(a throwback poem from High school)

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

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

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

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

The World is giving us many clues
to find the meaning of life.
But we ignore them.

It’s a little complicated - what isn’t? But my plans have changed (again).
Under some pressure - but not really - I was able to switch schools.
From Johns Hopkins university to the Université Paris Cité.
No doubt, the Hopkins acceptance helped.
It’s like when you have a boyfriend - how the other boys suddenly find you more attractive?

There was a comment someone made here, SbySW, I think - he said,
“No more early jogs in Baltimore,” (as in danger-city) and that was a tumbler for me - I started checking and, yeah, Baltimore is very.. Baltimore-ish. Then my little mind started grinding.

‘If I’m already switching schools and since Peter (my bf) is still ‘stuck’ in Geneva.. Isn’t Paris closer?
TRIGGER WARNING  
So, here’s where the 'nepo baby' magic happens.
I called my Grandmère. ring.ring
“Umm, I’m thinking the Université Paris Cité might be better than Baltimore.. Is that CrAzY?”
After a moment's silence, Grandmère said,
“Can you forward me your Hopkins acceptance letter?”

And thirty minutes later (9pm Paris time, mind you), I got a call from Université Paris Cité admissions. I’m in. The program starts September 1st.
Then François, one of my Grandmère’s corporate minions called and said:
"Johns Hopkins appreciated the quick notice.
The movers will be there, for you and Charles @ 9am tomorrow morning.
Your flight (to Paris) leaves @ 9:22pm tomorrow night..
Your TSA PreChecks, and Global Entry passes are complete.
I mailed you your flight passes and "Imagine'R" (unlimited Paris travel) cards. A car will be waiting when you arrive.”
François doesn't mess around.

I looked at my watch, it was 2:45 in the afternoon.
****, I need to tell Charles we're moving to Paris tomorrow.

Yes, I exist in a charmed circle - if you discount the contentiousness of the choice - my Mom’s now mad at me and my sister’s not too happy 
- I’m totes charmed.
Of course, the Hopkins acceptance (and the full-ride scholarship I declined) will now pass on to another lucky student.

Sometimes what you want
is lurking in the shadows
just out of reach - do you dare disclose it -
risk exposing it, when some might oppose it?

The bible says “Ask and you shall receive.”
In real life, that may require more than belief,
if your secret wishes, you are to achieve.
.
.
Songs for this:
Give Paris One More Chance by Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers
The Paris Match (feat. Tracey Thorn) by The Style Council
Nostalgie Du Voyage by Tape Five

When nights are dark you’ll never see
the depths of our humanity,
but in the light of desert days
the shades of death will quite amaze.

So if you’ve time to take the trouble
sift just once through wreck and rubble -
ashen bones of tots will rile,
though eyes of rampant killers smile.

While starving at their mama’s breast,
one wonders whom those babes transgressed.
But as the bombs boom, split and splatter,
does it even really matter?

Yes, mothers often pay the price
with holy wartime sacrifice:
in flight, miscarried embryos!
Quite slow as ethnic cleansing goes,
but nonetheless, one must confess,
infanticide’s a great success.

The Chiefs disdain the Rule of Law -
their conscience never seems to gnaw
when dealing peace its last hurrah;
though charged with crime, they never rue it,
persevere and still pursue it,
smile and claim “they made me do it”.

They smoke their own, like cannibals,
with dictates, such as Hannibal's,
erasing also hostages
in so-called rescue carnages.

With bullets flying back and forth
the hungry hordes are driven north,
since promised aid (that’s long gone south)
was empty words from furtive mouth.

Instead of plates of pita bread
the meals are served with plated lead,
and those expiring at their hands
will sleep neath sheets of silent sands.

On fallow fields where kids once played
you’ll find a random hand grenade,
the only one that didn’t explode
the last time that the lawn was mowed.

As prancing children cross the roads
sometimes a tampered phone explodes.
One wonders what the future bodes -
perhaps some elegiac odes!

Where are those boys that threw a stone?
Well, some were shot; and some were not,
but whisked away to place unknown
and in the meantime... left to rot.

Within dark tunnels, bad guys hide,
beneath the clinics, far and wide,
so missiles raze them to the ground -
no bodies of the bad guys found,
but upstairs in debris, instead,
lie doctors in the ER... dead.

Twelve bombers flattened Ah-tross City
showing no remorse or pity;
now survivors hide in tents
in fear of further ‘accidents’.

But where are those with screams that gags?
Brought often back in body bags!
No need for sorrow for the slain,
since after death they feel no pain.

Today are waged uncivil wars
which burst the dams and breach the shores      
to empty vital reservoirs;
with water less than hitherto,
(and lacking coke from Timbuktu),
they’re left to lap the sewage brew.

This glance at barren battlefields
reveals the peace that killing yields,
evoking shadows time transcends
when man’s  existence finally ends.

EPITAPH

While Jungle Jim the Jingoist
embroils the world, and wars persist,
pale Peter Pan the Pacifist
pleads “Can’t we somehow coexist?”

A HUMAN IS CRYING

The dog is dreaming
under the piano

asleep across
its foot pedals.

The clock announces
the seconds

in a loud hear ye hear ye
town crier's voice.

A bumble bee is arguing
furiously with the glass

of a cracked
window pane.

Time is defeated.

A human is crying.

Time is different
for the clock, the bee and

the crying human.

Time ceases to exist
lost in his grief.

His brother is dead.

Somewhere in the journey
around the sun

he has left the planet.

Earth continues on
without him.

He sees his brother
everywhere.

Strangers
wear his face.

Walk with his gait.

He almost expects
to hear

his voice in the dark
at the turn of the stairs.

He sees him many times
in many mirrors.

Or in the back of a spoon.

His face trapped
in a cobweb.

It always appears
as if...as if

he has just left
the room and

will be back
any second now

but: he isn't. . .

The dog is still
asleep under the piano.

The clock has run
out of time.

The silence is terrifying.

The bee it seems is
dozing on the window ledge.

The human
is crying.

*

My brother's death stripped me of everything...the who I am...my name...my identity...I was reduced down to this human symbol...just like the dog...the this...the that...who as it happens is...crying. As if a computer was merely registering the things in the picture.