cedar ass

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spiders’ bacchanal

A spiders’ bacchanal down here
Eight-legged thespians skirting about
across the faux wood of my desk and underfoot on the beige mahalo
These onyx-backed beasts don’t give me the wicked respect I crave
Rather the opposite, they mock my rage
They rappel down sateen webs with the grace of silken ballerinas,
while I clumsily produce vague sand traps like a common ant
The warm April sun is out today
It mocks me too
The light pushes in, I do not see it
I do not want it to touch me
The basement is winter cold and autumn damp
With every bulb powered, it remains oppressive
My excuse for non-producing spinnerets
Spiders are flippant and insensitive creatures
an abundance of legs, but they do not help me walk
a treasure trove of eyes, yet my vision is unclear
They do not direct words
They do not produce art
They do not manage feelings
Am I a thespian like my spiders
Acting out in moments of blank banality–no better than a two-legged starlet with a bug up her ass

I must curtail my ‘creative passions’
No reliance on fake scuttling muses
A maturation must come with webs of fire
or they are out-of-control things, to be snuffed out
ripped apart for catching bad karma
I sometimes play the fool
I sometimes age wisely
Whenever my son chastises me for behaving like a child,
I sometimes behave like an adult

and the spiders laugh at me in mimicries of silver slandering

puppet masters

pear fingersit was a view with a room
a little bed for big people
we went in through an out door
our naked clothing
did nothing to conceal the thread of lies
weaving our blackout curtains
we weren’t supposed to be on stage
(oh)
a fortune cookie approved this union
it was all the validation two horny people needed
it began that way
for us
(lust) no intent of love
it was Paris
(not really)
we didn’t make it there
barely afforded the motel rooms
with bad prints of old fruit
acting French
or at least kissing that way
the only way lovers should kiss
is what got us into trouble
our wet mouths
proffered up Paris
(and trouble)
the kissing was sublime
better than eating Chinese noodles off each other
(we)
fell into the rice vat, lid shut
a bottomless pressure cooker
we required many strings
enough to fabricate thick blackout curtains
more to manipulate the fingered dowels
forcing our daytime mouths into slick sentences
we desperately needed to create a successful act
on this plastic puppeteer stage of ours