under the glass ive drained,
next to the puddle ive spilled:
now circling relentlessly
in search of some grand exit.

im sorry white spider.
but it was you, my friend,
that first startled me
in my promised time of sleep.

to witness your skinny legs
eventually giving up hope
as you slow to a halt...sigh.
so much for an escape act.

one solid window wall
as i sit, solemnly studying
the endless patterns and teeth.
one day i swear ill set you free

just when did i become an actor?
tired of playing the almighty hand

but not quite as weary and lonesome
a clear cage sits hapless on its side
and my sole prisoner makes no haste
to die by someone else's stupid hand

all ive got left is this halfassed crime
where im sitting there distraught
wondering just whos going to be
that someone cleaning up after me

god?
are you listening?

practice makes perfect
or have i always been this callow?
propped up against this glass
like a neon beacon homecoming
til the resident spirits in my chest
come out to take your jacket.
we're painting pictures of ourselves
in the condensed fog of it all
with our tiny extending digits
thumbing through these awful times
there must be volumes of novels
each with their corners folded on
as if it could make this moment.
would it make this last any longer?
and my reply:
to each his own,
followed by a long and awkward pause.
i don't think i'll ever get it right.