Long Dorm room Poems
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We were (Leong, Peter, Anna and I) eating at a popular Italian eatery (outdoors) and the check arrived - I swooped across the table and grabbed the check from the waiter. Peter whispers, “You can’t pay for everything the entire weekend.” “Why not?” I say, “It makes me happy.” “There’s no reason to,” he says. “I need a REASON??” I snort, which always makes Leong laugh. “Have you MET me?” I say, shaking my head dubiously. “I’ve met you,” he pronounces, “and you’re a NUT. Thank you,” he says, indicating the check exasperatedly.
Peter’s transfinancial: a rich man trapped in a poor man’s body. He has taste but he exists on a grant and a meager stipend. We’re just friends but I’m holding a bag and he’s not. Besides, he needs a new laptop - badly - and shouldn’t be squandering his grips on me.
Greek-life is on the rise. Maybe it's because those groups offer planned social events or because, with COVID winding down (covid smovid) there’s more going on. There’s a pressure here - to be your most authentic self - to be top academically, socially - to have your calendar filled out. There’s a frantic nature to it. I’m being lowkey rushed for a fraternity (for next year) but I love my roommate situation and I think I’d druther stick with this set I love.
Which begs the question about social time. Should it be methodical, relentless, super planned out? Super planned interactions can seem transactional and not easy going and natural. College social life is so different from high school. College life is so much more charged in every way. The range of people you meet, the broader perspectives, the available options for activities.
I find myself in a search for balance. Private time vs social time. Before covid, you’d go to school and then you’d come home to your room, where you could just hang out. It was a self-care place.
At university, a dorm room is less of a “home” where you can be alone and spend that healing time. You never know who's going to be in your living room and what they’re up to. I get claustrophobic when my door is closed so I rely a lot on noise-canceling technology.
A dorm room can seem like those covid lockdown days - there’s little or no separation between academic and private space. I’m just unpacking some thoughts. *shrug*
Slang:
set = click/group
grips: duckets/money
holding a bag = flush/monied
Boyd and I graduated from high school
Then college roommates; we thought that was cool
Texas A and M became our new home
Bunk beds in a dorm room without any phone
It’s a military college, of course
You’re either in the Army or Air Force
And there’s a rivalry between the two
And things just might get out-of-hand, it’s true
At times, it was fun to sing songs at night
I played the uke; Boyd sang harmony tight
We acquired that Homer & Jethro sound
When singing their songs, we acted like clowns
We started writing new lyrics to songs
Making a point with words that were wrong
On day Boyd said, “I got a great idea”
A song to give the Air Force diarrhea
We worked it hard and finally got a wrap
The song “Hey Joe” changed into “Hey Aircrap”
The lyrics turned out great and was quite a slam
When our seniors heard it, they said, “Hot Damn!”
“At three AM, come ready and in-form!”
“To broadcast that song to the Air Force dorms”
We practiced the song and we were all set
Boyd said I think we’re as good we’ll get
A PA system aimed at the angle
To hit their dorms across the Quadrangle
Two speakers so big they could raise the dead
Cranked it all up till it was in the red
They said, “Charlie and Boyd, you’re on the air”
“Just give sing it into the microphone there”
We “let it rip” and everything worked fine
Woke everyone, just like they had in mind
Lights were being turned on in every dorm
Out all the doors from the dorms they stormed
With trash cans full of water; quite a sight!
An Army versus Air Force water fight!
Watched from our window and didn’t get wet
We started something that we may regret
Then we entered the Aggie Talent show
Singing Homer and Jethro stuff, you know
When we started our performance on stage
Half the audience was screaming with rage
They were yelling, “We want the Aircrap song”
We caved in and sang it and that was wrong
The words of the song were really too strong
For a Talent Show they didn’t belong
You know, I think we could have been winner
A reprimand instead for the sinner
Still these are highlights of my freshman year
I’d do it all over, let’s make that clear
And Boyd, the best roomie without a doubt
Wanted him to know, so I wrote this out
I think my dorm room may have a ladybug infestation. You know why I think this? Because I am usually, when in my dorm room, surrounded by ladybugs. I go to sleep with them. I wake up with them. And at this point, they are basically a part of my daily life. Now some people- normal people, would have filed a maintenance request to get them all vacuumed up, but of course, me being a writer, I've begun to feel pity for them. When I wake up I often look under my pillow and hope I haven't rolled over and crushed any of the poor creatures in my sleep. Honestly I know how all of this may sound, but I often think “aren't they just as alive as you and I?” I sometimes wonder if that's why I feel sort of connected to the little guys- they're my friends, my companions, sometimes even my confidantes. When I see them walk across my tiny desk-globe I more often than not, pretend they're walking across the world and I think of what it would be like to be a giant ladybug myself- travelling to delft or Milan or Paris- scaring the out of people. The sad part is I often have to play the role of a ladybug grim reaper. I mean some of them have to die, which I have to kill, or else they’d probably eat me alive. Although most seem to be attracted to the overhead light which simply instigates their acts of mass suicide. Occasionally I’ll take the courtesy of moving them aside, although when I roll up the blinds I inadvertently seem to kill seven or eight at a time. Often with feelings of remorse I try to think of them as martyrs for an open window. I feel so bad I often think back to my pillow and wonder if that would have been a better way to go and ask myself is it fair for me to even have to breathe? My dorm room may accumulate heat but they were simply just trying to live their lives, never asking for any trouble. Even now as I write this they scamper and scuddle on my cup of ink pens as if they're the ones trying to scribble this drawn-out message to defend and contend with how they never had wanted to be my friends in the first place. To say “although we may be killed by LED lights, ultimately we are the purest form of life. You are merely human and one day we will eat you alive.” to which i'd reply “Is this really about the blinds?”
Lisa comes into my room and flops on the bed. The day had been uncompromisingly gray, windy and cold. The night sky was a snowy, blowing darkness, an absolute void that absorbed the campus lights and reflected nothing back. “I’m missing Spring Break,” Lisa she says.
“It doesn’t even seem like Spring Break happened,” I say. “Most Yalies went to Puerto Rico this year, I think, from my sampling.”
“RIGHT?” Lisa said, “EVERYONE says that - we’re in sync. But *I* enjoyed Paris,” Lisa continued, “I liked your family - no - I LOVED your family,” she amends.
“THAT’s a strong take,” I say, chuckling.
“I watched basketball with your uncle (Rémi) and cousins and helped your grandma cook,” she explains, “I felt like a part of your family.”
“Aww,” I say, “You ARE part of my family now - you’re TRAPPED,” and we laughed.
They invented spring break because after several months, the student mind starts to notice a harsh reality - how much their dorm room resembles a cinder-block jail cell - and starts to wonder how a lifetime of study and stress over grades has gotten them no further in life than the average felon.
We’re at lunch. Lisa says, “Ok, what’s new with you?” Keep in mind we see each other ten times a day.
“Well,” I say, I’ve decided that “The Beatles are for spring.” Lisa laughs. “Stop!” I demand, “I’m going deep. Today’s song is Julia,” I say, “It’s John Lennon’s song to his mom who was run over by a car when he was a child.” “I love that song,” Lisa says.
“Ok, what about you?” I ask.
“My song right now is “Move like a Boss,” Lisa says, “When I’m walking across campus, with my air pods on - I’m intense, don’t get in my way - I’m dangerous, I’ll Will Smith you - I scare me.”
“Good to Know,” I say, wishing I’d gotten a lemon brownie.
Then add, “I’ve got this presentation on Monday that I haven’t even had time to *look* at yet. If I don’t get on it by this weekend it’ll be a nuclear-level disaster. I started on it yesterday and the Internet went down for 20 minutes. It was stressful - of course, you don’t know how long the outage is going to be when you’re IN it - and I had THINGS to do - is that convoluted? ”
“No,” Lisa says, nodding in agreement, “losing the Interweb’s traumatic.”
Dad and Scott carry the refrigerator into his dorm room
where mom makes the bed, smoothing the sheets
and folding hospital corners with motherly precision.
Corey and I sit on the bean bag chair contemplating
potential line width and dimensions
of releasing boredom and staying out of the way.
Dad has tears in his eyes and Corey whispers-
"that refrigerator must be heavy."
I watch as Scott hugs mom, then dad;
I listen as he tells Corey to practice his soccer skills,
"maybe then you'll beat me next time we play."
Corey heard "maybe then you'll beat me"
while the words that stick with me are
"next time we play."
Scott held me long and tight
like he wanted to tuck this moment away,
or maybe he wanted me to tuck it away.
To a fourteen year old with a high school career
of invincibility to be felt, four years is infinity.
A boy whoops and pumps his fist from down the hall
as we look and see him waving out a window
to his parents driving away.
Scott lets me go and gives a sheepish shrug of apology
for his hall mate because we both know,
he feels the same way.
I hold Corey's hand as we walk to the car
because that is what I need to be these next four years.
In the passenger seat my mom holds a box of tissues,
and in the rear-view mirror I can see dad's red eyes.
I put my arm around the back of Corey's seat
and whisper in his ear.
And now it's me.
I'm gone but I'm not whooping
like the boy on Scott's hall when his parents rolled out,
what noise did he make after a day on his own,
after a week, a month, a year?
I'm on my third year and I'd still take a ride
in my parent's Volkswagon anytime I could,
just to walk through my house barefoot
When Corey looks at me I hope he knows I still think
about that day we became Scott's pen pal
and each others siblings.
It wasn't about Scott leaving home,
but holding onto the four years that me and Corey
still had...
so what is it now?
Today it rained. It poured.
Making several trips from Vicki's dorm room to pack her car with her
belongings and our memories, we got drenched, even with our raincoats on. As
we finished and stood by her car, I saw tears, unhindered by rain, stream down
her face. I drew nearer when she said, "Stacey, I miss you already," and we held
each other in a long firm, yet tender, embrace, as we had done so many times
before.
"I L.O.V.E. U," we would whisper and sign and point the two fingers at
one another. Then, she would disappear through the Student Center's "Smooch
Room", and I would return to Robert's Hall.
In the Student Center is where we met through a mutual friend. Vicki
stood about 4'11" with short frosted sandy brown hair. She had small hands and
feet, but the biggest most beautiful smile with bright blue eyes. I had a boxed
haircut and stood 5' 10"- 6' 2" with the hair. We were introduced and then sat on
a sofa. Though barely acquainted, we opened up to one another. She allowed
me to help her through some trying times she faced within her family, and she
gave me advice and support in my present relationship. Day and night we began
spending more time together. Our lives began grafting into one life; naturally and
without force, we took on each other's interests- music, events, jokes, scriptures,
television, her attraction to yellow...
Vicki loved the color yellow, and she liked bananas. She didn't eat
them, but she would peel one (or two) for me everyday in the cafeteria. (Some
thought it was suggestive.) She pretended to be upset if I ever peeled it myself,
so I would get another one for her. Then we would go spend quality and
quantities of time together, publicly and privately. We felt it was purely platonic.
my doctor asked me what’s my truth. And I dawned on this question for a while. She came in the next day and asked me this question all the way up until I got discharged. On the way to campus in a smelly taxi I still couldn’t answer what my truth is. but now that I’m lying in my dorm room bed and listening to post Malone high, I can finally answer what my truth is.
My truth.
My truth is I’m too sensitive
I think I can fix everyone but refuse to work on myself because I don’t think I deserve this wonderful life because I have yet to be anything but wonderful.
I love too fast and too hard for girls with dark hair and pretty eyes. I love to the point where it hurts me just to think about falling in love again with the wrong person.
I never think people are the wrong people.
My truth is I’m so scared to get crushed because when my mom crushed my heart, I lost trust in everything.
I never let people in to the point where it hurts me and if I do let people in, I have this weird invisible wall over my heart so they can’t break.
My truth, I need everyone to like me, so I feel better about how I don’t like me.
My truth is I have depression.
I don’t know how to deal with it, so I make jokes and push my feelings so low that I forget I have them sometimes.
I’m scared of white people.
I'm scared of people with different views than I have.
I'm scared of the world and to explore it because then I won’t want to leave it.
I’m scared to get better mentally because I don’t know who I am without my depression.
My truth is I don’t have a truth.
I don’t have a truth because I've never been honest with myself about how I feel.
I want to die but I want to live, I want to love but I won’t let myself be loved, I want to enjoy life, but I don’t do things that I enjoy.
Charlie was as eely as a bar of soap.
I knew that in kindergarten when I saw him slip Ms. B’s bracelet into his pocket.
But I did not say anything, because it seemed funny.
He started out shoplifting, but I refused to help.
That did not satisfy him, so he was breaking into cars by the time he was eleven.
He went to live with another family, but we still got to go to school together.
By age 18, I saw his picture on the news a few time as “person of interest”.
He bragged that he could always give “the coppers the slip”, and he proved it.
He came to my college dorm room a few times to visit; he had the best stories, loud ones.
We usually looked over our stuff good and hard after he left – my roommates and me.
If you keep letting him in, we will have to move, they warned me. I had mixed feelings when they did.
Charlie and I had been good friends since kindergarten.
Seventeen years of friendship is ridiculously hard to throw away, so I decided to keep it.
Charlie finally got caught and held by the police. He was thirty-four at the time.
I had not seen him in four or five years.
I visited him in jail after his mom called me.
His stories were big and bold, outrageously funny! I laughed harder than I had laughed in years.
When I returned home, a green package of gum was missing out of my right pocket.
Slippery as an eel, Charlie was, and it made me happy.
That Charlie! I said, knowing I would go back and take more gum.
You cannot throw away a friend like Charlie.
I have a great piece coming up. This isn’t it, I misplaced it,
but as soon as I find it, I’ll post it. This one is less-than-perfect.
The less-than-perfect summer felt like love.
There were some genuine moments of glamor
and a few new, intense, sense-memories to recall.
It wasn’t easy but we performed that magic called
holidaymaking - things in life don’t just happen.
Ok, some things just happen, like slips and falls,
heatwaves, hurricanes, accidents and aging,
but the good things, like love, and hotel bookings
usually require a little planning and effort.
On the beach there’s a sense of infinite space,
but it comes with its own kind of circumscription
You know, deep down, that it’s only summer,
and the paradise offered is slippery and temporary.
It’s the dark side of long holiday freedom, that
the discordant noises of fun soon fade, like tans.
Strips of perfect polaroid pix, will be stuck to my dorm room wall -
scenes that will act as talismans, tchotchke-like reminders of
overly straightened hair, sweet kisses and foolish shenanigans.
So, bring on the less-than-perfect hours of study,
I’ve done it before and I’m just about ready.
Bring on the weeks of less-than-perfect sleep,
It’s senior year, the experience should be unique.
Bring on the less-than-perfect social submission,
I’m a less-than-perfect girl on a less-than secret mission.
.
.
Songs for this:
Don't Forget the Sun but The Explorers Club
Feel It Still by Portugal. The Man
“If u truly are here, then maybe I’ll regret this song”
Mother received a gift horse
She just never looked it in the eyes
Nine months later
she had more than she could lift of course
If going through labor was written in a book
Then some soul lies
Straight from her vaginal insides
I splattered my head
With the grisles in my infant arms
I gripped my throat
Assumed to visualize myself after dead
That day Diane realized
God doesn’t give a god damn
I’m stripping my soul of it’s beliefs
To provide one final volume
of what I have least to achieve
Laugh like I just want some attention
So unreliable
am I the only person you forgot to mention?
I expect nothing less than your undeniable attention
Dorm room fantasies,
Few episodes of *********** relaxes my *****
Storms doomed Atlantis see!
A new leprosy, father have you seen us
As you can see
God just doesn’t give a god damn
Vote or die, whom ever you spoke with is a lie
John Kerry, George Bush, it’s all in good hopes
I guess the worlds going to end anyways
So you can do what you want
For the most of many days
Now it’s me swinging on you
Loyalty is adored
But is only affordable through truth
Cry like a baby
Before I’d ever lay to make like a lady
This is not a war call
Just a scene where stars fall
someone give me a hug, maybe a tug
Before I purposely fall off this cliff
And become a hysterical myth
Maybe I already am
Form: