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. 060713 what's it to you? who go blather from