I want to be a writer -
and like a new poker player -
I'm starting to evaluate my cards.

I post on several poetry sites
I find syncing them kind of hard.

'Cause I'm the model of imperfection
heck, I'm the Edison of mistakes -
a teenager half-heartedly committed
to doing whatever it takes.

Does it help that I'm never happy?
That I constantly make updates?

At times I feel the proverbial cat
chasing its own tail -
but I think I'm making progress
- like a literary snail.

(a series of haikus)

I will not woo
until this virus is cured
or there are vaccines.

I refuse to kick
my brother until there’s
some police reform.

I won't fight with
my mom 'til we focus on
the environment.

I’m going to hold
my breath ‘til the election
- go, go, sleepy Joe!

I won't buy any
makeup until - heck, who wears
makeup anymore??

I’m giving up
pizza... wait, no I’m NOT.
Forget about THAT!

(promises are subject
to cancellation - any time
- without prior notice)

There's a boy at school, he's so quiet.
But sometimes he'll speak-up and say something that's so funny

A couple of times I've tried to talk to him, after class,
to tell him how funny I think he is, but he practically vanishes.
Kim & Bili (My two BFF) think he's super shy. I find funny very attractive.

Now, even in our dull virtual class he can say something that fractures - even the teachers think he's funny - they never get mad.

When this lock-down is over I'm going to lasso him and tell him.
We might have to work like a posse, corral him from three sides like a skittish colt.

I'm not going to tell him I find him attractive - duh.

But I will tell him that if someday he's a famous comic,
like Seinfeld or Chappelle, I won't be surprised.

There aren't enough compliments in the world - I love
those delightful moments, when I can surprise someone
with the miniature perfection of a compliment.

Does he see the enchanting power of his humor?
Maybe he won't care shrug but I'll wake up that
morning to the thrill of the chase and just doing
it will make my day.

The conversation
takes an crushy turn - so my
brain starts making quips.

My experience is
that my amorous impulses
are unreliable.

With my friends, my flawed,
carnivalesque attempts
at romance are legend.

Unless I'm starved
for embarrassment's grief
which I seldom am.

I will dodge, slither,
obfuscate and stall attempts
at intimacy.

What if I’m the
Kind of girl that guys can’t
just fall in love with?

arrgh!. Zoom didn’t connect? - more tech issues
USPS can’t deliver any more - Trump's America!
I wasn’t dragged & dropped - is wireless down?
no Facebook notifications? - ok, who uses that
My image wasn’t swiped! - I knew my hair was..
My email was returned? - call that Alphabet guy
No Amazon deliveries. - a probable traffic issue
FedEx hasn’t arrived! - there must be a mistake
I didn’t get pinned? - maybe there’s a pandemic
I wasn’t upvoted. - I question the entire process
No iMessages - maybe the upgrade was buggy
No likes? - is it me or am I seeing patterns here

Remember summer,
as fun’s residue fades.
Well, try anyway.

Now we live prudent,
virtually schooled lives - it's
all a million laughs.

Humidity clings,
grasping, like an ex-lovers
unwanted embrace.

Get your bikini,
hit the pool, frolic - drown school
worries in cool play

There's no sheltering in a public place.
There's no coming together face to face.
Keeping away from you keeps me secure,
I’m keeping away from you, but praying for a cure.
Obeying all the rules 'cause that's how I roll.
But staying away from you is taking quite a toll.
I'm getting weirder and weirder as time goes by
No distraction techniques are making this all right.
Laying in bed all night wide-eyed and hardly sleeping.
Enjoying my binge of repetitive negative thinking.

a Haiku

You don’t know me
Not really. You just might see
someone smiling bright

you might hear a laugh
skipping off my dark surface
inside I am rough

I am scrubbing on
interior surfaces in a
measured tyranny

How well I know this place
with its multicolored, sloping gardens
and glittering, fountained pools
but its beauty is fleeced by repetition

Loneliness tests the resolution of the young
with our howling appetite to experience
and be shaped by exposures.

Like the gleaming barrel of a gun,
the clock points at nothing
and the crimson sunset leads
to another empty, quiet night.

On cool, starry, fall, indigo-blue night walks, it’s so beautiful that it’s hard to believe we’re mid-catastrophe.

That sunrise will dawn on countrymen whose heavy burdens our national leaders won’t even publicly discuss much less address.

File hope under other names - we need changes and new leadership - hey, you adults - can we please just try a government of concerned professionals?

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of tyranny,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my hackers live,
Land where my loyalty is,
Land where my bankers give
Let misrule ring!
My native country, flee,
To land of autocracy,
Thy name I love;
I love thy arrogance,
Thy sweet high-handedness;
Your subjugating dominance
Of thee I sing.
Let Russia swell the breeze,
And ring with Putany
Sweet brother's song;
Let lying tongues awake;
Let American freedoms take;
Let law and justice break,
Let Trump rule ring!
Allies like Moscow Mitch,
Have America in the ditch,
Let Fox News ring!
Republicanism is a b*h,
Our government for the rich,
My Lackey's be enriched
Of thee I bling!
Corruption's' God to me,
Author of tweetery,
To me thee sing.
Long may my brand be bright,
With dictator's impending night,
The fools have given me the right,
I'm  God your King!

I loved riding my
bike as a child. It offered
me a new world view.

I was fast and free.
Then we put cards in the spokes,
and I motorcycled.

I cut corners like
a politician and wore
aviator glasses...

I could have passed my
driving test, last year - but nooo
- for once - I was chill.

I'm sure the trauma
of my laziness will scar
me, but - maybe not.

Sometimes I'm
SO resilient that people
think me uncaring.

Warning: People may
be far more emotional
than they might appear.

I’m waiting out the day
with minimalist hopes
and recycling anxiety.

I’m waiting for the hour
for a smooth transfer of power
or for things to go sour.

I’m waiting for the word
after a period of counting
for freedom’s call
or an accelerated freefall.

(each stanza is a haiku - I think I’m in a Haiku phase)*

I never think of
drinking tea - that's just not
me - but I like it

there are a thousand
things like that which define us
- our many small choices

Are our passions choices?
"Our wild passions instruct us"
- said wise Shakespeare.

I don't choose to
quicken my heart at the sight
of one special boy

so I'm not sure
how that works, the pushes and pulls
of attractions grab

But the effect stills
and taxes the heart like maple
syrup thickened blood

Be careful with words you intone,
because words have lives of their own.
Words overblown, relayed on the phone,
words in harsh tones that jolt, stun and depose,
shocking with what they disclose.

Just get me something on the dollar menu.
Ok, deer *****...
What??
They’re under a buck.
rolling eyes

I like you.
Oh, sure - how many girls have you said THAT too?
Lots.
Huh?
I’ve told lots of your friends that I like you.

I was thinking of you.
Awww.
In my time of hornyness.
Eeuuwww!

Wanna know how to flirt with a queer girl?
??
Just keep talkin’.      ^_~

I heard you like bad girls - It’s your lucky day - I’m bad at EVERYTHING.
*winks with both eyes

There's no appealing the sentence - with our virus destroyer.
There's no appealing the sentence - I checked with our lawyer.
There's no appealing the sentence - to this prison-like experience.

When my alarm goes off it's ground-hog day.
How long can we all go on this way?
I scream into my pillow so to not cause alarm.
This virus lock-down has lost all of its charms.

This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.

I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.

I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.

I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem

A polaroid, in
my drawer, under the junk
- a memory found.

Wow, I miss fun, it's
like there was another life
- a past life shared.

Remember parties?
Sweaty dancing then a plunge
in the cold lake?

I feel like an old
lady reliving childhood
in sterile pics.

Everything I thought
my life would be is gone or
on nebulous hold.

We're learning a dull
brand of patience - strange for
the microwave age.

My master’s degree's a senior’s cruise - most of the other students are thirty and even forty-somethings. Good for them, for making the (75K) investment, it’s hard, and they all look very serious. I am too, of course.

It’s busy and constant - but it’s business analysis - it's not hard, like chemistry (see retrosynthetic analysis) and I’m lucky, I’m fresh off uni - used to working problem-sets and reading a couple of hundred pages a night.

That said, last week was wearying. I look forward to Fridays (like everyone), as the light at the end of the tunnel. Then my Grandmère FaceTimed me asking if I could go through an ‘investor deck’ and give her advice. “Look at it and give it to me.. unsweetened,” she said
(“Regarde-le et donne-le-moi... non sucré”).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘maybe I can tell van Gogh how to paint or Taylor Swift how to influence as well.

Surely, asking someone to do something late on a Friday afternoon is a minute refinement of cruelty, but I couldn’t say 'no'. That didn’t mean I was happy - I’m very jealous of my time. It’s too easy to toss the sauce on my routines.

I took an hour and looked it over, then gave her a poetic answer,
“It’s an options fog, masquerading as opportunity.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. I know that old bird, she’s nuanced. Was that a test? There was a smile in her voice.
Part of me longed to say, “Sometimes, like on a Friday night, one head’s better than two,” but I didn’t - because what night would be good for a surprise assignment?

Two hours later, Chella and I had some students over for cocktails. Four of them (2 guys 2 girls) were Japanese. Their English wasn’t great, but we had fun. They brought a bottle of nihonshu (sake), that stuff is like water - seriously.

So I made them martinis. Their eyes bugged out with their first sips, but first martini sips always taste like gasoline. It’s the second martini that starts to taste like mother’s-milk. Before long, they were smashed and then they started singing.

That was when the real fun started. They had karaoke songs on their phones. We sang, we danced. They taught us some songs and we did the same.

“At this point in our lives,” Chella said, “It’s important to bop so hard,” everyone cheered. What a slay - she was so real, so feral for that.
.
.
Songs for this:
Something Every Day (Little Wizard Mix) by Swing Out Sister
Yoru ni kakeru by YOASOBI
.
.
Our cast:
Chella - A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale and currently a Harvard Master's candidate.  She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale, currently a Harvard Master's candidate.
Grandmère, my very French Grandmother. Tiny, frail looking and privately very funny - but don’t underestimate her or ever try and bull$hit her - she's a Mogul.

(each stanza is a Haiku)

We, the resistance,
are here, stationed on our couches
armed with our remotes.

Camouflaged in our
faded PowerPuff pajamas
and fuzzy slippers

We are determined.
Yes, we have evaded contact
and forsaken love.

We few, lay down such
as freedom for honest care
for our fellow man.

It’s no use wishing on the moon -
beware that nearly untouchable beauty.
She has a dark side and will desert you
when when the fickle twirling earth spins
night into morning.

It’s no good wishing on the stars:
those illusions are a million years gone.
Stars die like us. They own no magic
and will fade as the morning blossoms
upon the night.

Ancients wished on the treasonous sun,
that fabricator of warmth - not compassion.
Although it brings the new day, it can do little else

I need to stop being
sarcastic all of the time
- yeah, I'm on that.

Ex lovebirds of
the tamest passion can turn
so predatory.

Passive aggressive
schoolboys who mock whistle at
ex-girlfriends for spite.

Who scatter book bag
contents in mock accidents
for supposed revenge.

As witchcraft conjured
by the nonbelligerent
to silence the bully

I summon some sweet,
musical, lascivious
words as orphic spells

In self-effacing
defense to tame the awful
beast with ***** magic.

Harvard’s a black hole, info wise.
So, let’s see.. what’s going on? What’s in the news?
Anything? Anything?

Hot take..
Not to be spicy and negative,
but sometimes i’m too much myself.
Too comfortable, open and vocal.
I can be opinionated.
Who knows who’s listening?
It could be anyone.
“That’s not red, it’s carmine,” I blirt.
There’s a rise and rush of feelings around the table.
FAQs drop, I get treated.
“God, get up and get at me,” I replied, with an unnerving poise.
People love a scene.

Happy 4th of July to Yankees everywhere!
.
.
Only a Fool Would Say That by Ivy
Lovely Day by Elizabeth Mitchell
L'Anamour by Ivy
.
slang:
FAQ = told the facts
Treated = attacked

(3 Senryu verses)

The morning sun dawns
electric white on another
day of lost promise.

The invitation
received, jump up! Respond like
a paid performer.

The crisp, sharp shadows
hide a murderous magic
called loneliness.

(In answer to Mister Truth's poem:
"https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5117352/my-poetic-slice-for-anais-is-she-really-a-true-lover-of-the-tasty­-italian-triangle/"  because he mused me.)

I'm not just going to analyze pizza,
Or simply strategize about pizza.
I'll romanticize, evangelize and tantalize with pizza.
Because, honestly, I actually fantasize about pizza.

Papa Johns, Pizza Hut, Dominoes
Euuw, please, none of those

Garlic Crust? That’s a must.
Parmesan? Bring it on.
Anchovies? None for me.

What about cheese in the crust?
The whole idea leaves me nonplussed.

Ham and pineapple - that's just satire.

I say, “spare garlic and spoil the vampire.”
If that makes me hard to kiss - tight juju - I embrace my bliss.

Sausage or pepperoni, That's your question?
Put 'em together! That's my suggestion.

A simple cheese pizza has a timeless cachet,
but sometimes I take my pizza all the way.

And yes, I’ll still respect them the next day.
What? You put it in the microwave?
“Ok, you - be on your way!”

ring ring What, you’ve got pizza leftovers?
Ooo, baby, unlock the door, I’ll be right over!
.
.
matters of the heart by lovlaine
Overthinking IT by WILLOW

(3 Haikus)

Immature - is a
word boring people use to
describe fun people.

I should start a book,
a thick notebook to keep
inappropriate thoughts.

Ever look at friends
and think, "Wow, we're gonna
be some weird adults?"

Sleep is my drug, my
bed is the dealer, my clock
the cops and school the jail.

What I'd want
I want you all to be well.
I'd like you all to have love.
I want you all to have plenty.
I want you all to enjoy friends.
I hope you can all savor family.
I want you all to experience longevity.
In a world where we can all go out again.
That’s all I want - is it too much to ask?

my life is full of learning, but I want more than learning.
I want more than silly things, but I want silly things.
I want more than this - viral incompleteness - with its worsening unease.
I want more than forever being enslaved to safe hospitality like astronauts in space.
We control heat with air conditioning - gravity with jets and communicate via satellites.
There’s nothing I can really do but trust in science, and patiently hope.
My wants may shine valuable, like silver, but they are, in reality, worthless tin.

I've passed the disenchanted one, in the empty hallway
I've heard the isolated girl, arguing in the mirror
I've seen the angry hermit girl reflected in the toaster
I've noticed the crazy girl, crying in the shower
I've enjoyed the whispers of the poet talking to herself
Her latest performance had the largest audience yet
the flowers were captivated but the cat left unimpressed

You’re such a cute guy!!
You always look relaxed and detached
and a little confused or bemused.
It makes me want to enlist in assisting.
Your lips look seriously delicious.
Your eyes are green and serene.
You’re simply beautiful  sigh
(**** these binoculars are good!)

hello world without surprise.
good morning gentle tedium.
****** me, please, monotony.
kiss me, sweet emptiness.
hold me rough, nothingness.
dishonor me, meaninglessness.
ravish me, joylessness.
whew... can a girl get a cigarette?



no, I don't really smoke - yuck - that was a joke  =]

Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses

If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
.
.
Songs for this:
From The Start by Good Kid
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Lover Girl by Laufey
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague

I have a confession to make. I’m a trust fund baby
and a member of the educated Elite.

In my defense, I'm a newcomer in both categories.
I got my trust fund at 18 and graduated Yale University this year.

I was a double major, at university, in biochemistry and celibacy,
until as a sophomore, I met this tall, handsome, awkward, disheveled, physicist in a coffee shop and knavishly schemed my way into his life.
(He insists that he knavishly schemed his way into my life.)

Let’s get poetic-ish..

I said,
“Let’s start a flirtationship
abstract, immaterial and fun.
We have a little chemistry - an interesting.. tension.
Could we just have an involvement and not read into it?
Something  friction free, hands free, germ free, and guilt free?
Let's get a pizza, don't worry, I'm paying."

Of course, that was a lie.
I had designs, I wanted him in the utmost
and honestly, when do I not get what I want?

"I was by far the knavishist." I admitted.
"Then you don't know knavishEST.," he responded, shaking his head 'no'.
.
.
songs for this:
Honeypie by JAWNY
Really Saying Something by Bananarama & Fun Boy Three
Hanging On the Telephone by Blondie

I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
.
Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl

Nowadays I wake up hoping for the unpredictable - the novel.
When I open my eyes the angel of death isn’t out to get me.
Then - I remember - we’re at war and practicing subterfuge -
that measured trade-off between safety and despair.
So I move to my patterned routines - I dust my unused lips.
I check the level of my virtuous thoughts - hhmm.. getting low.
And I prepare the clever inventions that allow us to simulate life.

(in 2017 my parents wanted to move us to Shenzhen, China - for a year)

No luminous field of stars tonight and no rain as yet, just booming thunder and the play of light on darkness.

I lay in a grass clearing, watching the sky. Swirling clouds and flashes of light - bright streaks - as far as the eyes can see.

Wind whips the trees, the sky, my hair. Leaves irregularly blow by as if in a hurry or perhaps debris from some strange slow-motion explosion.

I feel at home in this chaos. This angry sky mirrors my mood, my life at this moment. The next few days, next few hours will change everything, for me, or nothing. My future looms suddenly dark, frightening and empty.

Am I really caught in this plan, this parental gravity, this storm, that can upset my entire life, where years of furious work are meaningless??

There is no compass for dreams, they know only passionate directions. I’ve defended them as best I could, like a lioness, a lover, but there’s no stopping a storm.. I guess.

As the rain begins I know one thing.. I will not move..

(stanzas are haikus)

Barron Trump will be
attending virtual school soon
his Mom is careful

Should you send your kids
to dance on the battlefield
careful mothers?

Take you one last look
at faith in your kids eyes
- teach them their real worth.

What is the story
they will tell their kids - if you
push them out the door.

Those small trusting faces.
Cemetery roads are bricked
with silly gambles.

When did “people deserve to live” become a controversial thought?

When did wearing a mask to protect your health become so overwrought?

When did the idea of protecting your kids become an afterthought?

When did counting the dead become a Presidential political plot?

We’re so far down the Trump-rabbit-hole that common sense is skewed.

We really have to get rid of that FU#KH3@D - if you’ll excuse me being rude.

I just came from the cafeteria. In a shocking twist,
I have to actually meet people, I mean, can you imagine?
And we have group projects, my least favorite thing,
except perhaps, having a gym class.

The cafeteria was so crowded—didn’t I see you there?

Everyone there seemed to be wearing vintage Urban Outfitters.
I felt left out, but no one openly pointed at me.

Next, I expect to see bubblegum patch vests, skate-fit jeans and leopard-appliqué flats.

Between us, I’ve gotten old, and lost what little fashion game I had.
Now I’m modulated, that is, I’m over over-indulgence.

When I pictured myself in college, ***, what, a half a decade ago?
I imagined myself in a Lime Fizz Dress from Modcloth.
THAT never happened—which is all for the good.

School and by extension - school work - is definitely happening.
It’s not all studying while drinking back-to-back espressos at sunrise.

This week’s assignments due are: a ‘reflective assignment’ on qualitative research methods, a policy memo, a case analysis, and a group presentation. Argh.

So if you don’t hear from me—I haven’t been deported—I’m just oppressed.
.
.
Songs for this:
This is Why by Paramore
Lauren by Men I Trust
Margaret by Pomegranate tea [E]

I always want to be like this
I always want to feel like this
The world feels like a fun musical
I want to go dancing
I want to go see that Dune movie
I want to just sit here and be happy
I’m chuckling at comments
at hear from other tables
- can everyone feel it?
I’m sure I’m grinning like an idiot.
This guy just flirty smiled at me.
I’ve heard ****** killers
can be very charming
but it didn’t irritate me
because he walked away
into the drizzling rain that’s
New Haven in April

I pray to that dead
criminal Jesus - to set
us right - restore us.

We’re a mess - like
spilled salt - remember the  
fresh air of freedom?

In dreams I search - there
must be a cure lying
around somewhere..

Eyelid shades
open on chiaroscuro
lit, moody mornings.

I keep my head down
I’m doing my fey best, to
let nothing touch me.

.
.
.
** Note: I was raised a Catholic. Jesus wasn't crucified by some accident - he was executed as a criminal - that's just a fact - not an attack on Christianity - I would never attack a religion.. except maybe Scientology... that was a JOKE!!  aarrgghhh!

If poetry is art (I rather think it is) then one purpose is to engage and provoke emotion - I confess that the first stanza is meant to engage the reader.. hhhmmm.. maybe too much? I AM a beginner.

(4 Senryu)

The moon is missing
- void where it should be sitting
- It’s not there in the sky.

I looked behind trees
the clouds were moved by the breeze.
I looked 360 degrees.

The loss of it's
light makes it darker than night
- something's not right.

I feel a spooky
unease - it's hard to believe
that some goon stole the moon!

Like Harry Potter, the sorting hat (my mom)
has placed me in a ******, crimson colored school.
It’s disorienting, as I go about, the logos are wack.

Poor little rich girl
no beachside lovers
this interminable, scorching summer.

I’m swept up by scholastic spirit.
Can you hear it? Cause it’s deafening me,
on this cool, dry, Boston orientation day.

As we finished our morning 8k jog,
the sunrise blossomed, painting hot lava clouds
with hues of yellow, orange and pink.

We’re traipsing unfamiliar paths,
it’s not what we’re used to, the roads are uneven
and the architecture’s all boxy and wrong.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
Better After All by Jonatha Brooke
Now At Last by *****

Nicotine is making a comeback
analog cigarettes are making a comeback
so many students are nicotine positive.

Every girl has Zyn by her drink at the bar
which used to be seen as a BRO-y vibe.
I’m not taking a view, I’m unbothered by it.

because

I’m hooked as well - I might as well admit it.
I’m into placebos these days and and I’m abjectly
rendered dumb by their unspeakable pleasures.

I went to an acapella concert last night and ***!
I was mollywhopped (knocked out).
.
.
Acapella songs for this:
They - The Harvard-Radcliffe Veritones
Finesse (Remix) by The SoCal VoCals
Viva La Vida by Buffalo Chips
24k Magic by Acasola
.
....
Trump has everyone quivering
he cornholed those cowards at CBS
but you know who ain’t backing down?
South Park. I LOVE those guys.
Trigger warning. This is EXPLICIT and hilarious.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Afetnw70S04
...

Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.

Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms - which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.

But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.

We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by, dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.

Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time. Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby

(a series of micro vignettes)

Chella and I are reading our analysis assignments together because that’s how we link and build.
We read out loud too, because how else can you judge the flow?
When my phone, lying on the table, jiggled. The caller ID read, “Tommy’s girlfriend.”
Chella gave me a little look. “I never change anyone’s ID,” I confessed. “Neither do I.” Cellia agreed.
“She broke up with him years ago..”

I feel sorry for panhandlers, I don’t see them often but I saw one yesterday. Who carries cash any more (Noone)?
Along the same line, Chella and I are wired, it-girls - we’re noise cancelled. Were you talkin’ to us?
We’re hard to engage, not because we’ve got attitude - we just can’t hear you. It’s irritating when I have to tap-out of some stream to hear people.
Even if it’s the waiter from the bistro downstairs delivering their exemplary frozen-strawberry-smoothies and burgers.

Later, after the pool, we showered. As I was toweling my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.
“My skin is SO ******* up,” I moaned, “I need a ‘rescue spa’ ******.. Let’s go to New York (city)—I’m taking you there.”
“There’s a ‘Forever Young Spa’ on Beacon street.. about a mile from here,” Cellia offered.
“Ever been there?” I asked.
“No, but the ad says they have an AI-powered massage robot. I’m curious.”
“Ooo! Call ‘em up, see if it does happy-endings.” I laughed.
“We could get a home unit.” Cellia updogged.
“I think we’d need the industrial version,” I added, “that’s the sell.”
.
.
A little playlist for this:
Nothing Can Stop Us by Saint Etienne
Goodbye by The Sundays

Our cast:
Chella, A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida. She's a Harvard Master's candidate with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale. She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia and a Harvard Master's candidate with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale.

I see your face, and like a splash of clear
cold water - I’m startled awake from loneliness.
I hear your voice, and like something lost
and wanted, I feel a breathless interest.
A video stutter is a cruel and sudden reminder
- you are unknowably remote - and this magic
connecting us is just another of passion's obstacles.

Charles and my predawn jog was a sweat-athon and as the sun rose, a heat-dome brightness tattooed crisp shadows in every corner. Any lingering coolness was burned off - evaporated.

It was 94°f, 3 hours later, when I walked to campus - why don’t we use  parasols anymore? Drag on, radiant afternoon heat, please.
That was 100 proof sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell.

Hot days seem to drag-on slowly, like waiting for a microwave or a droning, liturgy. It wasn’t in the forecast but I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear, “Today’s forecast is slow, really slow.”

Let’s start an Internet theory that the atmosphere is thinning or we’re just ants under a magnifying glass.

The finally setting sun left a blood red line under the falling blue dark, like a **** of wound in the skin of young-night.

Once my nightly obligations are done (classes, homework, reading), the silence can seem oppressive. I’m used to the never ending hustle, boiling drama and noise of seven suitemates - so there’s that.

On now empty nights, I’m tortured by the high-beating pulse of youth, and I pace my empty apartment, like someone restlessly waiting for their venti-mocha-latte at a Starbucks.

Can anyone suffer like a young woman left all alone?
Why, oh whomever, must I sip from this deep, bitter, undrinkably salty sea of solitude?

In this, my prime season, why do I only manage to exist?
My needs are in a shameful state of decay.
.
.
Cruel Summer by Bananarama
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox [E]
All That I Need by Ebony Loren, Matthew Ifield & Sebastian Kamae