure and pretty bouquets

The sifting eye of the poet
the thief of untold heartache
muse-ing Denah’s equation
a more beautiful question

Butterflies and deaths dark divide
seeking the bright light
pointless immolations
the autopsy paid in full
crisp or extinguished.
Will you burn with me now?

For Joel M Frye

(Inspired by ‘paranoir’ by Riz Mack)

Reckless Jack and fair Jill, youthful hearts aroused,
did scale that hill, less for water, than illicit thrills.

Atop that perilous height, they began a lover’s fight.
Stolen moments, once sweetly solaced, can prove brief.

Alas, the twisted tryst, turned awkward tumble swift,
with clothes askew and most immodest bruises blue.

Honest folk, share this lesson far and wide, by rhyme and tune -
beware young lovers, less passion's tide prove a bumpy slide to ruin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...