March 9

Fading light stretches before us in lace swaths of amber,
I have forgotten everyone. It hasn’t been long
Since faces escaped me. They ran
from sight, ghosted.
The cool breeze under theater seats. Public
places are always too cold.

We all jumped the gun on Spring. But how couldn’t we,
After feet and feet of gradiated snow, layers
of ice like quartz, and winds too biting
to be brave in. It wasn’t hard
to get one’s hopes up, and seeing crocuses
and daffodils for sale, well,
How could we say no?

Parks were sat in, sidewalks crossed to the sunny side,
Fuzzy dreams carried like expensive glass
and gingerly touched in the more shadowed moments of the day.
We all have a sort of deja vu,
moments of false premonition and imagined proximity
to the people we perceive to impact our lives, or any
kind of truth.

A. C. Cornell

Secret Douchebaggery

1: Last month, I had stiff paper clothes tags explaining the sustainable nature of my shirt sitting on my dresser for three weeks before I threw them out. I took the tags off it’s partner shirt yesterday, and not thirty miutes ago, reached for them, thinking, “I was such a douchebag last month, but I’ve grown now, I’ve changed, and I’ll just go ahead and toss them in the trash,” whilst inconspicuously drawing my hand away from them. My subconscious is a jerk, but my intentions are honest.

2: While brushing my teeth with flouride free, tea tree oil toothpaste, I looked myself in the eyes and ad libbed my reasoning to my Pennsylvanian dental hygenist.

3: It wasn’t necessary to point out that she’s Pennsylvanian, I just like to see the word in print. So, that.

4: I was hardcore judgemental towards some poor kid at the bar. Not verbally, but mentally I tore him up. He was a young yuppie who drank Jamison on the rock and kept staring at me and my “eclectic style choices.” My inner elementary student had a field day, so to speak.

BANK ROBBERS

He waits in the snow. It’s late afternoon, but that winter version that seems darker than night. His breath melts in midair. And what would there be to see, anyway? His invisible warmth? He feels nothing. And what would there be to feel?

She pulls up. She saw him, it feels like, seventy blocks ago. His gray hat, the gray sky, his gray exhalations. He is everything - the pavement, the cement buildings, every cloud in Brooklyn - and through this ubiquitousness he melts into nothing, and she can barely stand the feel of those layers of clothing on her skin.

The Future:

He’s bleeding from a bullet to the approximate torso. It doesn’t matter, he’s dying. She knows in his version she’s the one bleeding to death on the hotel floor, and he laments her body and his inability to protect her from plot devices. In her version, his life is slowly bleeding out on the shitty carpet. She feels relieved, then a pang of guilt, and then freedom again, the freedom of every mountain range on earth.

Now:

She pauses the car and he ducks himself in. Her car is black. They smile and make small talk too inconsequential for anyone to write about. Talk so small they feel they are asleep. And they could be, they’ve done this so many times before. The faint smell of adrenaline at the back of their sinuses, then nothing, nothing. And it’s that faint smell that keeps them coming back. They could get jobs. Working as a telemarketer or barista isn’t great, but it wouldn’t kill them. (The pun is decent, but she doesn’t say it out loud.)

She parks. They peck a violet, thin lipped kiss. He throws the door open in a wave of action, and strictly for action’s sake. She waits, maybe too long, and opens the door as if the handle steals her strength. She closes it slowly. A key difference between people; those who linger in the car, and those who rush out.

When they first started they fought over themselves, like tripping over shoelaces. Once was on the subway. It was quiet and hurtful, shallow barbs filled with poison. And when they’d finished he sat in silence, then offered a ten year old girl his seat, as though it mattered. As though a selfish kindness could be counted a plus. And she kept her seat and stared at an ad for business school. These fuckers, they all think we should be grateful for the smallest nugget of decency.

Blizzard 2010

The sky is collapsing
and I, for one, want no part in it.
I prefer gentle comforts;
hours of sleep, cigarette leftovers,
small appliances for emitting heated air.
There is much less possibility outside my window
than there used to be.
Besides, there is always the chance of dying
by the great, incomparable sky.

All Cooped Up for fun and unique projects.

I just went to pineneedles.com, and I’m pretty cool about having a similar name. They have chicken themed quilting squares. That’s pretty much the theme of this site, too.

Bucket List One

1. Get stoned with Tom Brokaw in Africa. Preferably in some kind of tent, or a jeep parked by a lake (nonsexually).

2. Meet the Burt’s Bees lady.

3. Become a beekeeper. Possibly professionally.

4. Go to Coney Island (an easy one.)