Author: a-spider-on-state-street

What’s a spikeball?

It’s where you take the ball and you spike it, dear.

Scheels, 2:30PM, 1/6/2024

humans are attracted to circles. they are soft, rounded, happy. an evolutionary tactic, or implicit bias? you think it is the former, that round things are less likely to bite, that pointy things hurt. i tell you that bullets used to be round as well. perfect spheres, lodged into tree trunks and muscle mass and the soft dirt that buries it like a seed. one day it will grow into a beautiful tree, with orange-veined bark and branches that wrap arguments in cloth. they have a name for that today: weeping willow.

Donate it, it’s thirty-one cents. I don’t need thirty-one cents, I already have a lot of cents.

Chipotle, 2:00PM, 1/14/2024

when we dream, we do it by replacing sight with touch. eyes closed, mouth open, arms out…we have replaced shooting stars with coins and candles: a tangible dream, a manifestation we can hold. the flame, the spin of the metal, a drop of water in the rain. in the future there will be fables written about fountains: a thief robs the trevi, heart of rome, and must fulfill the desires each coin represents. thirty-one wishes? one for each day of the month. pennies on the dollar — the sun will shine once more.

Why do you ask odd questions?

Why do you give odd answers?

That’s an odd question!

The Shelter, 7:00PM, 1/28/2024

the politician, modern-day sphinx, speaks in riddles. the figure in the frame has glowing white teeth, slightly yellowed. perhaps it is from the elements or the urine of the minority, or perhaps it is intentional — picture the candidates among the common people, hardworking farmers, suntans and crooked teeth from where the wheat slips though the cracks. i imagine the paws of the sphinx cupping a palm of water, a vision of truth broken in ripples. slipping through the cracks, indeed.

She texts me and she goes, “hey, are you busy March 22nd?” I’m like bro, how would I know??

Kroger, 6:00PM, 12/14/2023

the missed-step feeling lingers. you grip a warm mug, waiting. watching. stir in two packets of sugar, or sweetener, or guilt. barista turns into bartender. time does not pass, or does it pass too quickly? on certain days we sit back and compare our inadequacies, our sterile speeches. save the date! what really needs to be saved? the guilt dissolves with the heat of the coffee.

I switched next weekend, my daughter has a volleyball tournament that I want to go watch, so…

Scheels, 2:00PM, 1/6/2024

in a storm, only the sturdiest trees survive. they tower over the clouds and watch as their neighbors are ripped to the ground. anchors of the forest, lighthouses in the water. blinking, bending, never breaking. one of them waves a branch. screams i love you. the storm pauses, tilting her head. she giggles. her smile — the sun — pulls the clouds apart. these are the kind of trees they make national parks for.

Did you help around the house over the weekend?

Oh, no.

Wow! You actually relaxed?

Bursley Dining Hall, 11:30AM, 1/22/2024

the light in the window deforms as it shatters against the beam of dust. back when broken rules tasted like blood under the tongue — we were happier back then. the dishes pile against the porcelain sink. one day they will return to their homes; the cup recounts its better days to the silverware, like a scarred veteran clinging to life after a war. if dust could talk, would it scream?

Do you think work will say anything?

I don’t think so, I work at Banner Health but I’m in the office, I don’t deal with the patients face-to-face. I imagine they are more relaxed with their policy.

Yeah, if you’re representing a medical firm I’d assume they want you to be more, like, neutral, to cater for the diversity.

Fantastic Sam’s, 1:00PM, 12/12/2023

if diversity asked you to the party, would you have the courage to dance? verna myers would believe. she would seize the moment — you only live once, she might say. and maybe that’s the problem: we split into a fractal, a kaleidoscope of memory, illuminated by the neurons of the strangers we pass everyday. bright, blinking, gone. the moonlight catches the hairs on your cheek. i reach up to brush them away. upon closer examination, it is a scar.

life is short. wear it like a pixie cut, like a quiff, like a bob.

I have this really weird twinge about Instagram about being perfect. Like, on TikTok I don’t care, I’ll post about being silly or something but on Instagram –

Tiktok feels super casual.

– Exactly. I could have no makeup and be talking and I wouldn’t care, but if I did that on Instagram, uh oh, there’s like a mental block for me with the aesthetic, and appearing on other people’s feed, you know?

Denver International Airport, 12:00PM, 1/8/2024

consider a future modern art exhibition. large indium screens are plastered across six-by-eight feet windows. it is a prison, a jail cell, a red-blood among a sea of great-whites. my sense of smell strikes like a lightning bolt. the cloud erupts, quivers, begins to cry. why are you imprisoned? the door is open. all you have to do is fall. pull the plug. short pleasure, long repentance.

Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck in a hotel with a thousand other people that I don’t know.

Yeah, especially like the numbers on the door?

Mosher-Jordan Dining Hall, 6:30PM, 1/11/2024

stop me if you’ve heard this one before: an infinite number of guests walk into a hotel… where do they go? up the stairs, through the halls, n-plus-one steps more. the days blend together. who am i? you look to your right and i stare back at you. we are one and the same. i reach out at the same time as you, like a mirror, except our fingers touch. the shadow of the mind sends reality staggering. the doors slam shut. outside, the sun sets once more. spend another day with me?

You waiting for the bus?

Oh yeah. Where else would I spend my time?

Couzens Hall, 9:00AM, 1/11/2024

procrastination — otherwise known as the human condition — extends to the nature of the weather. leave it to the start of a semester for the heavens to open. salt crystals cling to boots like cooked rice grains. a child scatters frozen nuts in hopes that they will bloom in the spring. she forgets the squirrels are on break, too. some of them will not survive the winter. you tiptoe and your feet crunch into dust, blue snow into black ash.

No school Monday?

Yeah, they just got off break and now they’re going back on break. Mucho break.

Hibachi-San, 12:00PM, 1/12/2024

the clock is stuck in a traffic jam, inching forward slowly, steadily. it will go forty-five in the fast lane and trap you behind a veil, if you’re not careful. check your rearview and suddenly it disappears. when we are not aware, we become uncomfortable, swollen, like a rat that has eaten insulation. i follow your gaze ahead, to the monotony, the beauty of the crowd. one must live in the moment. to be half of two things is to be whole of none.

Do you want to go to the Victors parade? The football team will be there!

Will there be candy?

I don’t think so—

Then no.

Ann Arbor Coffee Roasting Company, 3:00PM, 1/13/2024

there are moments where the world rotates one-dimensionally. time and space funnel into a line. the parade swings past, and you are no longer next to me. we are one entity, a collection, a singularity, drawn to the crowd, to the players. any less and i lose you in the crowd and someone catches you as you fall — your eyes lock, a circuit complete, diodes shining. any further and you end up in front of the bus — whether or not it stops in time is trivial. in one dimension, there are no decisions.

luckily, we live in a world with three. left, right, forward. the sun is still out, but bright blue stars sparkle on state street.

I gotta go, I promised the boys I’d hop on Fortnite tonight.

How long does it take you to ride back?

Uh, about ten minutes.

Palmer Commons, 9:00PM, 11/14/2023

the controller is a time machine. i pick it up and adjust the portal, and suddenly i am in the middle of nowhere, or everywhere, or somewhere in between. perhaps i am in a dream. the air vibrates slightly, like above a truck exhaust on a summer day. for a moment, we are ten again. snow day, undercover, bag of chips to the side. no one has suffered loss because of laughter, i think. you laugh as your character defeats mine, just to prove a point.

Nice hair color, by the way.

Thank you!

I had blue highlights a couple years ago but I could never pull it off like you.

Jack Binion’s, 8:00PM, 12/27/2023

the yard of grass is black and blooming. the owner comes out and sprays a section with pesticide. the leaves turn blue and the ground wilts. for the aesthetic, she says. i nod in understanding. a speck of light, a lotus in the mud. enough to latch on to your consciousness — there are many ways to do so, and many more wrong ways to attempt. blue tendrils curl around my abdomen. they disturb the air with lavender and rose, touching a memory that is badly erased. like the outline of a traced figure, you return. are you smiling or crying? the wrinkles fade to oblivion.

Everyone but this guy. He’s from Washington.

Loyalties, man.

All I’m saying is if U of T and UMich played, I’d be rooting for UMich.

Yeah, because U of T is ass!

Cardiovascular Center, 7:00PM, 1/8/2024

twenty-six years is a long time. most spiders only live up to one. twenty-six generations ago, the wolverines tasted victory. twenty-six generations ago, humans climbed out of the middle ages and into the renaissance. loyalties were tested back then, too; it seems to be a common pattern of history. can history survive if the people do not make the same mistakes? will it fizzle and fall out of order? things will only have to be taught once. a converging slope, an asymptotical plane of information. in twenty-six generations, only time will tell.

You’re my last customer of the year!

Mobil, 4:00PM, 12/29/2023

as you cross a border you realize how much you left on the other side. pockets of people remind you of the little things in life. she will come to work next week; what has changed? the antique clock in the back room needs to be physically adjusted — it cannot handle the shift of the season. like dividing by zero, the clock face freezes, unwilling to continue, unable to comprehend. the cuckoo sings to itself. when the sun rises, the truckers line up for their coffee, now one year old.

See, when the restaurant seats two people at a place for four people, during the rush hour, you know they’re going out of business!

California Pizza Kitchen, 1:00PM, 11/24/2023

the cafe shutters its windows and chains the doors. you used to work there, and i used to order the simplest drinks and pretend that they were spectacularly made. now in place of the latte swans lies a stretch of dust, hold the sugar. i like to imagine someone will buy the land and convert it into a forest. one of the workers is allergic to pollen, i remember. stuck in the heart of the city is the best place for her. count the crows on the parkway — they paved paradise, and put up a parking lot…

Coaches are giving too much info. We just need them to figure it out! Two new plays and a whole new group of defenders come out and get the ball…

Starbucks, 2:00PM, 12/2/2023

just from the phrase, nothing is revealed. the sport remains elusive; the magnitude remains hidden from view. a new year brings a new list of expectations, but what do you do when the expectations exceed reality? i look you in the eye and tell you not to smile, but your eyes betray you. is it the universe hidden behind your iris, or is it glaucoma? as you blink, a third play — a tear.

the tide crashes against the mountain. the wolverine peeks out from beneath the storm. day has its eyes, night has its ears; up above, the howl of a husky splits the sky into two.