Generation "Y (Are You Here?)"

You can wrap up my idea of happiness and sprinkle it with powdered sugar.

(...and then give my future self diabetes? Candy-coat me, baby.)

It is fortunate my baseline for happiness is the ability to stuff my face with fried dough without the worry I will involuntarily throw it up. I'd like to thank San Sebastiano for having a feast day so perfectly timed, rolling every unhealthy Italian food I could want into my (almost) backyard during this period of able-to-chew-and-swallow. I'd also like to thank my potassium levels again, for their cooperation in getting me temporarily kicked off the trial long enough to be able to sneak away from the house for a few hours without (physical or mental) collapse. This must be what the kids who cut 8th period in high school felt like: some bliss, some adrenaline, slight touch of guilt.

Eating. What a joy! Being able to take large bites, knowing the digestion thing will just sort of "happen"...magic.

Anti-nausea medication -- what a whirl. Big ups to you too, my man.

I'm in a good mood. Mind is a-buzzing. Living it up while I can.

By living it up I mean my day-to-day included the casual blood test, because they forgot to check if I was pregnant during Monday's. 

The conversation went a little like this:
Me: Dude. I have one vein left. And it is still bruised from the past 3 blood tests.
Clinical Trial Nurse: LOL, fuck your veins!

During said blood test, the nurse gave my mother the low-down on her 22-year-old daughter who lies around all day and the stampede of 15-year-olds on welfare coming in with children and expensive shoes and all I could think was "Oh god this woman thinks I am some vicious combination of her hack daughter and every pregnant adolescent she's ever encountered." It is at such times I wish I had some sort of membership card, stamp, tattoo that signals to the world that I am not living in my parent's house by choice, omission, lack of job offer. Do they offer these things? And can I get it with the Penn crest? Something that implies "This person accomplishes shit occasionally. Also, she is totally not pregnant." (...as of last week's blood test.) 

But le sigh, there was no time for me to "accio" my degree, as indignant nurse was busy going off on the laziness of Gen Y (which she made sure to  clarify as "Why are you here?") I was fuming, which happens to look a lot like smiling and nodding.

Sometimes I wonder if this thing is just one big joke.

Drug Vacation

I've missed my brain.

I know, what a strange thing to miss. Surely it is always present, except during the occasional romantic fling in which it flees? For most yes, but mine had officially "left the building", as they say. I am uncloudy-ish for the first time in weeks. The strange thing is, I'm still on pain killers. Just (temporarily) off the study drug. Who knew how nice a drug vacation could be? Especially when it's potentially life-saving cancer treatment... but I'm happy, I am. I think I needed this. To reminded that I can in fact, compose sentences without drooling (it was getting weird) and stare at words for extended periods and have them make sense to me. So thank you, shoddy potassium levels, for giving me this required break from the clinical trial to pop candy-looking (not candy-tasting, sadly) potassium supplements. Compared to the study drug-oxy-vicodin combo, oxy-vicodin is a walk in the park. Like wow. You don't appreciate what you have until you're given the equivalent of an ACME mallet to the head in the form of a pill. yeesh.

So I suppose I should inform you that yes, I made it into the clinical trial. (that I was then "temporarily" taken off of. See Above.) I went to Ohio alone for 6 days and, with newfound nausea and poor appetite, (what a stellar combination!) force-fed myself whatever it is Midwesterners refer to as "food". Day 1 I attempted the cafeteria, only to discover it was in fact a Wendy's. It was at this point (and many others) I had to ask myself: is this real life? 

Dear god, it is. 

Anyway, so I go off my coffee/caffeine kick (suck it, doubters!) while in Ohio and developed a taste for apple juice. Yes, I traded in coffee for apple juice. 

...I was on drugs, okay?! Sheesh. 

I haven't fully recovered from the transition, that is, haven't been having much of any coffee mostly because there's no point in even pretending I'm going to be productive on the toxic combination of study drug-painkiller. I basically spend the days sleeping or counting the hours until I get to sleep. Or watching shitty TV. 

Also, I really like juice.

So I really just wanted to get in this tiny bit of writing before study drug starts back up again (potentially later today if EKG goes well) and makes me an actual dope. (Is panobinostat-lenalidomide dope? Meh.) If I can squeeze anything else out before the mallet falls, I'll send out another update. 

This is (Probably) Your Brain on Drugs

The key to becoming a master writer?
Hemingway: Writing drunk and editing sober.

Upon hearing this, the glowing bits in my liver were like:
- HA HA!
- Sucks to suck

...among other things, because I am sure they are sentient beings and can like, talk and stuff.

But I now realize I don't need to drink, because I am in a state of perpetual confusion! Prescription pain killers: the pregame of choice!!! I now get to double up on the fun because my doctors pity me and I admitted to feeling anxious over having to take Vicodin every 4 hours because that is hardly enough time for a good nap or to forget one is about to be in pain. So, now we have a once-every-12-hour "base" of Oxy and the occasional Vicodin.
I have gone from 0 to Real Housewives of Orange County in a matter of days. Truly impressive.

Once upon a time, I could say: All I need in life is Gatorade and Tylenol. Then it became: I run on Gatorade and Vicodin. Now it would be most accurate to say: In my bloodstream one will find Gatorade and (insert any narcotic Prep school boys snort in the locker room). Oh, and pita chips.

Oh lord, I cannot think. I just want to make weird sounds, roll over, and take another nap because really what else am I capable of these days? I must say I have become fantastic at napping, sweating, and "totally not crying" as in "I am totally not crying during 'Prince of Egypt' because of my newfound narcotics-inspired appreciation for music". I don't know why people take painkillers when they're not supposed to because I actually feel crazy. Maybe I am just a "high functioning crazy".
I should not give myself too much credit. We will go with "functioning crazy".

Lately I've been giving myself points for interacting with human brings outside of the house. This requires me to actually leave the house, so... fuck? Is it socially acceptable to walk around in a blanket as Linus so artfully did? I don't want to be a style-biter or worse, bullied by a tyrannical 9-year-old girl with a bad haircut.
These are the things I concern myself with.

Back to the point system -- Doctors and hospital staff aren't supposed to count but today I've decided that they do because my doctor and nurse told me they loved me in two separate instances. I don't know if it was to see if they could get a react out of me, drug zombie, or I am actually in a relationship with my hospital as I've suspected all along. It would make sense, as I've felt guilty "cheating" on hospital with the other hospitals I've been visiting.

If people can fall in love with ostriches and mailboxes, surely I can be in a relationship with my hospital? Let's not even explore the logistics of that as I've already carried this a bit too far for my liking.
Besides, I'm only back at my hospital to do screening tests for a clinical trial I'm ditching it for next week (hopefully). And get more drugzz, obviously.
The screening tests cover a host of things, but they're mostly concerned with how not pregnant I am. Under the clinical trial's exclusions, amidst all the blood, goo, heart, mind specifics that can disqualify a person, for those who still have some shred of a uterus one must be really, really unpregnant. If there are degrees of "not being pregnant", clinical trial patients should be on the "vagina dentate" end of the spectrum.
Me, clueless, is all: So uhmmm, do I just pick up a pregnancy test?
...Because I have long awaited the day my mother and I would go pregnancy test shopping together.
*drinks bleach*
Clinical trial facilitator: Uh, no.
She informed me I had to go to "legitimate testing center" where they send the requesting facility a report indicating if the eggo is in fact, preggo.

Unfortunately, the testing center we went to was run by a woman who, even after being corrected multiple times, was convinced I was born in 1998. So I am a little bit worried about the results getting...anywhere. Or getting a call from child services. Fortunately the other tests are being handled at a facility where the receptionists have proven themselves capable of entering numbers/can read and stuff.

Things are looking up.

Vicodin Consulting

I write to you in fever and Vicodin haze. 


It seems things have taken a turn for the worse since I've last posted, as my mutant inhabitants have rendered me (at times) incapacitated, writhing in pain, calling out for some god, spirit, cereal mascot to intervene. The pharmaceutical gods have smiled on me, however, and now I get Vicodin!! 

I have also tapped into the alternative medicine font for pain relief. I am always amazed by the ability of properly placed acupuncture needle to reduce pain; the ability of peppermint oil to cool fever heat. Apparently, acetaminophen can be harmful to the liver in large doses! Which is super, not just because of the whole "my liver is already fucked" thing, but because I will probably be on some form of the drug for at least a month or two as I wait for a clinical trial spot to open up, which happens when they kill off a patient or see a cohort (group of patients) through a full treatment cycle. Of course I was not informed of this by my oncologist, who prescribed the acetaminophen, because he really likes for me to learn things on my own. Or at least that is what I tell myself.

...to convince myself he still possesses some iota of usefulness as I attempt to finagle a treatment plan with the combined efforts of my family and friends. 
So anyway, some creativity is needed on the pain relief front.

In order to circumvent the lack of guidance in this whole "finding a clinical trial so my tumors shrink and I do not die" thing, I have transformed myself into a clinical trial consultant. The job, like so many other glamorous consulting gigs, has a large travel component -- involving flying around the country to less-than-desirable locations to conduct industry research and facilitate deals. By "conducting industry research", I mean determining whether any of the information provided before the visit via phone, email, idiot nurse or clinicaltrial.gov posting is at all factual or rooted in reality. By "facilitating deals", I mean pitching my disease profile to oncologists while not-so-subtly begging them to test unproven toxic chemicals on my person. Unlike most top consulting firms, company X ("my body") provides no training or any actual benefits. Though company X's clinical trial team promises to cover all the bases of a proper consulting experience: schmoozing, analysis, long hours, and pretending I can solve complex problems in front of others. 

Tomorrow I arrive in the culinary capital of the world: Rochester, Minnesota. Frequent guests of the hotel I'm staying at boast proximity to the very best in Midwestern fine dining. This apparently refers to the Red Lobster and Olive Garden in the neighboring strip mall. 

This is of course assuming I even make it to the hotel in question, as I managed to book a flight on what is probably the only airline in history to receive multiple 'zero out of ten' customer reviews. This is all because I insisted on a direct flight, as any less time I can spend not catching pneumonia in a freezing cold cabin with wheezing old men is worthwhile. Side note: fevers are wildly useful if you find yourself in need of a makeshift radiator when dealing with what can only be the airline's best take on an adventure in Antarctica. There is some sweating involved, but I am told sweaty is the new "not sweaty", so ..

---

I meant to update sooner, but waking up around 5:30 every morning to writhe, cry, take drugs, and pray for some medically induced coma to befall me until I get into a clinical trial has a less than positive impact on one's ability to focus. I learn something new every day! If all goes well, you will have another Vicodin-fueled post coming at you soon. 

To tide you over, I'll leave you with some highlights of my Ohio trip:

sticky-handed oncologists, naps on stone slabs, and a pizza guy with an affinity for left-handers. yow-za.

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Becoming a Cat Lady

Some stay in New York for a job. Others stay for a significant other.

I stayed in New York for a hospital.

But now we're breaking up. Or at the very least, decided to see other people. Taking a break. We will "stay friends", keep each other posted on comings and goings, and occasionally share bodily fluids.
...in the least sexual way.

As happens in many relationships, we've outgrown each other. Rather, my hospital has nothing compelling to offer me in this stage of my life (/cancer).
So, I'm on the prowl. My hospital has encouraged me to play the field and check out multiple options before settling down. (The relationship analogies will eventually stop.)

(...but not just yet).

I'm flying out tomorrow to meet someone new. As with all first dates, I will gain no useful information. We will exchange basics and backgrounds. Only on a slightly different tune, as I will be regaling them with tales of the failed relationships of my past and every health malady I can scrounge up from recent memory and record. (Note: this is not a dating advice column. Everyone knows such material should be saved for dates 3 and 5!)

Unfortunately, the decision to have a second date is as much theirs as it is mine. As I court this new hospital, he may decide to wait before following up. (hospital will now be referred to as "he" in keeping with the theme.) He may decide that he is "not ready for something serious right now".  The timing may not be right. He may be unable to give me what I want. (drugs) He may be unable to satisfy my needs. (drugs) He may do and say all of the right things (read: give me the right drugs), as others have before him, and still come up short.

I share a concern of many women far older than I: the biological clock. Mine is also ticking, but not so much in the reproductive sense as in the productive sense. My ability to function independently is diminished every single day I go without effective treatment, as the tumors colonizing my vital organs grow unfettered. Each symptom of their success is a new warning sign, a new harbinger of doom.

Fever, fatigue, pain, and malfunction may very well be the Four Horsemen.

(Now that I've made you sufficiently depressed...)

Like so many sensing their own draining hourglass, I find myself in a rush to settle down. I find myself anxious to find the right hospital to grow old with. And like so many, I worry I may end up alone.

(Or with a cat or something. I'm not picky.)

Real Housewives

I don't want to be the well-heeled couple gushing
to another couple
about the many things we have bought and are buying.
The description of a carpet installation. The importance
of a theme-appropriate centerpiece.
Then I think:
I should be so lucky to make it to 40 and have a
normal enough suburban existence to appreciate
the mundane.
Revel in the negligible.
So what is it that I feel when I overhear them? Pity or
envy?
Each stomach spasm makes it harder to tell.

Tales of a Linguistic Anarchist

Am I a poet?
No.
I just enjoy being cavalier with
grammar and
sentence structure.
This masquerades well
as creativity.
I am fortunate to have found a space that
permits one to
tamper with forms and ideas,
cause literary mischief,
commit linguistic sins with impunity,
say "fuck off" to formality and
"hello"
to balderdash.
(tasty, tasty balderdash.)
These things are important to me,
not being a person who enjoys being told
what to do
how to do it
unless it is to do something particularly cool or
to avoid grave injury.
(hence the utility of mountain-climbing guidebooks)
It is decidedly misguided:
my appreciation for this space and
the freedom it provides,
as it gives false notions of what the world wants and
expects
from the ants that run it.
The supervisors of the ant hills,
the HR departments of the hives --
all with a set of rules and an appreciation
for the order they provide.
To those who say
"fuck order!" or
"fuck the hive!"
they will fine a certain amount this time,
the next requires a formal review,
and after that, well,
good bye!
Subversive use of grammar is hardly
the marker of an anarchist,
but
one would do well to obey.
You never know the list you'll end up on
next time you meet the TSA.

I Could Just Eat You Up

And she was all like "I want to devour you".
Because if there's one thing boys like,
it's girls with
cannibalistic tendencies.
There ain't no party like a
Donner party
because a Donner party is
BYOB.
-
Would you like some white?

To Suck No More

I would have called the other day,
written you a letter,
I would have posted on your wall
but then I remembered




...die.


If the world ended tomorrow,
what would you do today?
(not tonight because midnight may very well escape us.)

I think I'd tell you I loved you
then, take it back
then say it again
...then take it back
and then pause.
to let that all sink in
and then


sprint!

(The adrenaline equivalent of an accidental kiss.)

Then stop.
breath
adjust
fall over?


Know that you kiss me at your own risk.
I may forget
or worse!
I may not.
worse yet
I may expect you to do the same
the horror! the pain!
shield your eyes from the rays of the sun,
though your skin remains unscathed.



Oh...


and die.

Love Gives You Lemons

I am ready to fall in love for the first time
to replace all other first times that were
forced first times,
unsure first times,
first of many times that all seem to be
the same.
A relationship is
letting someone hold a lemon wedge over your
heart’s paper cut and
trusting them not to squeeze, even the tiniest bit,
even by accident,
even when you make them flinch.
It means placing someone in the best possible position
to do the greatest amount of harm
and giving them a revolver.
It means trading in a bulletproof vest for a sign that says
“use me for target practice”
and hoping they never become bored enough
for a little game of Russian Roulette.

Rap of the Lovesick Sick Kid

Personality Test

Answer the following to the best of your ability:
When left alone in the hospital for several hours, how do you spend the time?
A. Sleeping
B. Watching Maury
C. Learning Klingon
D. Contemplating life and its mysteries
E. Beginning a journey to rap superstardom via Youtube

The title of the post impedes upon the integrity of this exam.

For some perspective, the video involves me in my hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown, and for added fun: with an IV jetting out of my left hand.
It is as terrifying as it sounds.
It required several takes; not for performance value per se, but due to the periodic intercom blaring that added just a tad too much authenticity. Not to mention, nurses get weirded out when they walk in on patients imitating Eminem to their laptops. Apparently such activities are unusual. 

The first few lines of this "rap" should erase any and all doubts of how absurd a person I am. (Or illustrate the dangers of mixing delirium with painkillers. The jury is out.)

Oh, damn
I feel woozy
is this a fever or
did you just kiss me?

Then there is a chorus of cliches and references to iron deficiency, Catholicism. I may very well be the next Lil' Wayne.
At the very least, my hair looks passable because the chemo-shedding had not yet kicked in.
(Hair Update: I have successfully managed to get traces of my DNA all over New York. Fingers crossed there isn't an unsolved murder any time soon.)

The periods of bedridden solitude that serve as fertile ground for the utter strangeness that lurks in my mind's corridors are interrupted by visitors: some announced, some checking for evidence of proper kidney function.

Every morning a flock of white coats in masks (There is a dress code to visit me. I am like the Pope.) arrive and stand clustered in silence at the foot of my bed while the most senior among them asks me questions, commands me to breathe. A med student would later inform me interaction with the attending (physician) inspires a certain kind of terror. I am merely annoyed. This white coat mafia is impervious to my usual escape tactic of inciting pity via demonstrations of wellness and boredom like the greatest of magicians. The attending shows his prowess at silencing bratty patients by announcing an order for massage therapy. (This is apparently a thing. And it is awesome.)

A woman comes by asking if I want communion, which I accept on the account that it is non-forced interaction with a human being who does want to talk about my bowel movements. (Standards. I have them.)

Soon after, a friend comes bearing a different kind of gift that in my heathen opinion is far more deserving of a "nectar of the gods" tagline: a Financier raspberry macaron.

A hopelessly bored medical student also finds his way into my room, probably because I am the only sentient being on the premises under 40 and unfamiliar with the hospital caste system. (As a sub-intern he is essentially an Untouchable.) He, of curly hair and Jewish descent, is a comfort amidst the unfamiliarity: it is as if I never left campus! My heart does not palpitate as it had with the male nurse (which is good, because it would have set off an alarm...) but our chat does prompt some of the usual getting-to-know-you anxiety: How would you describe yourself? What do you want to do with your life? How many children do you want? (I kid on the last one but given five more minutes I swear we would have picked out a white-picket fence for our future dog Baxter.) I should mention this conversation involved a mask and fuzzy yellow clothing cover and not at all in the sexual way!
I like my men like my hospital rooms: sterile.

Amidst all these demonstrations of friendship, I was being pumped with fluids via a technique I will unabashedly refer to as "double bagging". Meant to bump up frighteningly low numbers on the blood pressure monitor, it leaves one feeling like an overinflated balloon in a room of needles. (Sausage fingers: it's what's for dinner...dun dun dun) Sausages trying to escape their casings are terrible for typing, which is how I find myself weeks after the fact recalling all of these treasured moments for your amusement.

Until next time.

I Got a Fever (and the Only Prescription is Hot Male Nurses)

It began as all good stories do: with waves of energy coasting up the body from thigh to neck, gradually flowing back and forth until the change in temperature was palpable. I became light-headed and weak.

I had a 104 fever.

The excitement surrounding this discovery can be boiled down to a few lines:
"Can we bring you in the morning? It's 2am and not a good time to drive."
"...."

Of course, my friends at school are well-versed in the proper protocol for such occasions. They have hailed many a cab with proper snacks at inconvenient times to drag me, sweatpants and all, to get checked out. I once had a first date at the HUP ER and let me tell you, the saline is an excellent aphrodisiac. (Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.)

Anyway, so I was fairly convinced I was going to die. (Not entirely, but I did think to myself "If I die on rt. 3 because my mother insists on driving the speed limit at 2:30am, I will haunt the shit out of these people.")

I was greeted at main campus by a sleeping guard.
disgruntled: "Are you here to see a patient?"
disheveled: "...I am one?"

You're probably wondering what kind of person goes on spontaneous 3am hospital trips.
My best guess? People who should not be allowed in hospitals.
They include: people trying to siphon off morphine. people trying to pull a plug. people unperturbed by a sleeping guard.

I attempt to open the door to the urgent care center only to discover it's been chemo-proofed. Bastards.
The other human gatekeeper "guarding" the door points at the button on the wall: "Enter". Ah yes. That would be it.

With spotty wifi, my sole source of amusement is the unnatural and honestly, unfair level of hotness of the male nurse tending to me. His appreciation of my manicure and book choice confirms my belief that he is the perfect male specimen.
A friend offers practical applications of hot murses: raise a patient's blood pressure, get the blood flowing, other things increasing in inappropriateness.

It is time for the standard chest x-ray, a test used by doctors for the most accurate scapegoating. With each hospital visit I am further convinced this "touch of pneumonia" is just my lung throwing a tantrum. (It never gets what it wants!) I am escorted by a kindly gentleman who I am sure prefers his interaction with 22-year-old girls to not involve wheelchairs. He does get to tell me to breathe though, which I imagine is slightly erotic. Though this is chest x-ray number one thousand I have managed to forget the no bra and jewelry rule. X-ray tech assists with the necklace and all that remains is the question of the bra. I hesitate and decide that yes, I can attempt this sans IV-occupied arm. How hard could it be?
... I sincerely apologize to every guy I ever laughed at.

I would also like to thank Forever 21 for making see-through tshirts that don't appear to be see-through until it is too late. Really spices up those late night chest x-rays.
Working around the IV takes longer than the actual procedure. Also, I have a bra hanging off my arm. Casual.  The tech tucks my see-through shirt self into the wheelchair with strategically-covering blanket. I'm sure this guy is thinking "I really don't need this right now." And I'm thinking "How x-rated can we get up in here?"

I return to base and decide the best (read: laziest) course of action is to replace the offending garment with one of those ever-so-titillating hospital gowns. I wonder aloud about asking the hot murse for assistance with said shirt removal. I then remember the public venue and oh, the fact that I am not in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. I ask mom.

It is now 5am. I am awake because ERs are expressly designed to keep patients slightly on edge with periodic beeps, whistles, and scratchy-voiced announcements. I am surprised there isn't a circle of hell modeled after this. Side note: someone should really do a modern take on Inferno.

Another murse approaches and announces I need a second IV. These are not the kind of surprises one appreciates at 5am. He has kind eyes, so I allow him to fiddle around my arms without fidgeting and/or panic attack. He informs me of the blood spurting out of my hand in the same voice one would use to comment on the weather. I decide I like him.

A doctor comes by and throws around words like "sepsis" and "catheter". Realize I may be here for awhile and that they intend to do something terrible with my nether region.
Blood pressure is elevated: success!

-
Check back next time for med student interaction, "rap of the lovesick sick kid", and other bits of amusement.

Bath Salts: A Prescriptive Model

I have a prescriptive model for the world of the living:
Live.
But what of living passively through the carefully instagrammed photos of another life? The status updates that describe scenarios one only dreams of encountering, feelings one hopes to never know.
Live in a day dream of your own making. One may never know the difference of delusion if one refuses to compare to another reality.
I heard bath salts are excellent in that capacity.
…nibble.

Chasing Hurricanes

I would call you a rainbow but I
don’t mean to say that you’re beautiful or
out-of-reach or as rare a presence in my
life as a sun shower. Or that I can’t compel you
to appear because some outside force
decides how you come and go,
seemingly for a second. In the window of
my life you should be inconsequential: a
well-appreciated, fleeting
joy but I suppose the ephemerality of
it all has me finding you strangely wonderful.
I cannot chase you past the sun,
I cannot capture you beyond a
photo that convinces me in
times of uncertainty that you once existed.
The summer rain that spills in sun
seems to illustrate the coexistence of
futility and possibility.
I remain afraid
that I am chasing hurricanes
without noticing that the wind at
my back is taking me in circles.
You lace my eyelids when I
stare at the sun, you
soothe the sky’s wounds after it is
cracked open, you are meant
to lead to some greater promise or reward but
I know better.
I would call you a rainbow but your
sentience prevents me from
chalking you up to a perfect storm.
You exist with purpose.

Irrational Fear of Heart Tandem Skydiving

Years ago,
I decided I required courage.
My imagination runs away with me sometimes,
which is how I end up with these
worst case scenarios: heart hostage crises,
heart kidnappings, heart tandem skydiving accidents.
I have a Groupon for skydiving, yet
I'm still terrified of your opinion of me.
(and your opinion of my opinion of you.)
My self esteem has worked
tirelessly alongside my ego to construct an
appropriate Reading List, so that I may not
stray to the forbidden shelves in the library of
my long term memory as I devise a
best guess of what's on your mind (and
heart).
Real courage implies facing one's fears and
I hide behind a thesaurus.
Holder of parachute,
I cannot face you
and
if I had real courage,
I would face myself.

Continental Drift

I want to taste the
history on your skin.
Reveal the
entrails that form the parts
of an antique heart.
Childhood shoulder freckles
dot the i's of
everything I've ever sought to
understand.
I would follow the
trace as if Columbus sailed
with the intent of
discovering something
others
had conquered before.
I am unafraid
of untamed lands,
the rockiest of shores
that
mark the exterior of a
continent I have
only dreamed of calling
home.

Survey of the Universe

Although I fulfilled my natural sciences sector in a different astronomy, I feel as if I've graduated Penn with a "survey of the universe". Only with a focus on the vastness and varieties of human kindness.

Survival is a funny thing. So is natural selection. (It pleases the cancer patient to inform you that an 'Intro to Anthro' course said Darwin was a bit off.) But to me, the most compelling aspect of evolution is altruism. Some scholars say it is unnatural and unrealistic. I cannot think of a better environment for such an notion to thrive than in this hyper-competitive, pre-professional bubble we call home.

Though I'm afraid I must disappoint the Hobbesians and homo economicus* aficionados among you, for it simply does not hold. My proof? Commencement.
Or rather, my presence at it.
(I don't know if you saw, but there is a good 20 seconds of me butchering "The Red and the Blue" on the live stream.)

You see, without altruism there is simply no conceivable way (in hell?) I would have been able to physically don the robe, complete with multicolored hood representing an almost-not-terrible GPA in 36 courses required by my major to graduate. In that robe (amidst the itchy fabric), therein lies about a thousand reminders that I am capable and that help was out there if I asked for it...Plus or minus a few (thousand) extensions, emotional breakdowns in office hours, late night orange-mango juice runs, some serious Penn Nursing skills, dates at the HUP ER, straws for when solid foods were difficult, and hugs for when a life and this present seemed just out of reach.
If you looked hard enough, you would probably find things like "motivational text messages" and "reminders that you don't suck at things". Themes include: the defeat of self-doubt, genuine understanding, a triumph over internal and external bullshittery, "How are you?", you-don't-look-awkward-in-

your-wig-I-swear, I-still-like-you-even-though-you-can't-do-shots-at-Smokes. Distinct memories include: A walk home from class when I couldn't make it myself. The check-in phone call. Cleaning my central venous catheter every 4th day.

We are all incredibly busy people -- our Google calendars can speak to the vast multicolor spreads we subject ourselves to every week. The utility maximizer would simply not waste the time in-between prepping for "Consulting Interview X" and studying for "fuck-this-midterm Y" editing the essay of the girl-whose-chemo-brain-forgot-how-to-spell-deontological. It would be...irrational. (Pardon the misuse of every theory we ever learned, PPE.) That is, unless Penn kids had something else driving them beyond the ambition that sets them apart from (most) other graduates. This is where altruism, or "without any foreseeable benefit to self, I will expend time and effort helping the sick kid" comes in.
Somehow, amidst the ever-present opportunities to strive for greatness, network, kick-everyone-to-the-bottom-of-the-curve, my classmates found themselves (sometimes literally) hand-holding the kid who was sometimes too weak to walk it down to Williams. They willingly took on the additional weight of a physical and emotional burden that would probably require a couple credits and a lab course to fully comprehend. My classmates became purveyors of empathy, deviating from whatever normative behavioral model ivy league kids are meant to exhibit.*** They saved my graduation date and they saved my life.

Our baccalaureate speaker said it best when he spoke of the forgotten gifts: compassion, insight, and attention. It is due to the beyond-equitable division of these invaluable assets that I succeeded at Penn. And it is you, the almost-little-dictators-that-could**, that made it happen.

*PPE203: Behavioral Economics
**Dictator Game, PPE204: Philosophy of Social Science
***General douchebaggery, IVY001

Clinical Trial Diaries

I arrive hours early to sign off my consent and re-learn what the protocol entails. My official cell guy is out, so I get a Brit with a deep, sexy voice paired with an anorexic-looking nurse. I have him repeat "cytotoxic t lymphocytes" a few times for good measure. The high-cheekboned nurse asks if I've ever gotten an IV before. I resist the urge to attack. She then fumbles around with the one thousand or so multicolored vampire tubes that will soon be filled with whatever blood they can squeeze out of me.

After that we play a little game called "let's find a vein". which involves heat packs, slapping, and just a touch of squirming.  After that there is a round of "vein wrestling", which is surely equivalent to alligator wrestling, but with sharper teeth and (slightly) less carnage. (I've been running a bit of a losing streak lately. It seems the 2 years of poking holes in my circulatory system have started to show.) The nurse looks up at me as if the failure is a lack of will. Pushing tears back into their sockets, I have to wonder how four years swimming alongside the best and the brightest failed to prepare me for these moments of inadequacy. I am then left to muse about the practicality of ski resort warning signs on cancer patients. I would gladly walk around with a triple black diamond around my neck if it meant nonexperts would stop swerving all over my scar-ridden terrain.

Then, we pre-med and hydrate. Benadryl in the drip makes me less hostile to the nurse and generally unable to form coherent sentences. My very patient friend Dara arrives and hangs out while I nap-talk. I get "THE CELLS!!" or CTL (see above) and they are fortunately pushed in (doctor talk for "slowly injected") by the sexy Brit and not the green circle skier/vein wrestler. These cells have apparently been frozen and contain preservatives. I wonder if high fructose corn syrup is at all involved, and if they make a lean cuisine version of EBV-targeted cytotoxic t lymphocytes, and if Dara has 4 or 5 of them in her freezer. Like any lean cuisine, the preservatives make me nauseous and I am at the mercy of the green circler to remedy me via the sauciest of Zofrans. I inhale from the remaining sips of my Lemon Tea Snapple, hoping to evade the staleness of the room and constant disinfectant.

After 4 hours of observation and obsessive temperature-taking, I am untethered. My wrist is bandaged sucide-watch style and the orange taint of the disinfectant gives off the impression of carrot jaundice.

Freedom! If only til Monday.

Mutants and Missiles

My brain is melting. I am operating in a permanent semi-fog. I am the perfect date because I will say just enough to maintain conversation. In my period of hyperenergy, untethered by the swampy stew of decaying cells currently swirling about my thinking bits, I had developed a tendency for saying too much, too often, too loudly. Praise be, the curse has been lifted! Now I may operate like the friendliest of robots.

I take comfort in knowing that although my creativity has run off with my youth and vigor, my sarcasm remains in these mushy-mind times.

This latest dose of chemotherapy is not the worst I’ve had, for sure. My hair has a few more weeks to see if it’s going to stay, the nausea meds are hanging on tight, and I can still swallow at will. I will pat myself on the back after a brief bout of narcolepsy.

(...)

I have managed to walk myself into (surely?) the most hastily thrown-together clinical trial at such a prestigious institution. Initially I was sold on the idea of applied immunotherapy. I was assured it was “great science” and would only require a semi-regular dose of some mutant tcells who would, like biological X-Men or the finest of heat-seeking missiles (whichever analogy you prefer), target the blasted spots unlike anything has before and then I would skip off into the sunset, tumor and worry-free. I lie, of course. This sunset I speak of is actually a bone marrow transplant, with its own set of commitments and considerations.

I digress. Surely you wonder, dear reader, why I’m speaking of chemotherapy when the clinical trial pitch only mentioned tcells. Ah! What an astute observation. The chemotherapy was not mentioned during their pitch, nor follow-up, nor follow-up to the follow-up. And when the topic was breached, the requirements shifted no less than 3 times. 24 hour chemo? few hours chemo? 7 hour chemo? Oh, we can speed up the hydration to…5 hours. Oh good. Let me sit in this chair, with a tingly feeling akin to ice surging through my wrist, as you deliberate on the best course of action. Now that I have graduated, I have all the time in the world for you to determine the best possible way to kill off my white cells to “make room” for your well-disciplined mutants.

So here I sit, foggy and embittered, willing my immune system to “make room” for tomorrow’s houseguests. Let us hope they are well-behaved.

I know this blast comes out of nowhere for those of you who have become used to my poetic plodding, but I’m afraid this may be the tune of the day (week, month, some other unit of time). Also, for those who seek updates and know I am terrible at giving them, consider this part one. I think it is safe to assume if you are reading this, you are vaguely interested in the goings-on of my life. Or are a spam bot, but I'm not picky.

On Strategic Interactions (and Pareto Optimal Love)

I don't want to instruct you
on what I want.
I don't want to play teacher to
you, student,
because that implies some sort of
power differential that I
am not entirely comfortable with.
see, I'd like to think we
are on even footing in this whole mess.
we begin, both with asymmetric information
we only win
by efficiently trading our thoughts,
opinions, caresses, and general outlook on
life until our division
is pareto optimal.
by that I mean,
we make each other better off.
We are
not in need of the other, but rather our
stakes are improved by playing the game.
so, we cooperate.
we compromise.
we meet halfway on this bridge across
this gap that seems to be widening by
the day,
by the hour,
by every second that
passes and we haven't spoken.
I may not know much about building but
I would assume such a thing
stretched so thin
could not possibly hold the weight of us.
I am not trying to sink you with the
iceberg of a well-worn heart. nor one
comprised of the dark thoughts that
linger in the nighttime.
nor one measured in the
revelations or affections you simply
were not prepared to receive but it
appears I have made of you
a Titanic.
No longer wishing to float with the
weight of a heavy word struck,
it submerges itself
with the hope of
being left alone
at the bottom of the ocean.
It is only recaptured by the efforts of
scuba diving memories
whose sole job is to selectively
choose which pieces are
most suitable to keep; to refurbish,
to rose-color glaze over, and ultimately
store in the quickly-filling unit my
brain has allotted to disaster prevention.
History is a way of learning from the past.
May you store well in amber like
the best of fossils so that I may be
student to you, case study.
I could use a lesson on
strategic interactions.

Please, Be More Average

There is a secret to living a full life:
avoid emotions if at all possible.
these parasitic bits floating about your
mind and heart feed off your sense and
weaken your logic. Their sole purpose
is to hinder your decision-making and
get you into trouble. They are the
appendix of the intangible organs:
serving no purpose and seeming to
cause no harm until they
erupt.
Run, run from emotions!
Particularly if exhibited by another.
There is nothing more dangerous than the
emotional display of another person. A close
friend is worse. But member of the
opposite sex? ...why not just put your
head in an alligator's mouth? It is just as
safe and
probably more thrill-worthy.
(Also makes for a fantastic profile picture.)
and if a connection cannot be
documented in such a way, why forge it?
I much rather communicate with animals,
they truly understand. They are
suitable companions because they limit
their communication to assent or dissent. I
only wish to know if this
pleases or displeases you, darling.
What more is needed?
All other expressions are unnecessary
distortions or amplifications.
I have no use for such hyperbole. I want
clouds with my sun, I want ice in my tea,
I seek only the lukewarm! Only the lukewarm
will serve me.

Love Poem

This is a love poem.
Yes, I can already see you fleeing
at the mere thought of my
outreached hand and I'm over here
spouting sonnets.
Some
call me the gangster of love
and others
say
"you are a fucking idiot"

I love like the velveteen rabbit.
I don't know if you remember it,
but essentially
the kid loves the shit out of that
thing until its eye pops out.
Smothered by the infectious and
looking rather pathetic, the rabbit has
a fate involving tears, fire, and
hallucinations.
Yes, I guess I am looking for something like that.

I know you don't understand how I feel,
because if you did
you'd have to have the kind of appreciation
for insanity that would've had you
institutionalized
long before we ever met.
you see
love, this crazy, out-of-control feeling I
want to lock in my basement so it stops
knocking over the plates and making me, living room,
look all kinds of out of place
is
but an expression
and
you, though libertarian,
have really about had it with this
whole "free speech" thing.

Pulse

It starts with a
Pulse.
An EKG on a bedside
Table,
Beats dripping down its
molded drawers, it catches
your breath before it escapes
you. Chases
your racing heart
before it can cross
some kind of finish line.
What is an end? But a
ribbon waiting to be broken through,
slashed through like the
blades that seek it, the deranged that
crave it. The bloodthirsty waiting
for the cut. We take flight with
the beating wings that
propel us, with the hope that the
pulse
is enough
to carry us across the sky.

Cosmo Guide to Getting Guys: The Cancer Issue!!

Discuss growth. And by growth, I mean tumors. Use phrases such as "dead tissue" and "eating me alive" for extra oomph. We <3 (literally) damaged chicks!!
Remind them of that time you were bald. Visuals are huge.
Discuss death, emotional disconnect with loved ones, and general notions of despair. This is particularly effectively if you manage to tie in your melancholy to everyday items, like what you had for dinner or vacation preferences.
Important theme: morbidity. you know what's hot? morbidity. 
If you can, provide a play-by-play of your reaction the last time you got chemo.
Casually mention that you've had to carry around a card for being radioactive.
Outwardly muse that you feel you may actually *be* radioactive and/or toxic. Guys are totally into danger.
Suggest a day trip to your chemo ward next time they're in NY. (points if you offer to introduce them to your oncologist, who you think is a total bro)
Go into detail about the various scars/radiation markings you have covering your body. you know what really gets a guy going? scar tissue, baby. all about .. scar tissue.
Show them the wig. Or better, have it sticking out of a drawer in clear view. If they ask, say "you don't want to know"
Mention that time you had trouble eating and/or swallowing and offer him a nutritional shake of your choosing. (Hospitality is key.)
Assert your superiority via your sobriety. you know what's cool? not. drinking.
Elaborate on the (dys)functioning of your internal organs! Particularly if it's at all connected to the digestive track. mhm, bowels.
Elicit opinion on future treatment plans, with particular focus on side effects such as kidney failure or DEATH! People like to express their opinions.
When he asks what you're up to this weekend, say a PET scan. (Blood tests are total overshare.)
Lament that no one understands you. Allow them to make empathetic comment. Then, sigh loudly.
Brag about your recent Hemoglobin level. Maybe even platelets. Mention your ANC though and you're just an asshole.

A Touch Off Base

In a game of hide-and-seek,
you
are my home base.
Even though I know everyone else in
this silly game is
running for you and
you are indiscriminate with your shade,
when I touch you
I am safe.

I guess the thought of another finding me in this
elementary school game of "Predator" still terrifies me.
I run to you, familiar and awaiting,
knowing your sole purpose is to signal to others that
I cannot be caught.
I acknowledge this is a poor strategy,
but I cannot help but feel that
even after all this time,
you
are what I am meant to find.

I know I have to leave you when my turn
is up, know this comfort has an expiration date
but I'm going to keep drinking this milk until it
sickens me, until it curdles and cannot be salvaged
by a simple shake.

There is a patent fear in letting go of
our bases
meant to protect us from those
out there,
intimidating and with
uncertain intent.
But we must learn to let go of the trees,
fences, and side-of-our-mom's-cars we clutch,
for they can and
will never requite our
desperate hold,
never seek us out
among the trees. They stand
stoically and wait to be found, and
they will always
succeed.

If you

If you let me
love you, I will
fashion my best words into
a lullaby and my worst
into daggers to fend off the
demons from your rest. I
understand you. I want to
watch over you as if my
presence could offer some
form of protection from the
things that plague us, the inner
ghouls that are impervious to the
walls we craft in defense.

Stars, making you drool, etc

Whenever someone asks about my writing process,
I say it begins with the moon.
The moon has served as both my inspiration
and downfall. (I'm looking at you, tidal wave.)
It weasels its way into my central cortex (or we could say brain,
or conscious mind, or perhaps the proper term for
whatever it is I am attempting to describe) and successfully
manages to steal me from all of the things I am
supposed to be doing. And nyan cat.

There are some who will see the moon and think, "what
the flippity-fuck am I doing with my life?" They will then
light up and feel slightly better about their uncertainty. Oo, tingles.
Others, self-assured by their grasp of destiny's best jams,
will wonder how they can bring it to IPO in under 5 years. Or if
the martian target market really does prefer convenience to
price. On a scale of 1 to 5...

Others will consider the magnitude and decide instead
to hide under their covers. A blanket can't save you now, bitches!
Also, there is definitely extraterrestrial life because the person I
love is not of this earth. At least, that is what my
shrink/mother told me. I will send out a ship
straightaway to survey the landscape, pick up
an earth girl or two. Chicks dig rockets.

Perhaps there are others who sit beneath the
gigantic orb of what is surely the greatest cheese this
universe has seen and contemplate love. Is that guy I
text at 2:30am every-other-half Thursday also looking
at this thing? I wonder if he's into gruyere...
They, hopeless wanderers, walk directly into the
park benches guarded by the local homeless with their
heads tilted upward. Then, the sprinkler system turns on and
they suddenly realize they left their keys at home, along
with their wives and stash of real estate porn. They have managed to
once again sleep-walk themselves out of the
comfort of their homes to look at a hunk of cheddar.

I envy the comforts of the suburban life: the patch of grass,
the motion-detector alarm. The coolness of a breeze caught off rt 46...
 Ah, things. I would accept them all if you were also there to
glare at the leaky faucet at 4am or laugh about the mouse we'd
name "Earl" who lives in the lower-left kitchen cabinet. Smart fellow,
he undid our traps and stole the cheese. We had to keep him.

Writer speaks to (anyone)

If you kiss me, I will lose it.
- Now why is that?
Because this is unacceptable. You can't just come here, make me think you're wonderful, then run off with someone else!
- Who says I'm running off with anyone?
You! you did! It's in your eyes, your jaw. Your skin radiates "I'm going to leave you for someone half your age when you're old and enfeebled."
- How does one project that, exactly?
Don't question it.
- Well, that's helpful. What if I wanted to turn that off?
You can't, it's subconscious. It's who you are. You are a narcissist.
- Are you in love with me as much as I'm in love with me?
Shut up.
- No but seriously... If I'm so obsessed with myself, why are you here?
Are you questioning my ability to tolerate your rampant self-absorption?
- Yes.
I know you are terrible for me. I am doing this to myself with full knowledge of the inevitable.
- You should probably know that telling someone about all the terrible things they have not yet done is not the recommended way to begin a relationship.
Oh, it's already over.
- Making comments like that is also not on the list of "things one says to inspire confidence".
Must I inspire you?
- It's part of the gig, yes.
It is a tiresome one.
- You say that as if we've been married 20 years and I have "stolen your best years".
I've already written this story. I'm just waiting for the page to turn.


(This is a snippet of the bits and pieces I have floating around.)

for the birds

Is the day beautiful,
or
did you make it so?
I do
not think I'll ever know.
I am content with
the uncertain if
it is you
who keeps me
on my toes.

I am perched on this
sturdy branch
sticking out my neck --
save me before I fall
(unless)
it is into your nest.

Second Time Around

I will kiss your face until
it stops recognizing me. When that comes,
I too will call Lacuna and
beg for the offending stain to be lifted,
like the best of dry cleaners.
I pray for enough time to properly
wear out this shirt with sleeves,
hope for enough memories captured in
its threads before its edges fray, irreparably
damaged with no chance of
a replacement button or bow. I shop exclusively
in second-hand stores, knowing all the good
things have
had a time around before.

Past owners who have
hung you back on their shelves then
released you for a tax break, I thank them for the
opportunity to cavort in your wrinkled strands,
sturdy and waiting to be picked up again, set aside
amidst drawers of thousands of other multicolored
rags from styles past to be reimagined, recast as
another's outfit. The uses for you may not end with
a stash to the back of the closet,
my dear,
you may be found again.

A Senior Design

I have attempted to put words to this many times.
many times tried, many times failed,
many times staring at a screen glaring
at me for my finger's inadequacies and my
mind's inabilities to satisfy the source, fill
the page with what it seeks, separate the
forest from the trees of this deceptive, deceptive
imagery floating precariously above me begging to be caught,
snatched like a ripe apple in its improperly labelled orchard.

I have taken on scarier things: death, depression, and
whatever lurks in the deep dark crevices of my mind.
I take
one look at you and
my muse excuses itself from the table and books it.
It says: I am not getting paid enough for this shit.
I say: you're getting paid?
It shakes its head and walks off.
I guess you are the final project of this class untaken,
the lecture without textbook and a professor with an accent
from the kingdom of babble, the land of gibberish,
the island of the incomprehensible,
residing in the sea of
"I simply do not know".
And I, eager student, want
the A+ in this class of vicious overachievers.
I do side work. I perform studies,
I conduct research. I have a focus group on
"whatever the hell it is you do with your time when I am not around".
They have inconclusive results.

I salvage these findings, put them in a blender and
hope to God "frappe" means something friendly.
The shriek of the whirling blades, as they jumble and mesh
whatever intimate details I can find stashed in my kitchen cabinet,
reminds me of the hopelessness of this practice.
Irrationality being the "doing of something over and
over again expecting a different result",
I guess I am the poster child for the
academic office's demand for an extended "drop" period.

I still want an A, though.

Earth speaks to Moon

It is a strange centripetal force that 

tethers me to you, 
though you are a 
world away.

I cannot pretend I do not feel it, 

do not hear its whisper at 

my back willing me to you. 

You bring rise to my tide with 

only a crescent smile exposed, 

my shores you unfold.

Full exposure commands this lunacy, 

the new a darkened sky. I count the stars 

that surround you in jealousy, forgetting 

the distance in my mind.

My eternal fascination, the glow 

to guide me home. Every night I 

find you and yet 

I am alone.

On (Heart) Regressions, Digressions, and P-p-palpitations.

(Or, now for something completely different...)

This is stupid.
but really, if you think about it,
this whole concept of
sharing one's inner thoughts is
utterly ridiculous.
Random strangers
poking around in your mind's diorama,
knocking over the clay figurines and
sparkle-painted ocean you spent
so much time crafting.
they don't know how valuable those
cotton-ball clouds are,
only you do! why share?
they won't get it anyway.
(amateurs.)

I decided to try
writing from the heart, because
it gets bored sometimes, just hanging around,
beating the same monotone pulse... It's like
exercise for your love-and-loss muscles.
It reminds me that I have them in the first place,
which is huge. I try to ignore them when I can and
I think I could be sued for negligence by
the State of the New York. Let's just keep that
between you and me.

Also between you and me,
loss and love muscles get far too much
credit in this day and age.
"follow your heart" and related maxims suggest
that the heart is something to be followed, when
really all it's trying to do is beat a drum, so to speak,
over and over and over again until you die, at which point it
may begin drumming again, slowly this time,
pending "do not resuscitate" clauses.
It's not asking to be a leader, it just wants to
do its simple job of pushing blood and bits around until
there's a hostile takeover, or the company goes
bankrupt, and he gets fired.
Then he sits on some ice for awhile until maybe
someone important or rich or important and rich decides
he or she needs a heart, because he or she is
trying to start an indie rock band and the pacemaker
is simply a subpar percussionist, no matter how you scale it.

The heart gets far too much credit for being this
"sensitive guy",
just because he was willing to sit through a
couple romcoms with his exgirlfriend and cried when
his grandma died, somehow we think he deserves
"matters of the heart". Heart is a liar like
those people who rent leather couches for parties.
He's not the expert on emotions at all. Actually, he's been
borrowing emotions, (at a good price though, he knows
a guy... ) And by a guy I mean the boss, the mind, who got tired of
being blamed for everyone's poor decision-making, especially with his
reputation for being the best decision maker there
ever was. Pride before the fall, lovelies. Whoever decided the
brain was the best at choice clearly never met my
friend "eenie meenie miney moe" or my other friend, fatalist Tom.
Clearly these people never took a behavioral economics course,
or are too biased in their search to even
stumble upon an article telling them how silly
human beings are, and how incompetent they are at
maximizing their own utility.

Heart is actually the most famous scapegoat. But
he doesn’t care, he’s a sucker for attention and loves
getting referenced by every single country singer
there ever was, because for every song title with
“heart” in it he gets at least 3 cents. I digress. I digress quite a bit actually,
it is a hobby of mine. I plan on digressing in Europe next month
at the digressing convention, pending someone gets off topic enough
at the professors who forget to drink coffee convention to plan it.
Banking on a tangent always leaves you someplace interesting. Or
at least unexpected. Or at least three-dimensional, if we are speaking of planes.

"stranger's diary"

22/30

we found you on the steps
of an abandoned church in the countryside
looking for a home
you sat open and inviting to the occasional
passerby, should one ever approach.
page 131 cracked open, dog-eared with intention
begging for the intimacy of a close read
like a exhibitionist with an ever-unbuttoned trench coat
you sacrifice mystery for the simple
thrill of being seen
forgetting this is not the same as being known
or understood
for the abstract painting dwelling within,
sometimes it all a matter of thinking you are appreciated.

hold me like you would a thriller novel
clutching the pages with earnest
desire to see what's on the other side.
Getting high off the wrong turns and
feeling justified in the right,
fully absorbed into
whatever emotional connection the author
prescribes.
I write our story like smoke in the sky
look up while you can, before it absorbs itself
into the clouds.

"burnt dinner"

21/30

My lips are sunburned by the thought of you
the rays, they tickle like sunshine and
scald like overcooked dinner

You remind me of
absolutely nothing familiar.
I study the instruction manual of your palm
for clues to your efficient operation,
I dig into the dirt
mound where you hide your secrets
and maintain the shovel isn't mine.
I speak to the birds who grace your window
chirping your praises in interpretation,
revealing more than your
eternally blank stare.
You're empty so I paint you
in the prettiest of greys,
may you never shower off my
efforts of delicately faded shades.
A marking melts like
the warmed-over ice in
espresso to awaken you,
leaving but a watered-down jolt.

Like ice
I hold you in the palm of my hand.



(note: I know I took some liberties with this prompt, but I could not help but run (away) with it.)

"box of teeth"

15/30

nibble at your earlobe, dear
just to have you listen close
buy a box of teeth to always keep
your attention on it's toes.
(be sure to
protect them from the cold!)
for
idle chattering is a turn-off and
gossip is a crime.
click your tongue against your palate
as if the plate were mine.
sensitive and razor-sharp,
your eyes mirror a
kind shark's jaws.
layers and layers serrate rescue attempts,
slice open the bowels and
dump out contents.
Anything to read your mind
and inhibit risk of victim's tricks -
a palm of a hand or a
finger wrapped.

swim with blood and
up! you're snapped.

"after death"

19/30

I, your Lazarus,
require a savior to remove my stubborn stone.
is he (she?) to be delivered unto me
via Harvard med school prophesy?

For rebirth commands some kind of death,
bathed in some newness of
carefully constructed DNA
dangling strands intertwining,
(presumably not strangling)
the delicate ecosystem of my inner self.
I must open myself up to the suffering:
lay myself upon the perilously uncomfortable bed
intended for everything but rest,
to be strapped up as sacrifice
to the life-eating bits
sniffing out prey in my blood stream.
take me, all of me, render me useless
pull the hair from my scalp,
strand by loving strand
20,000 pangs and
only then may I begin anew.

Take the varnish off nails and
ruddiness off cheeks
the spring from my step
and the step from my feet
My mind’s a wedding cake
and you’ve had but a bite
it’s bad luck not to take but one more slice.

To rise again they say I must first die
To the graph I host I beg:
don’t even try.

I’ve added up karma and hope for a 10th cone free:
have pity upon a reincarnated me.

Transplant Me, Baby

A social optimist who casually dips in morbidity,
I bask in a sun whose clouds are
dispersed by the right word.
I handle the drizzle of a rained-on parade and
dictate the rules of a world outside of my own.

I know nothing of altruism, save for
human beings' willingness to share
literal pieces of themselves to
save the life of a stranger.
Be the match! A profile
never more clearly indicated compatibility.
10 defining factors.
(But, what if you don't like dogs ...or long walks on the beach!?)
Can I still accept you into myself, in order to become whole?
A marriage to last for eternity,
(or at least the next scan)
to divorce is to divide the children
organs, maybe.
I hear the court hearing is absolutely deadly.

"memo"

18/30

I want to express my hesitance
and this
is the only appropriate medium to
express unshared sentiments heading
to the trash heap.

You see
I found you once,
twice,
again, again,
all with the intention of
making our next encounter intentional.
alas, never to be so
and now
we will escape to separate spheres and
never again experience the beauty
of the occasional overlap in the
space-time continuum fate grants us.

I speak of fate because I believe in it,
like the tooth fairy before age 10 or
Santa before I got too wise.
Fatalist with some free will,
I guess I'd hoped for enough
of a nudge from this paternalistic universe
to make something happen.

I know you don't believe in anything but
humor me just one last time.
I swear the sound
of your voice could wake the dead and
I've been a flesh-eating zombie in your absence.
(I swear that was meant to sound more attractive than it did)
but it's been awhile and
I'm fresh out of reasons to perform for you.

So lull me
back into my grave before you leave.
turn out the lights and
wait for the storm.
leave me a post-it at the door.
--
A momento,
the memo
from a past unexplored.

"masters of the universe"

17/30

Legend said only the mighty may handle the sword
and rule Camelot.
We are Arthur with a 3.9 and leadership experience in
only the most prestigious on-campus activities.
Watery bints astound us, confuse us, refuse us
grant us thy sword and let us rule over the land --
eventually, we shall
turn your lake into a toxic waste dump,
pave paradise as it were and just
put up a parking lot.
(you'll have a reserved spot!)

Excalibur an offer letter,
(thou art VP of the round table!)
success is conquered territory of
an uncharted Saks Fifth Avenue.

Tax ye, peasant, because power in inheritable and
don't you know we own the plot you stand on?

Consider the facts, the figures of this handy report we've drawn up.
We are masters of the universe, and we've earned our spot.

"last, best kiss"

 11/30

Let us entertain the thought of artifacts bestowed
with magical powers. I enjoy
the notion that a kiss could grant me the
gift of persuasive lips,
not knowing, perhaps forgetting,
it's just a stone covered in piss.

I don't know what you could give me,
besides a herpes sore. Let us embrace the whimsy
of a gift with regenerative powers.
There is no need for finality
when
you can relive the magic every couple months
with the aid of Valtrex.

You seasonal strain of flu,
if your accent were contagious I'd
expose myself
(without vaccination!)
Yes, I guess you could say I believe in
the inherent risk of
getting too close to you.

"astronauts walking slowly"

I capture you
touching down upon my surface.
the craters stimulate caution —
acting like generous land mines, they
inform the user before purchase
and insure against buyer’s remorse.
In a world with asymmetric information,
it is nice to know that
visible scars exist as signals; keep the
soldier from stepping carelessly and
losing what is deemed central to his existence.
Keep us, our planetary gaze, from the mutually assured destruction of
being revealed for wanting,
possessing the desire to coexist and
exert the effort of a gravity-resistant step.
May we remain weightless
and numb to the friction
of our cratered spheres and merely watch
from a world away.
We remain in orbit, fearful of what we may touch.
If we place the wrong foot forward and
potentially say too much.

Swat

He sat upright in the bed he had made with the intention of impressing company. His eyes, once boring holes in the door his heart willed open, now lazily sank into their sockets. It was past 2.  She had said she would arrive at 1. He was in need of sleep, yet found the respite he sought would only come with her. She often swat in him in the middle of the night, but he did not mind. He liked to think it was her subconsciously lurching for his attention. It calmed him to think that she was not aware she always had it.

 Those assurances had long since left him as he sat alone in his dark room. His mind fit together scenario after scenario of the cause of her absence. Somehow, it always left him with the image of her in another bed. swatting another figure.

(This is a beginning in need of a middle.)
(...an end would be useful as well.)

Confident, Oh Confidant

Ode to muse and the idea of you:

You are a figment of my imagination.
Sorry that had to come out, but someone
really had to tell you before things got weird.
You're not real.
I conjured you from ideas of how people should act
and speak
and appear
before my very eyes and under my eyelids
I stole you.
You're a ripoff of all the warmth and energy
a human can exhibit.
(but at least I get to keep you.)
The dialogue we have is but
perversions of memories of those departed
and departing
(mostly by train, but some bus too.)
often hurried, though there were enough who
took the time to say good bye.
You're potential.
The realization of bad dreams and day dreams,
you walk across my synapses and then crash land
onto the stage before me.
I, your director, edit your speech and demeanor in real time.
There are several takes,
you almost never get it right
but I appreciate your flexibility, obedience
(as if you had the choice.)

You do manage to get me in trouble sometimes --
leading me down rabbit holes I
can't escape without tracking dirt on my soles.
No one really appreciates the airing of dirty laundry,
even if that's what it takes to become clean.
But it's never really that easy, is it?
I rehearse with you, tweaking and shifting,
creating nuance until you are completely
and utterly unrecognizable.
(and mine.)

Kindred

I wish I had lived on your freshman hall.
everyone abuzz with the promise of a new friend,
bedmate, study buddy, adderall hookup
signal loneliness with an open door
as night owls we'd flock together,
and by that I mean
I would find myself in the common space to be
privy to your late night delirium,
your existential crisis/es,
your drunken stumble,
whether you needed me or
not
I would take comfort knowing that someone found my jokes laughable,
my problems relatable,
my dreams worthwhile,
to the public, we would be almost-misanthropes but alone
we would drown ourselves in idealism and insist
our goals were substantive
Though we'd dwell in the sarcasm reserved for
those whose anger simmered, never quelled,
our kindred impulsivity would be the kind that
requires a certain kind of optimism.
We would
document our many firsts together,
as freshmen are wont to do and
the pictures would instill memories that could
triumph the limits of space and time.
you would tell me it was I who could keep you on track
to making the world something less farcical
and I would
take this perceived influence as a badge of pride
We'd match our yearning for understanding with
the right book,
as if that could keep us connected when
more than a hallway separated our minds.
Our geographic proximity would be replaced by
the active desire to seek each other out
when life got hard, or someone was easy.
Or, convenience could triumph.

I never had a muse until I met you.

Big Kids

1: Can we have sex when you're done?

2: (closes laptop) I'm done.
(Places laptop on coffee table. He stands up slowly, straightens pant leg, and walks over to the couch where she is sitting.)

1: Oh. Well I didn't mean to --
(She is cut off. He scoops her up in one swift movement and proceeds towards the doorway, leading to their shared bedroom. Upon reaching the unmade queen-sized bed, he places her down gently. She looks up at him, still standing, expectantly.)

2: (He sits down and turns to her.) Have we really reached the point where you have to ask me if we can have sex?

1: I didn't want to interrupt. You've been so busy lately. (She looks down in her lap.)

2: (Dwells on her statement and then offers) What are we going to do?

1: (Appears defeated) I don't know. I want this to work. I'm trying to make this work.

2: (Sighs.) And I haven't been. I'm sorry.

1: Are you going to try?

2: I want to say that I will. But there are going to be many more 70-hour work weeks. Many more nights when I'll come home with a report and an excuse.

1: I can understand that. I guess we're just different (looks up, focusing intently on his face) because when I'm exhausted after a rough day at the office, I just want to spend time with you. (She surveys the damage.)

2: (Pained.) I promise that it's not that I don't want to, or that I don't care. I do. I'm not sure how to convince you of that.

1: I know that you care. I just wish it was as much as you care about your job.

2: Oh, come on. Don't say that to me.

1: It's not that it's wrong, or that I fault you for it. It's just how it is. I accept it.

2: How long do you think that will hold out?

1: Long enough, maybe.

2: This shouldn't be this hard.

1: But shouldn't it? We want to have...everything. How could we have expected everything to just magically come together?

2: It's what we were promised.



(To be fixed/continued/fixed)

Friday Night Lights

 There were very few, if ever, truly romantic moments in my life. I've had plenty lustful and spontaneous, to be certain, however "romantic"(idyllic) has an altogether different quality that is rarely, if ever, spurred by the consumption of alcohol and a throbbing pulse of the latest club hit.

I take you to one of the most vivid of my memory: the state game.

I was 15 and hopeless. Desperate to attend the game he said he would be at (I never confirmed this to be an invitation, but that would not stop me), I got two friends equally dizzy with the thought of an entire stadium of well-bred, (hopefully) Catholic boys to go with me. This was this stuff of miracles.

We arrived and I immediately sought out the object of my desire. I don't recall the approach, but I imagine it was awkward and forcefully "accidental". My friends made friends with his friends. We stood near them, in seemingly-staunch loyalty to the side we had chosen, and I imagine that was enough for a while. 

The chatter is indistinct, though I do recall the moment when he put his varsity jacket on my shoulders. Ah, the perfect touch of chivalry. It mattered not that he answered I was a "friend" to an inquiring eye. At some point, his arms were wrapped around me, probably with the hope of sharing body heat as I greedily indulged in his warmth.

We stood there, his arms firmly around my waist, as we watched the final minutes of the game. 

A win.

Somehow, it's snowing. The crowd is dispersing. We're standing there, huddled for heat, facing the field. The flurries gently covered the stadium, ushering the remaining fans out except for us.

I turn and gaze up at his hat, which has just enough snow-covering as to not be obtrusive. Some have fallen about his brows. With little reflection or intention, I happened to look up at the same moment he looked down. Our lips meet. The snow, the echoing remains of fanfare, and us. 

We stood embraced in the cold, without a care for the dripping noses or sore throats we would surely have later. This continued for some time, until one of us remembered our ride(s) home.

Romance is the indulgence in the accidental.

(One should note this was written some months ago -- I do not want to give undeserved credit to my 5am self.)

A Nostalgia Shop

I want to create the universe in which my goals are actualized and it's as easy as getting into the right car at the right time. (Midnight.)

I revise history in my mind. I imagine the present as if I could write the screen play while playing the part. (It tends to involve a lot of monologues.) My hyperactive imagination considers the dialogue to be a crucial element in constructing realistic scenes - it requires more than a few takes to get it just right. This tends to keep the mind occupied til the wee hours -- time better spent dreaming about living those dreams.

One of my favorite remarks to make about this tricky, tricky time involves having a squeaky-clean mind. (As you see, mine is quite dirty.) I stole the premise from a Liar, except instead of erasing the memories of a person, I would erase the past 1.5 years of my life. "In an instant", I add emphatically, and whoever is sitting across me, earnestly trying to relate, nods vigorously.

Like Icarus seeking eternal sunshine, I too may be making a dreadful mistake by trying to escape with such cheap machinery. I realize this now.

For although I say I can save the "good" parts - souvenirs of the almost overwhelming kindness and compassion I have encountered throughout this ridiculous test of strength, what would I save? A hospital band attached to a "get-well-soon" dancing frog doll? A half-eaten sleeve of the Saltines I practically lived off of? A borrowed t-shirt to sleep in? A train ticket to Connecticut in the middle of the week?

But what of words? hugs? An understanding about "calling anytime"? Cupcakes and cab rides? The juice. 10 different juices. "I admire you."

No context. I have a midterm tomorrow in a course that attempts to emphasize the importance of it.

Written accounts of exploits and a handful of letters left up to scholars to translate have had piles and piles of commentary attempting to reinterpret the interpretation -- and I'm trying to work off some receipts and recyclables.

Happiness is all about the baseline. And if these many months have made the ability to walk a block without wheezing something to rejoice over, then I suppose I should leave them be. I am quite fine being excited over the ordinary.


(I'll fix this later.)

Tuesday's Grey (And Wednesday Too!)

Romance.
Lying out, nerd-ily mapping out the stars atop a half-unzipped sleeping bag, all while forgetting we're in a public park and there is some sketchy dog walker lurking around the bend.
Sharing a first kiss after the big football win as snowflakes gently fall around us, on us.
Furtively holding hands during the gooiest of songs at an outdoor concert, stealing knowing glances with each slight grip.

These are isolated events. And although our mating rituals now revolve completely around the local watering hole (devoid of all things warm and tingly, replaced with hot and sticky), we should take into account the importance of the ever-elusive "romance". The word itself is laughable, much like the varied attempts at it. I suppose it's because the "right" result is accidental. Or rather, feels accidental (enough). This is unfortunate, because not trying (i.e. waiting for the 'accident') is poor form. I refer, of course, to the "moment". The "gesture", of course, does require effort -- it is the effort.
(I'll finish this later.)

Romance is the umbrella term for the moments, gestures, and (often subsequent) feelings associated with the big L. (As opposed to the little l, which has its own, deceptively similar shenanigans to manage.)
(This too.)

Many have suggested that the feelings are there simply to cause problems. Easily tricked and confused with related conditions, such as a stomach ache or an anxiety attack. Is it lust? love? like? Some combination of these? I love your sense of style - want to rip off your shirt -- I think you're okay sometimes?
(...aaaand this.)

One of the Big 3 (religions) wisely suggested that one's life mate should stimulate the mind, eye, and heart. One of the most renowned sex educators of our time had a similar take: the relationship should have intellectual, emotional, and physical intimacy. But what if one branch is picking up the others' slack? What if the best possible score is simply a 2 out of 3?

I'm looking for inspiration. Triple-inspiration.
(Just don't be boring.)




(As an aside aside, you should probably know my absence is partially caused by my cheating on you with tumblr. I can't help it; it has pictures. Pretty ones.)