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]

The sky rumbles.
The smell of rain
comes through
as it drops ten degrees.
A wall of droplets
covers the open
greenhouse,
just after the caladiums
and the English ivy,
posted nicely
on symmetrical tables.

The wind dances
with the tall trees.
I can barely hear myself think
or talk
God is angry today.
Lightning strikes.

Arturo,
this 5’6” Hispanic old man,
acts as if he’s scared.
“Ay ay ay,” he says,
as he looks at me laughing.
We all sit,
waiting
for the sudden rage
to stop.

The roof
becomes a drumline,
each beat heavier
than the last.

Arturo crosses himself.
A silence blooms
between thunderclaps,
and in it,
I catch myself wondering
about the things
we don’t speak of,
how laughter
can be a kind of prayer.

I wish for coffee,
as if warmth
might steady the world.

The rain doesn’t ask
for permission to soften.
It just does.

someone will remember us
before we're forgotten—

a final ache of memory
lingering
willing itself
to survive

like laughter
like the pain
like summers spent
in the arms of rain

someone will remember us
for who we were
and all we
never became

someone will remember us
though we’ve forgotten ourselves
with no trace left
to mourn

just dust gathering softly
on photographs kept
in a home long forlorn

someone will remember us
someone will remember us
someone will remember us?

I swim endless in despair
So that I do not drown in it.
I breathe only to breathe.

I am suspended in sunlight with no warmth.
I am surrounded by notes that make no melody.
I fumble, falter, fail.

Heavy as a raindrop whose cold
Penetrates deeply into loneliness
Is the air, the light, the lingering.

I forget too much.
I remember too much.
I am too much, and not enough.

A shallow pool is that in which we swim
A void wants only to be filled.
Misery takes us all.

I was contemplating the interlude of breathing
the tease of the jasmine perfume
a wind without insight was resting in the hammock
a solitude round like the moon
the song of birds was inviting a blue exuberance  when
I had this dream... I dreamt streets flooded by blood
they seemed so real, like the amnesia of mercy
the intensity of red an amplifier for pain
violence this enclave of the soul hidden in plain sight
we watch wars on tv in the stillness of sofas
newborn tears claim the redemption of dawn
but we turn our back to the questions of time
no body line of thought but raw nerves,
blind tongues: as if our body is a world full of nothing
sometimes I have nowhere to hide from this feeling:
my blood is his/her/their blood

We talk about the
past like it's a
movie we
watched together.
You liked the
cinematography.
I didn't care for the
cruelty of the
protagonist.

We disagree on the
theme, and every
scene holds different
aspects of
symbolism for us.
I'm not sure I want
there to be a sequel,
despite the good
acting.