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When curves and slurs
get in your way
Answers come too slowly

There's not enough time
or ever enough rhyme
to make it go over smoothly

The jokes and the coax
are taking their positions
You have no rights to transition

If you question the change
Or talk of the exchange
You're due for the ultimate inquisition

For your determination
grants you no favor
When you're put on the spot

And you better come up
with an answer
whether you have one or not
 Jan 31 Larry Berger
Emma
She said he hurt her,  
a wound wrapped in soft lullabies,  
his voice a serpent  
coiling 'round her dreams,  
where the green fern forest  
breathed secrets into the night,  
and moss shrouded the bones  
of forgotten civilizations.

In the day,  
she fashioned dreams  
like delicate glass,  
eyes half-closed,  
floating through the crowd,  
a specter among the living,  
while shadows,  
like whispered promises,  
clung to her skin.

At night,  
the seconds drip drop,  
heavy as rain on a tin roof,  
each tick a heartbeat,  
each pause a gasp,  
he follows her  
as a prayer follows its own  
search for grace,  
the memory of a violence  
that needed no voice,  
only the cold embrace  
of silence wrapped around her.

In the twilight,  
she gathers the frayed edges of her soul,  
sifting through the dark  
for remnants of light,  
for the lullabies  
that cradle her in the depths,  
reminding her that even in shadows,  
the heart learns to beat again,  
even in the echo of pain,  
there is a flicker,  
a stubborn flame.
 Jan 24 Larry Berger
LS
when a poet falls in love with you
you can never die
they will notice the way
you rub your palms and look down
when someone is angry at you
and the way you smirk
as you pull away from a kiss

they will notice how you can't sleep
without your body touching someone else's
how you never crease any pages of books
and how you close your eyes when you dance in your kitchen
with your record player on

they will find all of the words
that they see you as
and turn them into something beautiful

people say you die twice
once when you stop breathing
and when someone says your name
for the last time

if you fall in love with a poet
they will never stop
mentioning your name
you will be alive
for eternity
Time is lost, never gained
Love is given, never wanes
Fire burns it's hungry flames,
Wind turns, tosses, throws and go's
You don't see it, and on it blows.
These elements you live in that you can sometimes see.
These truths that affect the world, you and me.
When did we stop listening?...

Water wash us clean; let us start over again.
Life is a gift, always taken
If never given, then you're not living.
It's time to love again
 Jan 15 Larry Berger
Emma
I woke to find myself
a stranger in my own skin,
the weight of silence pressing deep,
its texture heavy with whispers,
the breath of fears unfurling
like mist over an open field.

They move within me,
specters draped in pale veils,
fingers plucking the taut strings
of every unspoken word,
every wound stitched
with the thread of deceit.

Around me, a forest hums,
its pulse a green ache of longing,
leaves trembling with unspent desire.
I imagine stepping through,
slipping from myself
like bark peeling from an ancient tree.

I want to dissolve,
to be lifted from this shape
and poured into the waiting hands
of something infinite,
to be tasted by the parched lips
of a soul wandering without end.

There is no edge here,
only the slow erosion of what I am,
the merging of silence and breath,
of fear and yearning,
of all I was and all I might become.
Going to make an effort today and try to act normal, even though I feel like I'm breaking.
 Jan 10 Larry Berger
Emma
Psychedelic swirls in the womb of night,
The ghosts rise, hungry, for the sacred rite.
He touched her forehead, soft as a sigh,
Retracing memories where lost stars lie.

"You are misplaced," he murmured low,
"Led astray by the rivers' flow."
Her mind unravels, a fragile thread,
Dancing now with the living dead.

The violin weeps, it shatters the void,
A somber hymn both sharp and cloyed.
"Twirl for me," he said, "don’t fear the flame,
The watchers are here—they know your name."

The ghosts surround in a velvet trance,
Eyes like embers, they burn, they dance.
Their touch is smoke, their gaze a maze,
A fiery mirror of forgotten days.

Lost in the rhythm, the void in bloom,
Spinning through the door of doom.
She feels the pull of the stars' decay,
A psychedelic hymn to lead astray.

The night hums low, a growling beast,
Its jaws wide open for the soul’s feast.
He takes her hand—she feels the spark,
A haunting waltz through endless dark.

"Rise," they chant, "to the other side,
Lose your fear, let the moment abide."
The ghosts dissolve with the breaking dawn,
But their song lingers long after they’re gone.
Actually slept deeply for 2 hours!
(a university-life vignette)

It’s a Friday night, Leong and I are at a small restaurant close to the dorm called “Ordinary.” We’re in a cozy, pleasantly dark, little red booth—waiting for Lisa—who’s running late. This is Leong’s favorite bar and her taste in exotic drinks is labile—tonight she has us drinking ‘Maker’s Mark,’ a delicious, straight-up bourbon, with a twist of orange peel.

We’re on our second—and I’m starting to buzz—did I mention Lisa’s running late? On a hot note, we’re celebrating. I turned in the first draft of my thesis prospectus last Wednesday and this morning I got it back - accepted.

But more importantly, when I tore into the envelope, back in my room, there was a yellow sticky-note on the prospectus that read like an academic valentine. It said:
“Anais, you write beautifully, with the economy of a poet.”
I may have danced around my room.

So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and noshing on a charcuterie platter when this cute, hipster, Princeton transfer-student guy named Milo showed up—drink in hand. He’s like, 5 '11 with light-brown medium-longish hair tucked behind his ears and he’s wearing a light blue, textured cardigan over a tan t-shirt and leaf-green work pants. At first, he’s walking by, but he spots us and stops.

“Has anyone ever told you look like Anais Vionet?” He asked me.
“No,” I replied, “never.” “You sound like her too,” he followed up.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I answered, shaking my head ‘no’ and shrugging.
“But she’d never come to a dive this cheap,” he updogged.
“Oh, yes she would,” I assured him.

Then, I gasped, remembering. Milos on one of Yale’s 500 soccer teams. “You guys lost to Princeton the other day! Isn’t that your alma mater? Congratulations!”
“Thanks, for bringing that up,” he said somewhat chagrined,
“We lost one-to-nil—it was just bad luck,” he said defensively.
“Oh, bad luck,” I chided him.

He did look tired and defeated, so I motioned him to take a seat. He slid right in next to Leong, who’s hand he shook, “Milo,” he said.
“I KNOW,” she said, in a sly and evil way—we’ve talked about him, conspiratorially—even she thinks he’s cute—and cross-culturally-cute isn’t easy.

“Are you superstitious?” Milo asked us—turning so Leong was included.
“Oh, sure,” I spoke first, “I was raised catholic, and even if you don’t hundo-p believe, it carries over. I always carry a lucky crystal with me—you know, for tests and what-not—I depend on that, as opposed to diligence and studying.”

“You have one with you now?” He followed up.
“I do,” I confessed, “I always have one in my bra.”
“Wow,” he laughed, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I chuckled, “For luck—in case I need to appear supper fun and sassy? Though I guess I’m proof crystals don’t work.”
“Do you really have a crystal in your bra?” He asked, sipping his whisky.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding my hand discreetly into my left cup and bringing out a tiny, flat green, polished Jade stone crystal. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” He asked.
“Nah, there’s plenty of room in there,” I admitted, sliding the crystal back in place.

“Leong’s superstitious,” I said, nodding to her.
“All Chinese are superstitious,” Leong pronounced, “whenever I had a big exam at school, my mother would go and leave a chicken at the temple.”
Milo and I chortled—I’d actually seen women do that when I lived in Shenzhen.
“Well, I guess it worked!” Milo pronounced, and he and Leong high-fived.
“We have a saying, ‘it’s better to be lucky than good,” he added.
We say, “Yùnqì zhòngyàoguò nénglì,” Leong noted, in Cantonese.
“Luck is more important than ability,” I translated.
Speaking of luck, Lisa finally arrived.
.
.
Songs for this:
Where Are You by 54 Ultra
Cut Glass by mark william lewis
Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 11/12/24:
Labile = open to change.

My thesis topic is "Molecular dynamics simulations of protein folding." 🙃 It's about protein-protein interactions (cellular functions) and developing new medicines and treatments. It isn't easy to give it a poetic twist.

Our cast:
Leong, (roommate) 21, is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). She's a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major.’ I speak Cantonese—which may be why we were paired—I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) - we talk a lot of secret trash together.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff. Grew up in a posh, 50th floor residence on Central Park South in Manhattan. She shares my major (Molecular biophysics and biochemistry) and is easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in RL (and is sensitive about it). Our tastes match, in everything (fashion, media, music, humor) except men.
If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til you picked up the phone.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that we were right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.
This is the first poem (that I have a copy of) i wrote that I actually thought was good. I was in seventh grade, twelve years old, and I wrote it for a newspaper competition. I knew it was really great but I didn't think I would beat all other applicants in the state in my age group. So you can imagine my surprise I'm sure when I DID win! That is the first time I was proud of my writing. So this one has a lot of special sentimental value. Thanks for reading.
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