The Spider

There is a spider
On the ceiling.

He is over a fireplace
That hasn’t burned in months and
I wonder what burns inside the spider.
I wonder what drives him to
To hang upside-down like that
And crawl along the ceiling to
Where it meets the wall.

He gets closer to me.

He’s moving fast now
On the hunt
For flies
And a place
In the corner
To call home.

He finds a web in the corner
Just above me.
I’ve never seen that web there
Or it’s shadow.
I wonder if it is the spider’s
Or perhaps
Belongs to some other spider
Looking for flies elsewhere.

I watch my spider
Roll around in his new silky home
And I decide that he is a resourceful spider.
I decide that he is smarter than other spiders
That spend all day exerting
Their energy shitty sticky, delicate silk
From their frail abdomens
That I could squash with my big toe.
I decide that my spider
Is possibly lazy,
That he himself
Is a squatter
And will stay in his new home
Until healthcare is affordable
And the insurance companies
Stop caring
Whether or not
He has a pre-existing condition
Or is a healthy, safe bet.

My spider closes
All eight of his tiny eyes
As the rain beats down outside
And the doorways of closed businesses
Fill up with sopping critters
Looking for a place to dry off
And call home
Like my spider
Rolling in his fine silk cocoon
In the corner
Where the ceiling
Meets the wall
Just above my head.

One response to “The Spider

  1. Hello old friend. This one sings the lament of a mind incapable of answering its own questions and leaning toward the existentialist view. I know this song well, and you are blessed to be singing it still. I say this because too many other friends have stopped asking questions all together as a result of similar discordance. And where no answer is sought, none will be found. I felt inspired to respond to your poem below:

    What bleakness ever inspired a single critter to go on toiling or squatting? For the human, only the knowledge that there is a state of being achievable by the existing to exist better, not in a state of mere physical conditioning but in a condition of fulfillment counter to the un-answered longings of the existentialist. And for him whose trap it is to think existentially with the hope of physical application in the context of a culture whose comforts are defined by the predominance of physicality whereby advance is only ever achieved through consumption of limited resources, his hope becomes a stolen web whereby shelter and sustenance are the means to still nothing more than a well defined end (of physicality). And the hallmarks of his achievements, now decomposing excrement, proudly won from the mouths and inheritances of less capable or otherwise motivated human beings, who will in-spite of their less credentialed existence, meet the same End. What has really been won? In any light from within this world, our efforts to exist better are all as Solomon said; dust and vanity. Blessed is the man, who cries out, though limited by realm and varied capacity for reason, “Power from without! Come within!” to which the Power answers by its arrival incarnate, in the person of Jesus. – your firm supporter-tanner

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