I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and doesn’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time

I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic

Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
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A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory

drop of blood in fire,
trickles down the flame - loyal;
the covenant smirks.

Have you ever pretended a guy was interesting?
Have you slow danced and let him sniff you up close?
I gives you somewhere to go, if you decide to.

Or given a little kiss—nothing slutty in that.
You know, a 'person' isn’t a good kisser - it takes two.
I’m not talking about me, of course.

There’s a two-way interrogation going on
complete with our own internal narratives
—we reenact it’s rituals in the strangest places

like quiet libraries or the lerch and spin of a dance club
we process by analogy and approximation and it works
until it doesn’t, like cold water poured into a glass.

Then we settle back into the dull rhythms of study
I’m not talking about me, of course.
.
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Songs for this:
This Girl's In Love (Live At HMH) by Trijntje Oosterhuis
The Men of Your Dreams by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince

From outside, inwards,
Each one screams from within
And plays such sweet melodies.
Masks— of all shapes and sizes—
Beckon us to sing!
Rising from their jars, as snakes do,
When the snake charmer begins.

the old wives
say it must be
the left hind foot
of a rabbit
shot with a silver bullet
or not shot at all
simply captured
one way or another
ideally on the grave
of a criminal
the more wicked the person
the more potent the charm
with the foot harvested
while the poor creature
is still alive
it has to be done
in a cemetery
during the night
of a full
or new moon
though others say
it should be
a friday
a rainy friday
friday the thirteenth
if the foot is to become
one of those lucky ones

I pray when all is beyond my wits and my strength
I pray when the little I can buy exceeds all my money
I pray when fathers, friends and lovers failed me
I pray to entities I know not, even of imagination and belief

I pray knowingly that strangers, human or ethereal,
     are not obligated to me, even if I begged them
I pray knowingly that I have no wisdom to know
     what to ask, but only that seemingly good for now

I pray unknowingly if these powerful inhuman beings
     can read my mangled incoherent thoughts
I pray unknowingly if the formulated rituals of my ancients
     of magic, prostrations and sacrifices are effective

I 'll be thankful to gods, demons, angels and even men
     for a blessing is a blessing, and any help, is help indeed
I'll be careful not to be entrapped into constant gratitude
     but only to constantly build my wits, strength and money

Skinny, papery, wrinkled, and pale
Running a rosary through her fingers
The air shimmers, balmy ocean waves that never cease
From the shaded marble step, I ask:
“Why do you suffer rituals out in the scorching sun?”
“My child, that’s how it’s always been done.”