Author: a-spider-on-state-street

I don’t think any TV sold within the past six years has had any sort of DVD player in it…

Traverwood Library, 6:30PM, 9/11/2024

[an excerpt, or a cry for help]

there is small comfort in the whole truth, but there is no comfort in a half-truth, because your honesty is shielded by your shame. just because you can tell a story doesn’t mean it deserves to be heard. are you not shameful? we are growing old, novelty ripped out and replaced by convenience. perhaps i will write today, because there is also a small comfort in a whole lie, a brazenness mistaken for bravery. an undiagnosed feeling squirms in my stomach. it takes a lot of half-truths, a summation of sins and sorrows, to approach the mirror, speak the words–

You can drive for two or three days in Texas and not leave the state.

Yeah, it’s one of the biggest states.

Alaska is even bigger… look at that. Too big.

Pierpont Commons, 2:00PM, 10/31/2024

—it’s nothing, really, and it’s true, because nothingness–emptiness–inflames the mind and plagues the soul. i lick the envelope; it is empty for now, though it will carry the weight of a novel in its folds. i think of emily dickinson and susan gilbert, tongue and glue, attraction misattributed like an incorrect citation. the quote wasn’t theirs, did you know? it was written by carolyn forché. you are beaming. of course i knew, but i tell you otherwise because this is your moment, your gold nugget that you sifted from the crevices of memory. how would forché put it? tenderness is in the hands? that means–

But that’s just the way that I have to communicate with some of my relatives, just to let them know that hey, I’m still here!

Ann Arbor Thrift Shop, 1:00PM, 11/18/2024

–the heart is the toughest part of the body, though not for good reason. graphite needles puncture skin, drawing blood from vein to inkwell. you’re stationary–letters leaking, fingers bleeding, arms wound like a clock: forever crooked, never on time. the wire, peaked with clothespins, is slack and sagging. to allow for miracles, you say, even though you don’t believe in them. i believe in you, though. what does that make me?

to the right, the maxilla quivers. to the left, the mandible spins, closing the gap. hot breath, pulsing gums, the proof of life staring at you–do we make our own miracles?–as you stare back at the scythe, at the split decision–

midnight strikes. the gator’s mouth snaps shut. the clothesline pulls taut and the pins are falling, falling, gone.

[pointing to a bag of psychedelics] You laugh at me but you support it. Look what happens when you support it!

UniQue T-Shirts, 1:30PM, 10/16/2024

your face turns, a sunflower in september. a starburst of seven streams, blending together, repelling, intertwining. you grab my hand but i am already gone, a trip distilled into its core emotions. a fairytale nightmare, a frontal lobe stunned, or stunted, only time will tell. an infection, a parasite, a host and a contestant–the grand prize a great flood, for better or for worse? the earth swirls and sloshes. mud becomes bronze becomes clay becomes tar. i am trapped, anchored to a moment, watching the world spin forward without me, the present freezing into the past. i watch the drops of sanity peel from my skin, feel the beads of blood coalesce beneath my tongue–a ribbon, a pulse, a dream.

Like, I get it! Harassing me is only gonna make me want to vote less, you know…

East Quad, 6:30PM, 11/5/2024

we are always running to a graveyard or an office or a sunset that we will never reach. why would you take a golden ticket for granted? keep duties away from indifference. your voice, silenced, cut like a stem, put on display–oral histories drying up in your parched throat–and for that i mourn your loss, your vowels sharp as the glass that imprisons it, the enamel behind your teeth ground away like whetstone. this is your fault, your victimhood, your desire. we have split the atom and put it back together, you and i. it hurts to breathe, but we breathe anyway.

I need to lock in but the minute I get home… the minute I see my bed…

Chem Building, 9:00AM, 11/6/2024

wake up, you’re going to be late. now is your chance to tell your story. see the camera? smile and wave. your achievements are not interchangeable; your memories are not replaceable. you’re scared? i don’t care. everything that can go wrong might go wrong. life is full of might-go-wrongs, it’s how we built the pyramids, planned the skyscrapers, chipped rock from the moon. might is a powerful word, it indicates strength, it predicates possibility–trust me, there’s nothing stronger than a word that tumbles around your head. internalize your worth and wear it like an accessory. scratch that itch, spit it out, shed your skin and leave no trace behind.

wake up, you’re going to be late.

Joanne, how do you pronounce your last name?

(-)

[a moment later] Hey, stop talking about me!

Morris Lawrence Building, 2:30PM, 9/7/2024

under the norway pine there are faint notches in the bark, one tally for each secret you have spilled. its twin used to bear the weight of teenage angst, hearts carved so deeply they scarred the cambium. it burned down one night, struck by lightning in front of your house. confidence or coincidence? we were young and nameless; admit it, there is no more value in saving face. buttercup blues–scale a tree, snap a branch, so you can’t leave.

How many followers do you have?

One.

See, then the ratio of one to eight hundred following is crazy! Who’s the one anyway?

A random.

Mosher-Jordan Dining Hall, 11:30AM, 9/6/2024

we sentence dynasties of mice to their deaths, eyes strapped to a display, a paralysis of creature and conscience. outside, i am drowning in distractions. i see your mouth and i smell your voice, just out of reach, a parasite in the brain. i turn to the screen and immediately the sensation fades. my screams are reflected in a pleasant digital echo, but it does not matter anymore. above, an observer makes a note– turns to the supervisor–makes a face that betrays a flash of fear. the wheel keeps turning, though none remember why.

Separate my work from my life, I’m glad that I was the one to answer the phone before my story goes public…

Barnes & Noble, 10:00AM, 11/1/2024

there is a collage of shoe prints at the front door. how long has it been since i visited you? there are boots and canes and infant shoes strewn across the hallway. we embrace like lovers; we discuss the weather like strangers. the heat, am i right? we are two ostriches with our heads buried. quicksand logic: time moves slowly if we reminisce, as if memory moves counterclockwise and we can escape to the treehouse and the campfires and the blanket tents. your ingenuity reflects my innocence. the baby coos and you whisper lullabies in a foreign language–i realize it is foreign to no one but me.

You don’t need to be working when you’re not getting paid. Don’t make a habit of it, because when you leave college, people will take advantage of it.

Central Campus Classroom Building, 10:00AM, 8/25/2024

the lighthouse beckons. why do you listen? you’ve seen the scars: salmon slashes, tally marks against a dungeon. you call them bruises of honor, a spirit lived in pitcher and storm, throat muddy from screaming in the rain. bow, says the wind, and you do, with your knees in the sand and your face in the bowl of your hands. prayer or punishment? stop trying. the lighthouse blinks once, twice, and then winks out.

Summer reading for engineers? Summer reading??

Mosher-Jordan Dining Hall, 10:30AM, 8/27/2024

the seasons flit past–flecks of paint, a crumbling castle, an anchor in an empty sea. i drag my feet against the asphalt; i find solace all the insufficient ways in the way only a prisoner can. time dilates from within, a scrap the size of a single breath. a flattened lung, once composed of its consumptions, carving out my chest from the inside. i watch, delirious, as my name is etched into a headstone. they will throw my body out into the desert, a skull to be labeled an ancient and nameless king.

Is he really that short? I mean, he’s short but not short short. I guess five four.

Cancer Center Inbound, 3:00PM, 10/17/2024

we must be accepting of the things we cannot control. like two leaves skating the upward draft, we drive each other dizzy with our tongues (straight and sharp as quartz, a lesson in diffraction–light and feeling, are they really separate?) is it man versus man or me versus you? there’s a difference, even if you don’t admit it. i stare at the mirror, at the figure that plays with my hair and presses falsities into my mouth and avoids my eyes, and i know that no amount of time will turn it into a friend.

I don’t know where we’re going.

I don’t know either, but that’s why we can figure that out together!

RoosRoast, 1:00PM, 9/7/2024

i can see it in your smile, your hesitation, that your head weighs heavy by the burden of unremembered dreams. do you still dream? it’s a silly question, but your breathing slows. yes. don’t you? somewhere, a siren wails. i resist a glance. i hardly sleep! a deflection, but you don’t press it. both of us are suffering from a deprivation of intimacy, a betrayal of the conscience. i take your hand and we set off together, chained by sentiment, sentenced to walk the earth alone: one of us carrying a burned map, the other a broken compass.

No problem… don’t tell anyone this ended 18 minutes early and we can both get some work done, okay? Alright see you!

Traverwood Library, 1:12PM, 10/9/2024

time should be defined not by length but by density. with each rotation of the hand, a fresh layer of ink is superimposed on the brain–not erased, but written over; there is simply no space to contain our existence. the words form, stack, and topple. you are there but hidden, impossible to uncover. my tears fall alternatingly, like footsteps crushing fresh snow. the things i cry for, are they crying for me?

[grabbing a box of kombucha] you gotta promise me you’ll drink one every morning!

Costco, 4:00PM, 10/15/2024

breathe deep enough and you can feel your belly brush your spine. is your stomach touching your back? the government lacks a measure of hunger, perhaps because it makes fools of all of us: our stomachs, our eyes, our touch. food deserts parch urban jungles. apartments pop up like mushrooms after the rain, grayed and wilted, porous, vacant. you stand up–the sand will swallow us and make soil from our bones–and walk away. the ache inverts my ribcage and gnaws at my tongue.

up above, the vultures wait their turn.