effigy

where suns and spiders waltz

It's time -- for me at least -- to be reminded of this yet again...

29 June 2003
WHERE SUNS AND SPIDERS WALTZ

You know I hate spiders.
So why are you letting this one
just waltz across my windowsill?
I stare at it, stupefied,
till I realize that this bit of broccoli
crucified on my fork tines
looks far too like a spider
to eat now.
Well?
You know I hate spiders.
They're just real creepy.
So why can't you make a forcefield or something?
Right around my apartment.
A dome. With a sign.
SPIDERS STAY OUT
I know. I shouldn't flip out over a spider.
You made him, after all,
and he isn't really touching me at the moment anyway?
and if he ever does, I will set this broccoli down and
corral that spider into the racquetball jar
where he will drink a fatal dose of nail polish remover.

You know what you are doing.
The things you do, you do them in fine detail.
Always hitting too close to home to be a fluke.
And you know I love rainbows.
Like the medley all about
what's somewhere over one
and what a wonderful world.

And when the shower came like Noah-time,
and I saw the sun blaze up;
I knew sure there'd be a rainbow out back,
but blocked from view by that brake of trees.
I was satisfied to watch the sheets of rain
over the windowsill
and avoid a spider's gaze.
And I don't know how you did it,
because I got a D in Physics,
but you brought that rainbow
really close to home.
It came in my own back yard,
with the perfect trees as backdrop
and us as its ten-legged audience.
So I know where this rainbow ended,
even though I was so excited I forgot
to look down at the very blade of grass.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You know I hate to be wrong.
I hate to be caught.
I hate when people think they can read my mind.
I hate when no one tries.
I hate my pride
like a nest of spiders
that fills more than my back yard.
SPIDERS STAY OUT
Why do you let me wear it out?
Why do you let me go like this?
On and on like it's all about me.
Me and my piece-of-junk modem.
Me and my ink-empty cartridge.
Me and my so-low solo bank account.
Me and my piece-of-junk bumper.
Me and my still-empty passport.
On and on like it's all about me.
Like a spider that never dies
though it supposedly chose its poison
some ten summers ago.

Wash me out, like Noah-time.
I don't even know yet how much I hate boils.
How much I hate barrenness,
or poverty, or chemo, or losing more than face.
I don't even know yet how much you hate
how much I love my own agenda above yours.
Rain out my conniptions.
Put cracks in all my cisterns,
all my forcefield domes and dams.
Melt through my handheld walls.
I have no arm like yours and never will.
I cannot mandate with your thunder voice
where suns and spiders waltz.
My windowsills are not so sacred
as I may sometimes imagine,
and I might lose my appetite
for things I had in mind.
Cross my plans
more often with your weaving,
your webs of brights and darks.
You know I hate to be wrong.
I know you love to be right.
You know the perfect spot for
every unretreating dancing spider,
every thundered fluke or medley,
every moving rainbow's
end.

Posted by joydriven at February 5, 2004 11:29 PM | TrackBack