immediations
werewolf There were such things as dreams last night.

I didn’t eat all morning, an accidental fast.

I dreamt earlier that I fucked my boss.

His hands were sweaty and his forehead was creased

it only occurred to me half-way in that he was nervous.

When he came, he jerked away as a person does

when you say something that proves too much.



Upon leaving the house, I first noticed

the orbweaver, with a nickel sized body but half dollar

With legs outstretched, which had set three weeks ago

and maintained for three weeks,

its web on the side posts of my front porch.



I prophet-stared at it for a moment

and was certain that the future of everything

rested in the center web at its smallest glittering point.

What if god is a spider, what if there is no god, only a spider?



I snapped out of that and blew hunter gatherer on the web

it bounced and seemed ready to jump at me

jerking like an angry marionette

I winced, then moved on.



Before leaving I talked for a moment to my neighbor.

she was an elderly clandestine dutch woman

who was tending her garden

Carnations, poppies, roses, irises –

it seemed a miniature Dresden, as bombproof

At the onset.



She lost her husband in the war.

Well, after the war.

He was killed in Germany by a Werewolf.

Stupid.



The single-mindedness of zealots,

cause and effect of there being no such thing

as safety,

also seemed to demonstrate that something would

always be.



Now she spends her time protecting her flowers

from deer and dogs,

and when she asks me what my plans are,

for the future,

is obviously made uncomfortable by the cheery, glittering carelessness

apparent in the wavering voice in which I answer.



I bicycle to work, the first pedal push into gravity

And then I ride it.



On my way I pass a tattoo shop

the façade is brightly colored,

hazard and attraction colors

and fastidious needles drawing them in,

the art showing the art.



The sign reads: The fine art of tattooing.

It might as well say, if you want a butterfly on your cooter,

Here’s the place.



I have tried hard in my life, at times, to be beautiful -

and have been uncomfortable every time I have achieved it.



When I arrive at work, my boss,

making a point of seeming nobly

more tired and energetic than I

tells me that he’s still waiting for my report.



I return home about midnight

and the spider’s legs are now outstretched -

and it is less fidgety than it was under the sun.

It lacks the capacity for doubt that would allow

me to call its poise confidence;

but in not knowing that it could very well

not be here tomorrow,

it ensures that it will be.



Noticing the chance of something,

it moves -

hunger is a corollary to existence,

The further we are from it, the less we exist.



I take a step back, my eyes trace the web

the smallest point becomes the largest point

from the center to the inevitable end strands,

but then back.



In dark, the spider's colors are muted, but brighter in motion

than the also muted colors of my neighbor’s flowers

it stirs poison and life in the moonlight, purposeful slow.

There are no such things as dreams tonight.
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