They gathered in the town square at noon.

The sun, towering at its apex, offered no shade.
Dust that had baked in the heat for years crunched under their footsteps, as a bone-dry wind threw swirls of it onto their shoes.
All eye contact was accidental, and swiftly averted.
No one wanted to admit to each other why they had come, because to do so would mean admitting it to themselves.
And they wanted to postpone that particular truth as long as possible.
Moments played out among the crowd, unseen in plain sight.
Here, a woman dabbed at her brow with a handkerchief given by her late fiancé.
There, a man sipped courage from a worn, smudged flask, an act he no longer bothered to hide.
When the last of them reached the square, stillness fell, as if they would be allowed to abandon their task and go home, if only they remained perfectly silent.
Overhead, vultures started to become curious.
The mayor stood on an upturned crate.
“Come on, people. Let’s get this over with.”
He ushered them past the bench beside him, where they took turns choosing from the stack of red.
“They’re all the same, people. Doesn’t matter which one you take.”
One by one they hefted them, feeling the edges, running their hands over the pits and scars, brushing off the dirt.
Then they surrounded their mark.
None harbored any illusion about turning away now.
The line had already been crossed, and they knew it.
So they drew back their arms, took a breath.

And threw bricks at the person who invented the “Reply to All” function.

Their work finished, they began drifting back to their lives.
A voice in the crowd spoke,
“Holy shit-faced Mary that felt good.”

Why is it

That we can send explorers to a moon
Chart the depths of an ocean
Peer into the core of an atom

Cure children of a disease
That would have ravaged whole cities
As recently as a generation ago

Craft a work of art
That defies the senses
And speaks directly to the soul

Solve for a variable
That hides among the riddles
Of an equation as long as a phone book

And invent a brand new tool
To better accomplish a task
That has been honed for centuries

But we cannot
For the life of us
Make an oatmeal cookie
That does not have goddamn raisins in it?

Aeron, O Aeron
You are the Excalibur of chairs
Or so they say

So then why will you not stop
Rocking all the way back
So that everything I do
Is at a forty-five degree angle?

Well.

I found it.

I finally found
The lever
That commands you
To knock that shit off.

And the Sun and Moon became one
And the sky swallowed the darkness
And bluebirds alighted upon my shoulders
And started to belt out “Evenflow”
As if tomorrow were never coming.

My back felt
As if I had just returned to Earth
After a lifetime in outer space.

Plus, the girl who sits in the cubicle across from me
Probably thinks that I grew a foot and half
Since Monday.

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas
Is for you to make them stop

This year was supposed to be different
“Surely,” muttered I, “they wouldn’t dare”
Not with the economy doing keg-stands
Right?

And yet
Each time I turn on my beleaguered television
There they are

More commercials
Where happy, good-looking people
Give each other brand new cars
Festooned with big red bows

Has anyone
Ever actually
Done that?
Ever?

Who are these people?
Oil tycoons?
Robber barons?
Bob Barker?

Listen, Santa
All I am saying is this:

Should I awake on Christmas morn
To discover my neighbors
All agog
Over a car
With an oversize novelty ribbon
My vengeance upon them
Shall be swift and devastating

And it will be your fault.

Give Mrs. Claus
A hug for me.

A sign
An omen
A portent

A way to know
Upon walking into the salon
Who is best suited
To cut my hair

That is all I ask

They all wear black
They all look hip/weird/European
They all use “volume” as a verb
And are thoroughly caffeinated

A total crapshoot

Which of them is skilled?
Which of them takes too long?
Which of them will not be offended
When I zone out?

Well
I have seen my omen

When in doubt
Pick the one
With the five-inch tattoo on her forearm
Of scissors engulfed in flame

Because, I mean come on, holy shit
That’s who you want cutting your freaking hair
Right?

Listen
It’s not that I don’t love this thing
I do. Really.
The brushed aluminum chassis sits by my desk
Like an objet d’art
The Quad-Core processor
Makes Photoshop sit up and beg for its supper
It’s probably gotten me laid
But here’s the thing
I tend to walk barefoot
Around the apartment
And when I stub my toe on the aforementioned
Brushed aluminum chassis
Oh my sweet holy bag full of shit does it hurt
Hurt like a banshee
Hurt like a storm surge
A symphony of anguish
Where each note is plucked upon a nociceptor
In my fifth metatarsal
So how about you guys work on that
Okay?

IKEA!

Where the only thing promised
Is anything you could ever need, for the rest of your life

IKEA!

Where magic lurks in every corner
Which is a lot, because the pathways all have fifteen right angles

IKEA!

Where we shuffle past fully furnished rooms
Exhibits of how we already live
People at a people museum

IKEA!

Where they possess the power
To transform any dorm room
Into that same dorm room, only if it were in Helsinki

IKEA!

Where 75% of the city learn where Red Hook is
And the other 25% say “There goes Red Hook”

IKEA!

The only place in New York
Where absolutely everyone
Walks slower
Than you

IKEA!

Where each helpful “You Are Here” sign taunts you
With graphical evidence of just how little progress you’ve made

IKEA!

The first store on Earth
Where someone has to show you
How to buy things

IKEA!

Where the merchandise has names
You wish you’d thought of
When you got your dog
“Here, Kläppe!”

IKEA!

Where everything weighs three hundred pounds
Because apparently the Swedes have learned to build furniture
Out of dark matter

IKEA!

Where a simple, elegant chair
Will, no matter how solid it appears in the showroom
Come in three boxes

IKEA!

Where Aisle 8, Bin 55
Does not actually exist

IKEA!

Where I am just about ready to strangle the very next motherf—
Oh my good holy lord, have you tried these meatballs??

We get it
You have youth, you have ideals
You want to make things better
You want to matter
And impress girls
But dude, seriously
I’m just trying
To get some lunch
And so
No offense
But I am going to use
The person walking in front of me
As a blocker.

Sometimes
As I walk around Lower Manhattan
I imagine that I am walking in the company
Of Alexander Hamilton

Showing him the city that he built
The financial engine of the world
A system that he put in motion

We walk past the columns of the stock market
Looming mere feet from where his house once stood
Then along Rector Street
Past the churchyard
Where he lies buried

And each time
As my mind wanders
I am gripped by the same inescapable truth:

Sweet toad-fucking Christ I’m a dork.