Long Roommates Poems
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We were at a club in Paris called L’Arc. It’s an outdoor club (spring break plus covid safety) that’s underneath the Arc de Triomphe. It’s 10PM and we’re coming from a night tour of the Louvre. The night sky was clear and it was 65°f. I was with my posse of (3) roommates and two guardiennes (provided by my Grandmère) who travel with us at all times.
The man chatting me up was as hot as middle-school but honestly, it was hard to fake an interest in whatever he was saying. Was my ½ interest going to ruin us - this thing we’d shared for 5 minutes? No, he seemed to say, our connection was stronger than that.
Finally, I focused on his WORDS. It was hard because the music was so loud. Hey, this is off-topic but who’s your favorite French band? You don’t HAVE one, do you? No, because they ALL positively felate.
It turns out that he was a tiger - inviting me home for a respectfully quiet banging session - because he lived with his mother. I reacted like any college freshman would at first by thinking I was about to be sick.
Don’t flag me as anti-sex (if we’re flagging), I like a joystick now and then. They’re cute and like dogs, they’re always glad to see you. But the idea was disgustingly retro - my parent dodging days are over. Besides, our (roommate) agreement for this trip ostensibly forbids random hookups and did I mention our two escorts in tow?
I kept my cool. After all, we had another tray of shooters coming - staying put was clearly the right decision. He took my semi-blank reaction for the rejection it was and disappeared back into the crowd. C'est la vie
.
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*Slang: tiger - someone who appears to be what they’re not.*
By the afternoon I was back-on-my-toes.
Almost every night my roommates and I sit around a low table in the common room of our suite, crossed legged, on cushions and do our homework. It’s less claustrophobic than sitting in our rooms alone and we usually have some music on, lowkey, in the background.
We’d just heard “Love Story,” by Taylor Swift.
“I like songs that make love sound easy.” I stated.
“Oh, because it IS easy,” Anna says sarcastically, “grab yourself a physicist and make a TikTok song.”
“Hey! I’ve got a beef with TikTok artists, I said. “At first, they release these stripped down, intimate, acoustic songs that feel personal, and then, if a song hits, they put out a new version that’s totally overproduced.”
“Right.” Leong agreed.
“Oh, yeah,” Sophie said, putting her hair back out of her face with a comb, “and some artists' voices are suited to simple accompaniment and the newer versions just don’t hit as hard.”
“I think Phoebe Bridgers is an example of production done right.” Anna said. “Her material continues to sound intimate and stripped down even though it’s no longer just her and a guitar,”
“On Tiktok,” Lisa adds, “when a new song works, I feel a connection, like it could be me recording a song with my guitar - so, I support them.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I updogged, “there’s a place for overproduction but sometimes the instruments don’t even sound real, like when they go all out electronic - then they lose me.”
“The big-music might drown-out the artistry we liked,” Anna opined, “but maybe that’s how they heard it, as songwriters, in their imagination, but they couldn’t afford it - the new version rectifies it.”
.
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slang...
back-on-my-toes = feeling back to normal / back in the game
updogg = when you add your two cents to an ongoing dialog.
It’s a Saturday afternoon worth waiting for. It’s 52°f and the sky is clear except for a scattering of popcorn clouds. I’m eating lunch with Sophy, Lisa, Anna (my roommates) and Peter (a friend) at one of the two residential dining halls that have the best pizza (yeah, you KNOW who you are).
We’re touching base before we scatter, shrapnel like, for the night. I’ll be hemmed-up by circumstance and in my most diligent work-mode. I have a presentation due Monday.
Sophy says, reading from at her laptop, “Research suggests that cat owners are seen as better looking and have more sex.”
“I have two cats,” I say, “at home.” I preen in my double-catness.
“I’m a cat owner!” Anna announces.
“My cat DIED.” Lisa reveals sadly.
“THAT cat did its JOB,” Sophy pronounced saliently, as if proof for the study.
“I grew up in a cat house,” Peter says.
“Ooo! YOU must have learned a LOT!” I say, batting my eyes seductively.
“Maybe we should get a cat HERE!” Sophy suggests.
“To cement our status!” Anna laughs.
The pizza was really good.
It’s a chill and rainy Saturday night in New Haven - it’s Superbowl eve! My roommates Leong, Anna and Lisa and I were playing a game of Upwards - it’s a scrabble-like word game and we’re all strangely super competitive.
My phone went “dunk!” A happy ‘Water jug’ sound messages make when they're from one of my favorites. The message was from Charles. He was at the front gate with a package that came to the house where Charles and Mrs. Charles live (about 600 yards from the dorm). He passed me the package through the bars at the main gate, “Thanks,” I said, “ga-night,” and he was gone.
Back in my room, I ripped the box open like Christmas morning. The word game could wait - this package was from Paris. The light beige, Jacquemus, ‘Les Ballerines mary-jane pumps’ I’d ordered (forever ago) had arrived and they fit like soft leather gloves.
“Ooo! Glampse!” Lisa pronounced.
“Aren’t they?” I agreed, swiveling my hooves to show them off in the full length mirror.
When I rejoined the Upwards game, talk had shifted to tomorrow's Superbowl.
“I read yesterday that Taylor’s on her way (to the Superbowl)!” Leong declared.
“I like that she likes the NFL now,” I said.
“A lot of people hate her for it,” Anna countered.
“She was on camera twice, for 11 seconds total, in a 3-1/2 hour long game. If that upsets you, you’re bringing a lot of your own baggage to the plot.” I updogged.
Leong wants to order vegan “wings” for the SuperBowl.
“What, exactly, are those?” I asked, apprehensively.
“You’re the girl who talked me into trying buffalo-frog-legs in Paris? Ney?” Leong enquired, sarcastically.
“Yeah,” I admitted, guiltily, “but they were delicious,” I said in self defense.
I’m picking the Chiefs 30-20 over the niners.
.
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glampse = glamorous
Sickening sweet smell of marijuana
A young guy with a super grin playing bongos
I had never seen that in real life, just on Dobie Gillis.
Come on up! My free-minded cousin said.
There were beds, but they were occupied.
I did not know people sleep during the day.
Being from the Midwest, this was all new
Are these your roommates? I asked her.
Just people, she told me.
I changed into my swimming suit,
Because I was in San Francisco,
And I thought there would be a beach
Someone started a sing-along in the living room.
I was intrigued; this was freedom I had never seen.
We’ll swim tomorrow, my cousin promised.
We never got to the beach
But I saw S Street
And I met real hippies
I found out my zodiac sign
And I learned I have gold in my eyes.
Someone called me an old soul.
It was 1968 I was sixteen.
And it was enough.
I fell asleep outside,
on Lisa’s windy, 50th floor terrace.
It was indulgent, sensual
and lethargic - it crushed.
I forgot the time.
The sunset was intense,
a violent shock of color,
like an existential smack in the face.
I felt a lot of joy.
I’m feeling optimistic.
We leave for New Haven tomorrow.
I believe in the future.
Leeza popped her head out of the glass doors,
she was wearing a small, pale, skin bikini,
“Wanna go to the (indoor basement) pool?”
I stretched like a cat, “Sure,” I purred.
.
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a song for this:
Hit My Heart by BOY
Relax by Vacations
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Our cast:
Leeza, my roommate Lisa’s 14-year-old skinny, redheaded beauty of a little sister.
Lisa, one of my Yale roommates whose parents live in a Central Park South, Manhattan Highrise
It’s Sunday morning and we’re in the new, exciting, daylight savings time. Peter and I are sitting next to each other on the big, red, corduroy couch in my suite’s common room.
All of my roommates are gone so we’re free to relax in our PJs. We’re quietly heads-down on our devices. When, suddenly, I realized, as I do every 10 minutes or so, that it’s Spring Break!
I side-eyed Peter who was reading something. Probably some interstellar statistical report whose roots were calculated in base 7. I slowly, so as not to divulge that anything was happening, lowered my iPad and set it aside.
Then I slowly, very slowly, begin invading his space - he doesn’t notice at first but I lean on him gradually harder and heavier. He looked at me, confused, but now I’m crawling onto his lap - rolling onto my back. He moves his laptop - holding it up and away with one hand.
“EXCUSE me,” I say, “I beg your pardon, couldn’t be helped.” I repeat about three times as I roll a complete 360° in his lap with glacial, disruptive slowness - making sure to elbow him gently in places and cover his face with hair.
As I climb off him, I jump up and start singing and dancing to this song I made up (with maximum arm flail):
K k k k King kong song
I’m sing the king kong
I’m dancing to the king kong song
Feel free to sing along.
I point at him and sing, “I’m talking to YOU!”
K k k k King kong song
You’re listening to the king kong song
Feel free to sing along
To the K k k King kong song!
I stop, striking a pose like someone on a Broadway stage waiting for applause.
“YOU,” he says, are a complete NUT.” But he’s smiling, broadly, as I jump onto his lap and begin smothering him with kisses.
There’s a lot of heat when all eight
of us suitemates are together.
I might have mentioned it somewhere.
We’re like surround sound,
or eight car alarms going off together,
it’s jabberwocky by an established team.
It can get frantic and frightening
for the uninitiated or inhibited.
Some of us are pretty boy-crazy
and there’s a mix-in of twinkling girl-crazy too.
We’re basey, bugzee, spaceheads and freaks,
yeah, we're the whole emotional spice rack.
“She’s a good person to kill time with,”
is pretty high praise around here
because we have so little free time.
But these are good people to kill time with.
And they’re portable, we travel, we invade,
we’re crazy young women who’ve got it made.
So if you’re coming at us, trying to enter our enclave,
you better be brave or a situational upgrade.
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Songs for this:
No New Friends (feat. Sia, Diplo & Labrinth) by LSD
Lysergic Bliss by of Montreal
Freedom Is Free by Chicano Batman
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slang…
basey = a cool loser, nice but a bit odd, a weirdo with style
bugzee = slightly crazy
spaceheads = people who talk about weird things
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Webster: Jabberwocky = meaningless speech or communication.
(a story in Senryus)
I can’t figure out
why everything doesn’t
happen like I want.
I brush my teeth and
floss regularly, I wash
my roommates dishes,
I am generous,
I don’t run in the hallways,
I do my homework.
I support pizza
places, Amazon - I spur
the economy
semi-sleepless night
no worries, but tossing with
no sleep - what’s with that?
My health app says I
slept three hours, four minutes.
I’m low on toothpaste.
five-thirty AM
Lisa and I ran four miles
on the gym treadmills
Banana/ peanut
butter/ cacao/ oat milk/ chia
seed breakfast smoothie.
I've been in love with
styling dresses, layered
over flared jean pants.
My first look was a
tulle dress over sequined jeans
and tan kitten heels.
The winter hook-up
scene is in full swing - not for
me, I’m like second base.
I just lay around,
in sad, unfettered, boredom
- a crying shoulder
for others, I’m not
a skanky whore, like [censored]
- try penicillin - ß??ç?
Since, as you can see,
I am, for all intents and
purposes - perfect.
I can’t figure out
why everything doesn’t
happen like I want.
.
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Webster: Unfettered: not controlled or restricted
ß??ç? is NOT a word, it’s a set of Greek symbols - if you read something in them, well, that’s just coincidental, isn’t it?
Three days in - three days of school - and it’s like I never left.
In school, you can get oversaturated with screens. I like books.
They have a sense of permanence, they don’t glare back at you,
and I want something physical I can grip, markup and push off
the bed onto the floor when I get over it.
After three days of class, I’m asking (no one in particular), "Are we there yet?"
I can speed-read if I have a pointer - I use cocktail picks (swizzle sticks?) - you know, the little olive skewers you get in a martini? I have a collection from all over the world.
If I go to a bar and they have nice swizzle sticks, I’ll gather a few up. “What are you DOing,” Karen, (Lisa’s mom) asked me as I scarfed up several from patron’s empty glasses at the elegant, Refinery Rooftop bar in Manhattan.
“I have a TON of reading to do,” I explained, helpfully.
“Don’t even ask,” Lisa shrugged, rolling her eyes, when her mom looked confused.
The trick to speed reading is your eyes (and brain) pickup more than you realize and people tend to pronounce things, in their minds, as they read, which REALLY slows you down. So, you swivel the pointer down the page, following the pointer with your eyes, and Walla!
You can’t do THAT with a computer screen. You need a book, and when you have 2 or 3 hundred pages (or more) a night to read, you can’t just hold your breath and refuse - like a seven-year-old - can you? Seriously, I mean, can we? I’m asking - though it’s probably a little late (senior year).
Now, of course, not just any appetizer toothpick or fruit pick will do - the selection process can be rather byzantine. They must be a certain length, about 2 inches longer than my finger, so my hand doesn’t block the text, and square ones are the easiest to grip. Finally, if they have a little arrow-point on the tip? Well, that’s true love.
The problem is, I can get a little intense when reading and they tend to break. When my roommates hear me exclaim, “God DAMN it!” At 2am. They usually know why.
.
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A song for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls