(a sonnet)

Two realities, both alike in dignity,
In fair America, where we lay our scene,
There fallacious grudges explode into mutiny,
and lawful-blood makes patriot-hands unclean.

From common bonds these neighborly foes,
sail contrary seas of truth; on which they stake their lives.
Some, stoked for misadventure, by the host of a TV show,
do with their scurrilous deeds bury their futures for strife.

The fearful passage of compatriots love,
by continued embrace of marketed rage,
which, admitted truth and humility could dispose of,
fills now our breathless hours and sets our stage.

Which of you, with angry hearts, will patient peace attend,
and back away from martial games so pointless strife can end?

Smiling at old folks
to reassure them you're
not a teenage ****.

Even though I'm in
my school uniform and look
like Mary Poppins.

I don't like talking
in front of a group of teens
- they're so judgmental.

Be reborn, departed Shakespeare
for now is truly the time to quench
your perpetual attraction to madness.

Threatened by the cruel hounds
of distemper and heated atmospheres,
our broken trusts and unhealthy emotions
set a luxurious bed for extravagant madness.

Be freed from truth, beloved bard
and unbound by complex thought
- relish in weakening America’s
obsessional social dysfunction.

Lisa and I went to a reception, yesterday evening, for students who’d landed summer fellowships at a particular hospital in Boston. (Yeah us!) It wasn’t formal, so I wore a crimson cropped sweater, a beige circle skirt (with pockets!) and beige Sarto soft-leather ballet flats.

I’ve disparate feelings in these situations. I was excited - this was a goal I needed to achieve - that next notch - and my mom might even smile.

At the same time, I felt like an imposter. ‘If these people knew the trouble I’m having with physics this year,’ I thought, and ‘I know my sister could do this - and my brother - but can I?’

I try not to let my nervousness show, because the stories you tell yourself can hold you back.

The reception was small, there were only four students, their mentors and a few hospital and Yale people. As we signed in, we got name tags and tote bags with the hospital logo containing fellowship info. There were picture posters of the hospital all around and an intro video looping on a large screen TV. They took some snaps.

Several tables along one wall had coffee, sodas, water bottles and finger snacks - which I guess you’d call canapes - and melon ***** of all colors. The centerpiece though, was a big silver, smoked salmon with a lemon stuck in its mouth and a wreath of parsley about its neck - all on a bed of lettuce, surrounded by various crackers and French bread rolls.

I was working my way along the tables, because there were honeydew melon-***** and they’re a personal weakness. Honeydews aren’t in season now, so I was full-on, honeydew foraging. I’m sure I looked like a starving homeless girl who’d somehow gotten in and was trying to eat for the week.

A slim, attractive, black lady in a very stylish dark-gray beaded jacket & sheath dress, had stopped as if transfixed, staring solemnly at the salmon. As I drew next to her, my plate half full of honeydew *****, she said, “It’s a fitting memorial.” That hit me as so funny - I laughed embarrassingly - spitting half a melon ball under the table. She started laughing too - we were like two sillies at church. Her sad face, the way she’d said it - you had to be there.

After a few minutes, the hospital administrator gave a little general welcome, ending it with, “Now it’s time to meet your mentors.” The fish lady turned out to be my mentor. She was still standing next to me - she turned, offered her hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Rebecca.”

Her voice made those simple words seem warm and inviting. She looks to be in her early fifties (but I’m a bad judge of age), her short black hair was peppered with gray and white like she had just come in from the snow. We became instant old friends, cracking each other up.

Dr. Rebecca’s (again, I’m not doxing anyone) specialty is neurological surgery. She’s a Baltimore girl - born and raised - who attended Johns Hopkins from bachelors through medical school. Of course, I mentioned that both my siblings went to Johns at some point - Brice being a sophomore in med school there now.

Besides four years of medical school, Rebecca completed seven years of neurological surgery residency (yummy). “A doctor never really finishes school,” she said, “things constantly change and there are new specialties to master,” but I knew this from my parents.

“The plan is for you to shadow me this summer,” she confirmed, “and gain some clinical experience.” I nodded enthusiastically, saying, “Yes mam.” We talked for about thirty minutes and, as we parted, she gifted me a copy of ‘Skandalaki’s Surgical Anatomy.’

“If you want to be a surgeon, you’ll need to know anatomy better than God.” She’d said. “So start now. I made some notes for you in the index - we’re going to lean into this,” she finished, tapping the book, and giving me a wink.

I was walking on air as Lisa and I made our way back to the residence.
It’s going to be the BEST summer.

We’re in a young-love recession.
Gen Zers are slow to trust and averse to risk,
we have, it seems, a particular social nervousness
about interpersonal exchanges and the symbiosis of love.

So we resort to situationships (undefined relationships),
a stratagem for closeness, with zero commitment.

You can flirt; you can kiss; you can dance.
You can have a crush so big it blots out the stars
You can have transformative romantic encounters
you can care deeply and get hurt badly
you can, in fact, be absolutely wrecked by love
All without ever being in a relationship.

Thank God we’re only young once.
.
.
Songs for this:
Die With A Smile by Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars
Busy Woman by Sabrina Carpenter

Sunrise was just a red line in the inky void, as Lisa and I reached the harbor decking stairs,
but at once, the brazen slash began widening, like a silent, slow motion explosion,  
thin, smoky wisps of cloud, like flammable tissue, prismed the stage light ignition.

bee-de-deep my phone chirped. It was Peter (my bf).
“Hey you,” I pronounced, as Lisa took off her left sneaker and shook it, upside-down.  
“How’s the harbor?” Peter asked. I glanced at my watch, it was 5:32 am in New Haven.
Peter must be at lunch (in Geneva) and tracking our morning run with the ‘Find My’ app.
“Beautiful,” I pronounced, “they’re really putting on a show.”
Of course, I meant the universe, the sun, the turns who were already at work, and Long Island Sound.
The gulls, perched on whatever, and grousing at each other, obviously haven’t had their coffee.
I read that AI had decoded bird talk and on a wire, they chittered, “Move over, you’re in my space.”

“Just wanted to say good morning,” Peter confessed, “Good Morning.”
“Good morning,” I wished back, “gotta go,” I replied, Lisa had finished de-pebbling her shoe.
“Yep,” Peter agreed, “Seee ya,” he quipped. “See ya,” I chuckled, smiling.
My watch asked, in my Air Podded ears, “Have you finished your workout?” because I was motionless.
I pressed the crown of my watch and slid the phone back in my pocket, our jogg’s only half done.

We began our harbor exodus, by turning our backs to the haven. It was already beginning to busy with boats.
We slipped on our hats and protective, polarized sunglasses as we began to run directly into the blazing sun.
.
.
Songs for this:
Sail on Sailor by the Beach Boys
Dancing in the moonlight by Toploader
Cold Heart - PNAU Remix by Elton John, Dua Lipa, PNAU

I’m so excited about this election
about America and our direction

We’ll trust old men
to make big decisions
elderly men
of compassion and vision

Men who were there
when the work was done
when we went to the moon
and warred in Vietnam

A glorious age is at hand
we’ll be safe in those trembling hands

One who launched an insidious insurrection
Another who can’t follow simple directions

They will grasp what needs to be done,
our land will be free and efficiently run

We’ll trust old men
who think with precision
to keep us safe
with complex decisions

Men who were there
when the work was done
promoting corporate advantage
and environmental damage

A glorious age is at hand
we’ll be safe in those trembling hands

I’m so excited about this election
about America and our direction

Some people can't keep their opinions to themselves.
Have you ever noticed what an a$$hole
that girl in the bathroom mirror is?
.
.
A song for this:
Twiggy Twiggy by [re:jazz]

Good neighbors, sweet friends, can you forgive me?

In long, still and creeping hours of study,
I can be stern and inaccessible.

My studies tax me to basest function,
resting, weight-like, on my wretched shoulders.
I, too-weary, ebb and at times, tend to
spare few feelings and gall, as if licensed.

Sometimes I go, unwillingly to class,
a melancholy lass. Please, if we talk,
speak gently. I labor under command,
and you may not be answered with reason.

Hereby hangs the tale, ladies just and fair.
Sleep, that dark medicine, has restored me,
my sanity and my better judgment.
Patiently receive my apology
and recall our many fun adventures.

Remember summer,
as fun’s residue fades.
Well, try anyway.

Now we live prudent,
virtually schooled lives - it's
all a million laughs.

Humidity clings,
grasping, like an ex-lovers
unwanted embrace.

Get your bikini,
hit the pool, frolic - drown school
worries in cool play

Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé

It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.

In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.

Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”

That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.

Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!

Reproduction is oocyting.
With beingness what it is.
From eggs we all develop
as does every animal that lives.

500 cardinal gambles tendered
for congress milt to meet, before
fecund moons by periods ended.

From family we are decended
but from eggs we all are rendered.



*** breaking it down ***

It’s about eggs. All amminals come from eggs, humans are animals

An oocyte is the original cell that divides to form an **** - I made it “oocyting” a play on exciting - reprodiction is exciting.

500 - a female baby is born with 500 eggs (all she will ever have)
cardinal = a number  
gambles = a chance to reproduce.  
tendered = given (in a womans life)
congress = ****** *******.  
milt = *****
fecund = fertile.  
moons (monthly)
period = when the current unfertalized egg is disposed of.
taa daaa!

I’m excited - the
republican convention!
I love magic shows.

They will reveal, with
sorcerous skills a new Trump
- bighearted, and selfless.

The man we all know,
the emotionally crippled
horror, will wear disguise.

Who will be deceived?
The children in cages will cheer,
the virus dead will smile.

Our Nazis will march,
ghosts of veterans will wail,  
What a fine party.

(a poem in Senryus)

Let’s rerun the play,
take up strings, so the puppets
can start fresh their dance.

Summon the old ghosts—
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
—pronounce them reborn.

Recall the actors,
lead horses from their pastures,
raise the curtains.

Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Viola love anew.

Old, ever-hallowed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stage.

Human suffering,
live—don’t fret, you won’t miss it
—it’ll come to you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kool Thing by Sonic Youth
End of the innocence by Don Henley
The Perfect Idiot by Fievel Is Glauque

Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.

Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms - which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.

But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.

We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by, dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.

Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time. Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby

We’re off to New Haven - hurry, hurry -
we’re jammin, crammin, slappin'
and slammin' everything into our bags.

“Fifteen minutes to take-off,”
Michael announced, “the chopper's waiting.”
with hugs all around we separated.

Our roommates too, are all catching flights
vectoring in from various sites -
our motley group will reassemble tonight.

Pew rated Yale one of the hardest universities
to get into in '23 - so is it really a certainty
that our cardkeys will let us into our residency?

Fall grades came out yesterday - Lisa and I are all grins
- we’ll have thirteen days to visit and settle in
and reorganize things before Spring semester begins.

I hope that your vacations were as fun as ours
but the New Year’s begun and in a matter of hours
we’ll resume the school grind, our holidays devoured.

Poems don’t have to rhyme, free verse it isn’t a crime
I can write what I please—don’t call the police.
Must I play the game, both rhyme and spill intimate things?
Can I develop leitmotifs without rhyming riffs?
I could claim I’m writing prose - yeah, be one of those.
No one can rhyme all the time.
I can refuse—I’m no Dr F-ing Seuss,
**** it! ← See? THAT didn’t rhyme.
(sirens in the distance)
.
.
Fun songs for this:
Ain't It Fun by Paramore
It's All Your Fault (with Katie Shore) by Asleep At The Wheel

We move through the night,
though the streets seem empty,
we look left and right,
electric vehicles are stealthy.

As we exercise stepwise, sunrise happens.
and black night fades its cover.
Like phoresy, painted, pieces of heaven,
the day opens with primary colors—
reds that delight, oranges that tease
and peacocking yellows that leaven.

As the counterfeit rainbow enchants and rouses,
streetlights waver and douse,
lights flicker on in houses,
and the earth blossoms active in borrowed hues.

Morning twinkles with its particular, angular light,
as we enter the still still lobby.
They’ve already set out the coffee!
With a sip, I feel the morning's started right.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse

****** with callous authority
****** with casual face
behold guilt and indifference
behold helpless public pleading
cries to mothers past and mothers now
behold public death - oh, watching eyes

behold the citizens’ fear to interpose
behold the helpless sheep, oh lion!
where came such fear?
behold the face of arrogance
behold the face of tyranny
are you safe in your coop, chicken?
where came such power?

Share the barking dogs’ epiphany
wake the half-asleep and world-weary
clutch the scoundrels
Let the pain of others be warning
And the alarm of villains ring like music

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.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory

The conversation
takes an crushy turn - so my
brain starts making quips.

My experience is
that my amorous impulses
are unreliable.

With my friends, my flawed,
carnivalesque attempts
at romance are legend.

Unless I'm starved
for embarrassment's grief
which I seldom am.

I will dodge, slither,
obfuscate and stall attempts
at intimacy.

What if I’m the
Kind of girl that guys can’t
just fall in love with?

Lisa and I had a party to hit-up. I can’t stay inside all the time, not on a Friday night anyway and a rooftop is the perfect place to mull over big questions and get the freshest commentary about cultural phenoms - intermixed with music, absotively.

There were several, large, coolers crammed with canned martinis - everything from little Tip-Tops to Tiki-*** Mai-Tais and Triple-Spice Margaritas - this is a partizzle. I wasn’t out to drown my romantic sorrows, but I quickly reached fuzzy and relaxed - which is where I wanted to go.

A massive thumping began, ‘Pitbull’ began spilling from the speakers (‘la la la la’) and the crowd of about 30 reacted in a kind of whooping, group seizure. Lisa clutched my arm wanting me to ‘drop it’ on the dance floor - I could only read her lips - “Come ON,” she pantomimed, and I was ready to make that commitment.

We’re here at Melon’s invitation (a Yale PhD friend), undergraduates don’t usually hang out with graduate students, so it was special to feel welcomed at this off-campus link-up. We’re on the third-floor roof of an office building, under the stars.

The setup reminded me of a Brooklyn warehouse rave Lisa once dragged me to. Multicolored lights, strung every which way overhead, provided a festive air and a round stone fire-pit provided both heat and a light that flickered against every walled surface, evoking something cave-like, deep and primitive - a genetic, stone-age, memory perhaps.

When the beats finally let up, we’d danced-out about 10 songs. Lisa and I sagged into our lawn chairs - fanning ourselves even though it was a cool evening. Between tracks, there was a murmur of in-town traffic and people passing below, forming the undifferentiated buzz of nightlife. “I’m starving,” I told Lisa, who nodded, “Me too - poor planning,” she updogged.

Right then, Melon came over. Melon (real name Milton) is 6’3 and maybe 450lbs. He reminds me of John Candy, with his blonde hair, ever-present smile and colorful Hawaiian shirts.
“You’re giggin,” he said, Mai-Tai in one hand and a lady in the other.
“Thanks for inviting us,” I said, with a nod, “this is nice,” indicating the roof setup.
“Yea,” he agreed, looking around and waving his drink, in greetings, to arriving people.
“I have something for you!” I told Melon, pulling a small bottle of cologne out of my bag.
“Oh, my God,” he said, lighting up like a Christmas tree, “Tobacco Vanille! You shouldn’t have.”
“You said that’s your favorite, ya?” “Yeah, but..” he began.
“You helped us move in,” I said, “It’s a thank you - from all the girls (I lied) and it’s our party gift!”
“Wow, well, thanks Peaches,” he said, adding “you’re cracked,” and gave me a one handed hug.
“Food’s on the way” he said, and then, like he’d forgotten something, “This is Ellen,” he said, turning so she rotated closer.” We only shook hands and nodded, because the music started again.

Not two minutes later, the metal door to the stairs swung open and several guys came up with catering trays of life-saving Tex-Mex from ‘Tacos Los Gordos,’ a couple of blocks away.

“Maybe there IS a God,” I pronounced, unheard in the din, my stomach growling in anticipation.

slang…
hit-up = attend
absotively = absolutely & positively
partizzle = party
giggin = having fun, dancing
updogged = adding a further comment to a comment string.
peaches = Melon calls me peaches ‘cause I’m from Georgia.
cracked = crazy

Ever played rose, bud and thorn? It’s a game where you go around in a group of friends and share what’s happening in your life. A rose is something good, a bud is something hoped for, and a thorn is a problem. Yeah, we’re hopeless oversharers.

My rose today is the weather. I wrote a piece a week ago complaining about the lack of snow in New Haven. The next morning it was 2° with a wind chill of -30°. My roommates gave me the evil eye - like I somehow brought it on. “God doesn’t listen to me.” I ‘d said, defensively.

My thorn is, Anna’s parents are here for a few days and she’s very on edge. She spent yesterday with them but today they’re coming to our suite. I was surprised when I first saw them, they’re straight off the farm (if the farm was in the 1800s). They seemed to huddle together, defensively and consulted each other so quietly that they buzzed like a hive of bees.

Her father, a very tall man, was wearing a plaid flannel shirt under a long, thick, dark gray, Dickies coat (it says Dickies on the pocket) and jeans. He has a medium-long white beard and a black-felt, wideawake hat which he worked slowly in a circle by its brim (I think that would qualify as a comforting gesture).

Her mom, Abeba, the spokesperson for the pair, is a thin woman with mostly gray (used to be brown) hair. She was dressed simply in black high-top shoes, a plain, deep green, floor length dress under a sweater and long, thick, gansey shawl with matching barrette.

When I reached out to take her hand in greeting, she regarded me with a coolness I found unnerving. All the other parents I’ve ever met were friendly, even huggy, on introduction.
“They’re Quakers,” Anna said, (note the “they’re”) like that explained everything. When I looked confused, she reached out her hand, at arm's length, and touched me lightly on the upper arm with her index finger. After a moment she revealed, “That’s a Quaker hug.”

Anna had said they were quiet, “judgy” people - and here they were, in our common room, judging the books on our shelves (With titles like, “this book is gay,” “Good girl complex,” “The big **** *** book”) the clothes on the furniture, the laptops on the floor, the “art” on the walls and the disarray in the kitchen. They kept hat and purse in hand, as if they were expecting a fire drill. They’re a whole new category of houseguests.

At one point, Peter came out of my room, dressed in shorts and t-shirt but drying his hair. Sometimes he showers in my bathroom after working out. He smiled warmly at Anna’s parents and said, “Hi, Peter,” offering his hand to Anna’s father, Milhous (Peter can be very charming when he wants to be). Milhous stood up awkwardly and shook his hand, “Good day,” he said solemnly.  

Anna’s mom however, seeing Peter come out of my room, blushed from top to bottom and gave me a look that was worse than any spoken disapproval. The top of my head seemed to grow warm, but a glance at Anna revealed that she was embarrassed to her core, and my blooming irritation faded.

Imagine living under these passionless despots your whole life? I gave her a smile and moved on emotionally. Her parent's disapproval was so banal it was almost laughable.

Anna’s so happy, hilarious, bold and brilliant - the fact that these dour, sour, saturnine, in-the-margin sodbusters produced her - seems random - one of the wonders of the universe.

Love is a bit of comedy, so be rough with love.

He arranges her one way and then another,
in itchy dissatisfaction. She surrenders to the role
like a silent bystander, a plaything in the hands
of impatience - what does he want?

“Like this,” he says in a schoolteacher’s voice.

The imbalance of power, the almost impersonal
manipulations, the momentum toward surrender,
and then the shocking, primal desire - to meld -
like a gunshot in a canyon long thought empty.

The British royal family is front and center this weekend. How unusual is that?

The empire may be gone, but it’s time to recall its ghost, dust it off and invoke the ancient spell of monarchy.

A coronation, the original dog & pony show - God’s kingly sinecure. I can’t remember the last one.

You have to know who your great, great, great, grandfather was to be nobility-class smug or to don those getups, with medals that would have made Caesar blush and Attila laugh.

The cast is familiar, if somewhat balding, the too-old king, his - whatever - wife.

I can’t help mourning Diana. Accident, treachery or karma, grown men cried at her passing, Shakespeare’s darkened heavens blazed in sorrow and, eventually, even the gray queen bowed her head.

There’s no more honor, in 2023, and if there’s any glory, its light has grown as dim as the glitter of gold.

The fact that the royals are better than us, is axiomatic. Not morally superior, of course. That’s the Pope’s job. The royals are like Britain’s Mickey Mouse, and any civilized man, who’d strike at that, would have to be a fool.

It's the weekend (Friday night). Lisa and I are hangin’, music’s playing, and we’re rummaging through my suitcase, for an outfit option, for me, tonight. Call it cliché, but we like going out - and getting ready to go out with a friend, beforehand, is one of the rituals of beauty culture.

Let’s get poetic!

If the sun is gonna shine
in an endless blue (climate-changed) sky,
if the temperature’s going to climb,
until eggs on sidewalks fry,
then it’s lighter, summer-wear time.

I made sure Lisa and I had two days, in Paris, to shop the Rue Saint-Honoré. ***** 5th avenue, the 1st arrondissement is la capitale of fashion - after all, it’s Coco Chanel's old haunt. Now, we have Armani, Chloe, Dior, Michael Kors, Hermès and Versace - just to name a few - I mean, gag a fashionista.
Looking for bargains? You’re in the wrong place.

If you’re down and thinking the world is turning to.. well, something bad, then you NEED some fashion, some beauty and some elegance. You don’t even need to buy anything - browsing is sumptuous.

The boutiques are sound-proofed - so the world won’t intrude - and thickly carpeted so even your steps are muffled - or marble floored, polished to a fractured brilliance under the lit spiderwebs of fallen-star-lights. And the fragrances - no cap - the very air is different - it smells like aged money - that was a joke - they take new money these days.

What’s important, in these palaces of style, are the whispered promises of unattainable beauty. Just browsing will up your game, because inspiration is everywhere, in sheens that put butterflies to shame, supima-cottons as soft as a sigh, and dresses that swirl like magic - and so many accessories.

Lisa and I are young and easily ignored. Sales staff in these boutiques wear a leotard of arrogance, that fits like skin - the arrogance of people talking down to lesser folk.

Lisa gasped when she saw a delicate, white ecru-cotton and silk-poplin mid-length shirt-dress by Dior. “Look at this,” she said softly, running her fingers along the delicate hem. I checked the tag, it read: €2770 ($3000).
At that moment, a salesgirl - who looked to be 25ish - stalked over with a "look but don't touch" vibe that implied we weren’t worthy to touch the merchandise - or maybe be there at all.

I bristled for Lisa, who’d withdrawn her hand as if burnt. I fished my phone from my clutch (it has a card-carry-case attached) and waved my black Centurion® Card (which can serve as a fu^k-you passport),
“Have you got this in a French-36?” I jibbed, obstreperously (of course I know Lisa’s size). If my return-rudeness stung the salesgirl, there was nothing she could do with it.

An older lady that I assumed was her supervisor joined us, all smooth smiles and low honey voice, “Hello ladies,” she said, as she glided around us like a wraith. “Go see (about the dress),” she told the young clerk, dismissively.

The original salesgirl gave us a brittle smile that came and went like an eye blink, “Oui,” she said, smartly, while spinning away like a top.
“Would you like a glass of wine or champagne?” The supervisor purred.
“Non, merci (No thank you),” I said, smiling curtly.
“We have it,” the original sales girl announced a moment later.
“We’ll take it,” I pronounced.
“NOo,” Lisa said, jerking as if electrically shocked.
I waved my hand, as if scattering dust, “My treat.”

Lisa insisted on trying it on. It fit like a dream and she looked like a supermodel (My dress needed tailoring - the bust taken in sigh). So, at least we know what she’s wearing tonight.
.
.
songs for this:
Glamor Girl by Louie Austen
Baby You’re a Superstar by NuDisco
Comme ci, comme ça by ZAZ  
.
Our cast:
Lisa, (roommate) 20, Manhattanite ‘glamor girl’ (who’d bristle at that description but it’s hundo-p true.) - my bff. A fellow (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

For the last five hundred years, posh “society,” is where the wealthiest and most influential people in the world mingled, inter-married and conducted business. If you’ve ever watched “Downton Abbey”, “The Gilded Age” or even “Crazy Rich Asians” you’ll know what I mean.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs - a psychological pyramid that describes human fulfillment - states that part of our human nature (once your basic needs are met) is the desire to attain social position. Having mere wealth is just not enough once you are in the top levels of achievement.

In the 1970’s Arab money started pouring into the west. Arab petro-dollars bought swaths of land in the UK, in London and New York. The Arabs dazzled everyone with their wealth and bling but they never penetrated posh society.

Then in the 90s the second, Asian wave, of new wealth washed eastward and they had a bit more success in society. But starting about 20 years after the fall of the Soviet Union, Russians started coming to the west with new money to invest - in the UK, in particular.

Russia became the billionaire capital of the world, oligarchs were everywhere buying anything not nailed down and eventually trying to insinuate themselves into posh “society”. Tatler (THE magazine of society) even began publishing a Russian version. If you were a wealthy Russian, you were moving up. By 2022, they weren’t too far from the edge of REAL success.

That’s what evaporated three weeks ago - with the invasion of Ukraine - Russia’s luxury infrastructure and their hopes of acceptance into posh society. Gucci, Chanel, Hermès, Dior, Apple and Tatler (just to name a few luxury brands) have left Russia to rot. If you’re Russian now, the chances of being admitted into posh society are gone for the next 20 years - at least.

You may say “so what?” Well, one way a dictator holds onto power is through mercantile largess. The granting of rights within the Russian sphere of influence - to control and distribute goods and services - is how oligarchs are created. The support of these oligarchs is important and transactional.

A man with a 100-million dollar yacht - looking at what chunks of their wealth may well be confiscated in the west - or lost to the Ruble’s collapse - could easily offer life-changing wealth to any henchman willing to end Putin one way or another.

Will this happen? I don’t know. But this is the system they’ve set up for themselves.

My daddy—he once told me
don’t ever play with nuns
they’ll hit you with their rulers
it won’t be any fun

I snuck out of that prison
and now I’m on the run

Once freed from that schoolhouse
I sunbathed in the sun
I stayed out late, I went on dates
looking out for number-one

When I think of what I went through
of all the tired repressive lies
I keep running wise, in slick disguise
my purpose is renewed

Don’t ever let ‘em tell you
you can’t have any fun
If they preach that hackneyed drivel
grab some things and run
.
.
Songs for this:
Cold Heart (PNAU Remix) by Elton John & Dua Lipa
I'm Still Standing by Elton John

The storm is over - no, not last week’s nor’easter - midterms. I hope you survived.

New England seems to be one, big, storm-of-the-month club. Campus is 5 minutes from Long Island Sound and I like to go watch the mesmerizing roil of the ocean when a storm’s rolling in.

The choppy hazel undulations, opaque as enamel, seem to coil-up - then suddenly slap the shoreline breakers as if testing their resolve. The wind whipped salt-water patterns, like folds of linen. The wind and salt water mist in your face feels as sharp and violent as glass shards.

The sun occasionally pierces the clouds like a knife strike only to be healed in moments. The whole scene is beautiful, immense and uncontrollable - like eating cake by the ocean. (song reference).

Peter is joining us for lunch in the cafeteria. I met him on a crowded Saturday morning at a coffee shop. He’s from the flammable, paper-dry, sagebrush hills of Malibu and grew up overlooking the hazy blue pacific ocean. He says Mel Gibson’s drunken **** rant, when a cop pulled him over for a DUI, put them on the map.

Poor Peter is fashion challenged. He’s 25, too tall, and too thin. Reading glasses hang around his neck. His too loose-fitting clothes are all variations of brown, like tawny, penny and wenge. He’s wearing a battered tweed coat, brown corduroy slacks and tortilla colored mock turtleneck. He’s adorably shabby-fancy. If he fell in the dormant, straw-yellow grass, we probably couldn’t find him.

Peter has a serious aura of experience about him. His cheek bones are sharp, his hair is an explosion of uncombed black, his skin is pale - bleached - by over exposure to library lighting.

He lives in a different world - the prosaic, laissez-faire universe of research - where students are left to their own devices and expected to self-manage.

Right now, he’s being vetted by one of my roommates, Leong. His student lanyard marks him but she wants specifics if he’s going to hang around. “What’s your major?” she asks, her eyes squinting like the Chinese lie detectors they are. “I’m a doctoral student in applied physics,” he says.

I pat his knee, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I say, reassuringly.

Peter (my bf) and I are at Heraclee beach for the weekend.
It’s a little sliver of heaven, about 11 miles south of Saint Tropez.
It’s too early in the season to swim - being breezy and 72°f -
but it’s still the beach. I’m a neophyte beach ***,
but I’m willing and eager to learn.

I’m valuable even if I’m not being productive [I self-affirm].

something poetic-ish..

The sun’s a drowsy tyrant, not yet willing to unforgivingly scorch.
The beach is like glistening sugar, the sand still cool enough to walk, rogue west winds occasionally whip it to an ankle stinging sandpaper.

Majestic umbrella pines are dancing the hula. The shrub-like understory is dominated by drought-tolerant lavenders and rosemary that dense the air with perfume which complements the mediterranean brine.

There’s laughter, off somewhere, like wind-chimes playing clear, just above the ever-roiling sound of the surf. Birds are everywhere, gulls walk around like they’re bored, cory float on air, like kites and petrels skim against the wind, centimeters above choppy waves.

The beach isn’t crowded - French kids are still in school - but a few hardy, oiled, bronzed and sculpted bodies are sprawled on the pristine sand, like offerings to the god of leisure.

Our hotel has its own private cove, with adirondack wooden lounges under yellow parasols. Pastel blue-vested wait-staffers circle, on the quarter-hour, eager to please.
“Deux (two) American Martinis, S'il te plaît! (please),” I ask, expectantly.

It’s a **** beach, but Peter got an alarmed look when I joked I might go *******. “Annick (my older sister) always goes *******,” I informed him.
“I’d like to see that,” he’d chuckled, and when I gave him a raised eyebrow, he amended, “That came out wrong.”
.
.
songs for this..
Summer of Our Love by Triangle Sun
That life by Unknown Mortal Orchestra
The kiss of Venus by Dominic Fike, Paul McCartney

(Sitting on Santa's lap)

Me: "I want a dragon"
Santa: "Nope, too dangerous"
Me: "Ok, then I want a boyfriend"
Santa: "What color dragon?"

We’re 6 roommates, on summer vacation before our sophomore year and we take turns planning our nights. Last night was Sunny’s choice so we found ourselves at “Sister Louisa's Church,” one of the fun gay bars in this little college town. We’ve been to 5 LGBTQ bars in the Atlanta area this summer and they’ve all been skittles.

This being a Lesbian bar, we all felt empowered to dress down, dance a few times, and just have some harmless fun. “Hmm.., Sunny said, wrinkling her nose, “I think queer or girly are better terms than lesbian. Lesbian seems to have a mascular take - like we want to be boys - and that’s not it at all.”
“I bow to your superior, informed, cultural finickiness,” Lisa noted.

WE dance a few times but Sunny never stops. One moment Sunny’s there, for a swig of her drink and the next, she’s twiring off with some attractive (30ish?) woman - it keeps happening. “We need to put an apple tracker on her.” Bili said, but when the songs ended she always came back to us.
“That womyn had more than two hands.” Sunny said, gulping on her drink and fixing her hair.

It was time to go, past time actually. We’re on a schedule these days. We spend our mornings playing disc golf or water-skiing and our afternoons studying. We’re trying to re-engage with college work in a gradual, 3 hour a day, low anxiety way.

Sunny (A molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major), Lisa and I (Molecular biophysics and biochemistry majors) are all on the pre-med track. Next year we’ll tackle physics together and we’re already grinding away on examples of the problem-sets we’ll see next semester. So far the shared stress has helped the next-level classes seem easier and more engaging.

I was the watchdog last night, sentenced to preventive sobriety, and tasked with corralling everyone when the time came to leave. “Fair warning!,” I said loudly, between songs, “reality is going to *****-stab you ladies in the back tomorrow morning.”
“I think you mean *****-SLAP,” Leong said, ever the aphorism police.
“Whatever it is, it’s going to hurt.” I amended. I’d been working (whining), stubbornly for half-an-hour to convince them to leave and finally, I said, “I’m texting Charles.”

OH, THEN the girls started gathering their things. “Ok, Yeah.., I see how it is.” I added, holding my phone like a grenade with the pin out.

The following morning Anna’s situationship broke up - by text - as if to add to the pain of her hangover. In situationships, it’s inevitable that one stakeholder will hope for more - but you have to paint it as casual, as no big deal. She’s pretending she doesn't care but anyone can see she’s been crying.

On the other side of the emotional universe - I’m riding-a-high - because Peter, on a facetime call, said he missed me - but it’s not just that - he seems more energetic, interested and actually romantic. I like us together. We’re choral (there’s no definable lead). I’m practically snoopy-dancing around the house.

Introducing my roommate Leong to my Saturday morning cartoon binge habit proved to be one of my BEST ideas EVER. She’s a very animated watcher, frequently laughing, gasping in horror and, in the end, delighted by these silly shows.

It’s almost a case for convergent evolution, how two creatures, from opposite ends of culture and the world can be so similar.

I find myself watching her, for her reaction, as much as the shows themselves - I’ve seen them before but I rediscover them vicariously and emotionally through her. We can spend hours dissecting character arcs and plot twists - we’ve found a small, stress-free heaven.

It’s 10:40am Sunday morning and Leong is dipping celery in barbecue sauce for breakfast again. “THAT’s just gross,” I deem, holding my hand up to block my view of this travesty.

“You should TALK,” she says, “Flexatarian!”

I gasped, like a slapped Chris Rock in the face of this naked aggression. “Why am I a Flexatarian! I demand, my mind reeling for context, “because I ordered the potato burrito at taco bell?” I look around for some sort of rescue or validation, but we’re alone.

“That’s so FAUX,” I say, in an injured voice, shaking my head sadly. “I’m by the book carnivore,” I say, holding my fingers in a three-fingered girl scout pledge.

“And you have to live with that trauma,” Leong says, scooping an extra large dollop of sauce with her celery as I make gagging and heaving sounds.

This story happened last year, last fall right before school began

Summer talk has stopped sigh - free and easy days, parties and beach trips are over. Now attention turns to the fall and the start of school and the “2019 Social Season.”

Fall begins tonight with a social (a very formal dress party) and the night ahead looms long - these are the events that, for some reason, my siblings live for shaking head - I hate them.

The British would've held this party in a garden - when they ruled the world - but we're modern man - we get the St Regis.

My two best friends aren't here tonight so I'm stuck with my "peers" - the extravagant children of rich houses - those seekers of happy times drunk with an absence of accountability - as they enjoy their metrical friendships and wander lost among forests of bad choices.

Have you ever seen people high on their own surface reflections? It's not a good look.

I see a new purse worth an economy car - honors at the feet of conceit - presented like erotica - let's all just drown in special privilege - "That'll cure racism" - I crack - to cow-like indifference.

Don't worry, my generation will save the planet - we got this.

Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses

If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
.
.
Songs for this:
From The Start by Good Kid
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Lover Girl by Laufey
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague

School's started up. sigh
I moved up a notch, of course
but virtual school *****.

We should be walking
- no, swaggering - ivied halls
with new dominance.

Seniors rule, true,
but with one foot out the door
- Juniors set the tone.

One more viral theft,
that renders long traditions
unapproachable.

This virus changes lives
- bodied within its limits
- what future will rise?

Here comes school
again - so it's time for
some school Senryus.

Teacher: "This piece is
really good, what inspired you?"
Me: "the deadline date."

Hours of homework
are up next - 'cause seven hours
school just wasn't enough.

I've come to believe
that "studying" is a contraction
of "students dying".

Awkward moment: A
boy you don’t know that well says
“don’t I get a hug?”

School uniforms
are the last, tired gasp of a
dying patriarchy.

You see a DARK bra
under my blouse? Oh, God! Who
knew girls wore those!

School uniforms, with
long sleeves, aren't made for
pandemic washing.

A guy told me that
girls in school uniforms are
a core **** motif.

I told him his grasp
of **** tropes must rival
that of our school board.

School uniforms are
meant to UNsex otherwise
provocative girls.

As if our entire
gender were attempting to
subvert algebra.

Do you think we’re the sort of girls to sit around on a Sunday night?
EAH (loud buzzer sound) you’d be wrong!!

What’s the opposite of seasonal depression - seasonal euphoria?
I’m self-diagnosing here, but I think I’ve got it.
I have all the symptoms:

Excessive happiness: a level of joy statistically improbable.
Compulsive smiling: grinning under the most mundane circumstances.
Irrational optimism: the feeling everything will turn out all right.
Compulsive socializing: relentlessly engaging in parties and outings.
Impulsive behavior: capricious decisions that lead to.. stuff.
Difficulty focusing: trouble concentrating on ‘serious subjects.’
Increased appetites: A craving for.. everything fun.

I have to call it. The symptoms are limpid, my diagnosis is:
Summer, seasonal euphoria, and it feels pretty good.
.
.
Songs for this:
Rooftop by Kelly Jones
The Game of Love by Katrina & the Waves
DeadBeat Club by The B-52s

We (Lisa, Leong and I) attended a cross-campus Health *** seminar the other day. I have to admit to some self-consciousness. I was worried that some professor would see us and judge - I still have some self-work to do. I’m fighting to be freer, to be well.

In an effort to destigmatize ***, they gave out vibrators - over a hundred in ten minutes - they ran out - there was a demand. That was pretty sic. I guess no one wants their dad to see a ******* charged on the family Amazon account (again).

Which got me thinking about how sexuality is different throughout the year - by season. Of course, this is the pandemic era. The last two freshmen classes have been the most isolated in history.

Which brings me to mask-crushes. Early on in the year, you may have had a crush on someone whose face you hadn’t actually seen. That girl mask-crushing on you might not think you’re as cute maskless but then maybe she’s not as hot either.

By the seasons. Admittedly, this is a cerebral look at a hot subject but I’ve asked this around and within my peer-group these are the agreed upon numbers.

Fall is when college began, summer tan lines were fading but the cafeteria was still full of summer stories. You were meeting new people or perhaps missing someone. You might have gotten a little flirty after you settled in. Still, temperatures were dropping and it was time to start covering up. ******* was recommended as the safe pandemic alternative but in some cases, new freedoms were too much to resist. ******* - 9, hookups - 1

In Winter things really slowed down, we got out even less and classes got grimly serious. There was a seasonal effect to the darkness. Of course, we needed to stay warm and maybe we cuddled up more. We’d met people by then and hookups happened but usually within our own social groups. ******* - 7, hookups - 3

Spring came in with a sneeze as the world brightened and those thoughtless plants pollinated. It was almost shocking to see how many people there were on campus. You tend to forget how many are around because everyone was sheltering or using the tunnel system. There were chances, on nice days, to get out and have fun again - just as those clothing layers started coming off. ******* - 5, hookups - 5

Then there’s summer - in my experience, summer sexuality is different - everyone’s freer, less stressed, the clothes are thinner, smaller and more revealing. The world is greener, brighter and hotter. Everyone’s making their critical summer decisions now. Some people I’ve talked to can’t wait to go home and get laid - not me - but some pretty explicit plans have been laid out around here. ******* - 3, hookups - 7

What are your ratings?

It's hard to feel like
you're growing up when you're moored
- sheltering at home.

I am patiently
waiting to take the helm of my
life's navigation.

My life, so far, is
prelude - I long to cast off
and exit the slip.

How well I know this place, I’m trapped in these interiors.
I refuse to step on cracks and I avoid the hateful mirrors.

I’m watching like a cat the many motions of the heavens.
I’m straining like a witch to extend my intuition.

I'm looking for hidden patterns in odd numbers that show up.
I’m sorting out the tea leaves that my mom leaves in her cup.

I’m sure I hear the whispering of the moon on predawn walks.
I think I’d hear the angels - should one decide to talk.

Oh, God, I need some answers - I've become a hopeless mess -
show me secret signs or release it to the press.

You know I wait impatiently, with several billion friends,
for my vaccine miracle - when will this virus end?!

Debilitating laughter
at the hands of a master
a ***** minded *******
who knows what he’s after

The ever subtle asker
he caresses and flatters
his clever patter shatters
cares that should matter.

Finally, we moved to extract her
the wobbling girl from Nebraska
from a drunken fraternal disaster
and the junior poised to shaft her

Uhh, sorry to interrupt
Anna, pick her up her stuff
We gotta go home ***, get up
Hey bud, touch ME and you’re ******.

***, you’ve had too much ***
when tomorrow comes
if you still want to slum
you can still bed the ***

We’re waiting for an Uber
Are you starting to sober?
No babe, you didn’t *****-up
Ughh, yep, she threw up.

I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
.
Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl

Leong and I are at a party, a graduating-high-school-senior throw-down. Their school year is over, and they are ready to darty. We’re at a lake house, well away from parents and neighbors.

These are the kids I high-schooled with - I just got promoted a year early. I get a lot of nods, waves and winks from some guys but none of them approach, like a mysterious inversion of attitudes has occurred - as if Yale were a nunnery and I’m a known novitiate. It’s just as well, I’m not looking for a hookup.

It’s Friday night, about 11:30 pm, the party started long ago and it’s britney-spears-2007. There are drunk girls in the pool in their underwear (Ok, that’s just exhibitionism, who comes to a lake party without a bathing suit?).

We’ve been here for about a half an hour, long enough to dance a couple of times. It’s hot and we’re sweaty but we can’t swim - Leong and I are moon sisters tonight - it’s our trauma bond. Our ad hoc solution, rubbing our arms and necks with ice, is congroovesive.

Leong is loving the bash, she keeps saying, “crazy,” like when large football players jump from the second story roof into the pool. It’s a huge pool, a huge party (with maybe 150 kids), a sound system that Led Zeppelin would envy and the house is a beach.

Everett, the host for tonight’s decadence, comes over and takes a seat by Leong and my lounge chairs. He’s a handsome guy, but there’s a cocky, entitled edge there that’s off-putting. He can be nice when he’s not trying to impress anyone.

There’s a break in the music. “You’re traveling this summer, I hear - me too - what games will you be playing?” He asks,
“I have my switch with me,” I say, “it travels well - not the whole console mind you - that seemed too extra - just the switch. So I’ll be playing Animal Crossing and Zelda - what about you?”
“Oh, I’m gonna play Grand Theft Auto - It was my favorite as a kid,” he says.
“You played GTA as a KID??” I gasp, “Why has THIS never come up?”
“I don’t know.” He admits
“How did your parents let you have that?” I ask, astonished.
“My dad’s the one who turned me onto it,” he confides, “he wanted a partner.”
“No wonder you love ******* music!” I say, making new connections.
“I DO.” He laughed. “You do,” I confirm, knowingly.

He holds a bottle of deep red something near my glass and raises his eyebrows.
“You can gas me up,” I laughed, “I’m not driving, I’m ok with it.”
Leong holds up her glass as well and he pours generously into our Sprites.

“What song can I play for you?” He asks, as a reward.
“I’m going to go basic,” I announce, after thinking about party music, “Beat it, by Fall out boy”
“You got it,” he nods, taking a moment to text the request to the DJ, before moving on to the next table.

After a moment, “Beat it” begins, there are a few cheers, but conversation becomes impossible.

Congratulations seniors everywhere!

We were at a small
bar, the place only served some
older regulars.

An elderly guy
in an old jean jacket was
talkative, friendly.

“What do girls learn at
Yale?” He asked. “We’re taught things, like
expressions, smiling,

pomposity, snark,
whatevering and stuff-stuff.”
I bragged shamelessly.

“Sure,” He chuckled, “sure
- but it’s worth the money I suppose,”
he gave me a toast.

Limiting yourself
can, in fact, set you free - try
writing a Senryu

Like a martial art,
a tea ceremony or
classical music

They are a tight dance -
controlled, disciplined, focused.
Other styles can drift.

A Senryu is like
a Haiku except it deals
with human feelings

I wear my heart on paper
Ink fills my veins like blood
reviews cut like a razor
but I’m addicted to the pen.

I pump words with every heartbeat
I hoard paragraphs in my room
I take interjections like a ******
I wear verbs like a parfum.

I’m feeling the contractions
as I erase awkward phrases
I write sad poems that feel like skin.
and fill sheets of diary pages

I blush at lurid pronouns
that I conjure then,
I consider putting word-play off
but I’m sentenced to the pen
.
.
.
*Inspired by Michael R. Burch's poem: At the Natchez Trace

I have a couple of ‘research for credit’ classes this semester and I’m spending a lot of time with my TAs. Teaching Assistants (grad students) are essentially approachable professors with longer office hours, faster response times and a willingness to spend a little time walking me through options, so I understand the material and don’t charge-off in some crazy direction. I have a flawless record of wasting time on the wrong things at the wrong times, so I never feel silly or dumb asking questions.
AM I having fun yet? Yeah, I am.

A bell dings. Let the fighters enter the ring.
There’s a gathering of things, then we rush for the wings.
Students are bolting from classes, like riders out of rodeo shoots.
Focused faces, off to the races, phones appear from a hundred places.

Outside, a cool, brisk breeze moves paper-mâché clouds, across the blue-dome sky.
Squirrels freeze from their thieving, and watch this sudden, noisy invasion of their world.  
There’s a bee-like buzz of conversations, from ahead, behind and in doppler passing.
“Question six - was that right - what are you wearing to the thing tonight?”

My tummy growls for some lunch time relief - a plea for a snack - or coffee’s appeasement.
I glance at my watch, there’s no time. I leave the path for the grass;
I have an immediate class! Why are people so slow?
I get heinous looks - it’s grass people - kiss my *** people.

I squeeze sideways in the crush to enter the Kline Biology Tower, atop science hill.
In the hallway I find Lisa, we share the next class. “Do you have a granola bar?” I ask.
“I’ve got two,” she brags, fishing one out, as we drop our bookbags.
As I moan with pleasure, she chuckles at the relief on my face.
The TA announces, ”You should have papers, pass ‘em, please.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Home by Luke Chiang
No Other Plans by Sunny Levine

you can’t smile, they won’t take you seriously