my mom called, i cried by the dhall, on facetime
been thinking about how lucky we are to be alive
even if to deal with mornings and swollen eyes
even if dad's always on the night shift, even with
this big rift caused by the distance and the lack of time
just because we made out once doesn't mean you're mine
i got glimpses of a pink top, my blanket of a jacket
i bet it would look classier if you were wearing it
but you're distant and cold and partying is getting old
i'm forever out of polaroid film and cheap distractions
so i took an amtrak home, straight from south station
the flight back to boston was short but still exhausting
and when i walk home alone, the silence is unsettling
seems we're both better than i thought at method acting

It’s Friday night and a group of us, the ‘university summer fellows’ (Quinn, Jammie, Monique, Lisa and I) are going groovin’. Quinn, a Harvard man (we’ve shed our jaundiced opinions of him), assured us he knows the Boston bar scene. We’re going to test that.

We told him we wanted to sway to whimsical beats and chase vivid, neon lights across dance floors, like a bunch of cats - till the hours get wee. His plan is for us to pop-in the “touristy” places, like ‘the Havana Club’, ‘the Manray club’, ‘Garage Boston’ and ‘The Grand’, we’re so 111. As usual, Charles is our party mom, escort and driver.

When Peter and I were in Saint-Tropez, earlier this summer, there were beach clothes - dresses, skirts and men's shirts - where they’d woven micro-LEDs into the flowered, dry-wick, fabrics. I think the effect is amazing, friday, and joyous. I got two skirts for everyone (all of my roommates). Tonight Lisa and I are wearing a couple of them.

Funny. I’ve mentioned it before, but Lisa‘s an audrey. Her school friends and roommates are all used to it, we’ve been exposed, we have built up immunity. But Quinn’s a newbie, when Lisa came into the living room, LED glittered and lookin-right, he was literally stunned. He froze, for a microsecond, his face went blank and his fingers wiggled, as if disconnected from his overloaded central nervous system.

“***! Jammie said, having just turned around, “holla at ya brooke!,” he declared, shaking his head in admiration. “Umm mmm,” he added.

“I’m sure.” Lisa said, starting to transfer things from her everyday bag to her glittery clutch, the girl cannot accept a compliment. Quinn, coming out of it, cleared his throat.

We’re ready. Let Friday night begin!

Canada is afire and I’m confused, shouldn’t the snow put that out?

The Boston sky is an interesting shade of mustard yellow,
and there’s a pale orange haze where the sun should be.

Lisa, drowsily asleep-walked into the kitchen for her morning coffee.
“So this is Mars,” I observed, “Elon Musk will be so jealous.”
“Good,” Lisa said, “I was afraid it was nuclear winter.”
“There’ll be no breathing today.” I updogged.

We could almost hear the slow, delicate pitter-patter fall of micro-ash.

“There’s aaaa bright golden haze over Boston..” Lisa began to sing softly.
Lisa knows every Broadway score and can easily interpolate a song into every conversation.

I write this knowing that
I don’t have much time left
With the time I have
I’ll tell you my story

Born and raised in Boston
Moved to New York City
Met a girl, fell in love
Got a job as a lawyer

Fell out of love
Broke my leg
Quit my job
And here I am today

That is my story
Those are my words

I'd liken you to an alien
Pulling out a new skin suit from the closet each day,

But that would mean you're extraterrestrial
And you are nothing but ordinary.

Tell me you and him are “just friends”
And we are “close friends”

As you sharpen the fangs you’ll leech me with,
Plastic over your teeth.

It’s not winning if you don’t become someone else.
I’d call you chameleon, but

I have too much respect for them
And your colors just aren’t that bright.

Your slithering tongue won’t be remembered in a year.
Your name gone the next.

Take solace in knowing that what you tried to break
Will forever be etched into his skin

Like the tattoo in mine;
Memorable, but not you.

You stood in my shadow
And tried to call it yours.

Blame the sun for spilling your secrets.
And blame me when you burn.

I warned you,
Sweetheart,

That I crawled up from hell.
You just crawled out of a casket.

I have flames; you have your fears,
And you cannot bury me with them.

You tried to warm your rotting soul
And take the flames as your own.

Smother your ugly in ice
And ask me why I was so cold.

Whirling wardrobe,
Break free.

Mystic?
*****, please.

A sunflower doesn’t succumb to weeds.
You’re just fertilizer for me.

This is my summer part three.

So many people have come and gone . . .
their faces fade as the years go by
Yet I still recall as I wander on—
as clear as the sun in the summer sky
                                                     BOSTON
                                                          ­                                                                 ­ 

Your name remains: a magic word
to conjure nights of springs long-gone.
I muse upon your face, alone
and find my heaven's hope deferred.
Since unpoetic life occurred,
Romance has gilded scenes long dead.
Nostalgic memory has fed
the embers of a fire you stirred.
You turned and walked out of my days.
I never heard your voice again.
Yet memories of you amaze
Engraved in my adoring brain.
In labyrinths we wonder free
to meet again eventually.

(Is this poem better in decasyllables . . .  ?
I need some feedback.)

                 Name of a City

Your name remains with me. A magic word
To conjure nights and scents of springs long-gone.
I muse upon your tawny face, alone
And find my heaven's hope now long–deferred.
Since unpoetic life and age occurred,
Romance has gilded scenes that lie long dead.
Nostalgic memory of you has fed
The smoldering embers of a fire you stirred.
One spring, you turned and walked out of my days.
I never heard your feline voice again.
Yet memories of you, intense, amaze
Engraved for good in my adoring brain...
On, through the labyrinths, we wander free
To meet in time again, celestially.

april skies have such potential
     and i never understood why they chose to waste
it away on
r
   a
i
      n
   s
when instead the sun can become a magician
and radiate wonders when it disappears

I've been walking,
Down crowded streets,
Dressed in suits that fit you,
Better than they do me.

Your smiles, your eyes,
Listening to music you chastise,
In all but shoes that fit you,
Better than they do me.

And changing into something else,
Makes for vulnerability,
Naked fits you,
Better than it does me.

And yet I feel lighter,
Like thoughts of floating away,
On ripples and waves,
Of the river, with views,
Of lights so far beyond me,
When seen from boats that carry you,
Better than they do me.

I know,
That our time together,
Has felt,
Like velvet.

Like a gentle morning walk,
Along Storrow Drive.
Like taking flight,
On weightless wings,
Or listening,
To Bach,
On violin and strings.

But these wings have begun,
To wear me down,
The strings in my ear,
Now tie me from toe to crown.

I don't mean to end this,
For you and me.
But you should know,
That the next turn on Storrow Drive,
Takes us right into,
The raging sea.