I try to write when I am tired but tiny spiders descend around my desk. Newly-hatched eight limbed-things parasail the silk lids over my eyes.
If only I could ride out the exhale and go at once adrift, self-rappel I would climb the silk suspension line swing from thought to thought thread the eye of the needle pull-ey up the beanstalk.
but instead I'm left to watch these aerial yoginis swim on a draft from the ceiling. These spinsters with their poetic acrobatics for whom rhythm is spun on silent trapeze-- make a play-swing out of gravity.
The tiny spiders that descend around my desk make me--an oaf. a self-honoring monument for climbing, a botched landmark to ---human ingenuity me, a moving pedestal for dancing me, a knotted up windsock hunched over a heated screen, trying to blow down metaphor, alliteration from these tiny kites that ascend the earth.
Tiny spider, tiny spider let down your silk tresses draw up my mind swing the high rafters I want to hang upside down-- make a play-swing out of gravity.
Yet when I pulled on the thread to net the silken-mouthed beast, words did not come down like mana from heaven.
Rather, my tongue grew heavy with cotton metaphor, alliteration, the fabric of suspended poetry unraveled. Lucid improvisation fell like Icarus to quips.
because thinking to write and writing to think is like pulling dead hair from spaghetti.
Meanwhile, tiny spiders descend around my desk parasail and make a play-swing out of gravity.