Subway Howl

Winter doesn't mean anything except as a reminder of time passing, and of our old hands that shiver and dry out and don't care anything about the calendar.  Don't speak about the temperature, which is like judging a book by its cover and makes you sound like an asshole.

What I'm concerned about is where you think you're going today, little children in puffy coats, and little women in puffy coats, and warriors of irony in puffy coats.  We're all going there together, you and I, together on our separate errands that are just so goddamned important, and doesn't that bother you?

No, fear keeps us apart.  All it takes is one started conversation with a human that turns out to be a devil person that forgets their humanity, and we swear to never speak again.

But if we were truly afraid we'd band together against the wolves or the impending disaster or upside-down Poseidon, or whatever plot device awaits us once we get to Manhattan.  In our case, it's just cold dry hands and the boredom of blank pages and old tired music.  If we truly knew fear, together we would form a praxis group and divide up responsibilities like a band of brothers should.

You, you pass around a tiny bottle of aloe vera skin lotion.  You, unwrap your Soho scarf and divide its hipster warmth around a dozen more hands.  You, show us all the correct way to coil our earbuds, so that we can stow them away and listen to You, you with the high voice and distant-faced boyfriend, tell us about why you rest your head on his shoulder while he looks out the window at the dark tunnel walls.

Where do you think you're going?

Why "Hackers" is actually a good movie

My annual Halloween poem: "A Tolerant Kind of Fright"