Spiderman ’79

Crickets, incandescent bulbs, and the same day, the same night, the same everything, for the hundredth time. I will die with so few memories from this year.

You’re so nice, you tie me in a web,
And cradle me ’till dawn.
You’re so deadly that I can see your breath
Beneath me when you’re gone.
You’re so windy, I’d like to pin you down
And tack you to the wall,
Spiderman, spiderman.
spider sunday, you blaze up from the south
With oil on your hands.
I’m streaked in grease and grime and idle mouths.
You’ve spoiled all my plans,
Whoa, ho-oh
Spiderman, spiderman, spiderman.

— Veruca Salt


Sometimes your mind stops, and the things that you’ve been thinking about every minute for the last five years disappear. You remember the long hours with detail, the times without preoccupation. The darkness, the clean sheets, the angled blue light of street lamps projected on the walls. The synthetics in the mattress, and the softness of her hair. You remember the things you could understand.

But in the morning, it’s all gone.