Spider Season

Eight-eyed airmen
parachuted at twilight
into our garden
of good evil.

It was spider season,
and he & I roamed fairytale streets,
conspiring to destroy reality
and weave a universe.

In real life
we were besieged
by centipedes,
burned girlfriends,
and worst of all,
ourselves,
but with his grubby bedroom
as HQ of Creation,
we freestyled scripts past sunsets,
and worlds hatched down the walls,
while episodes coalesced:
characters debated from cradle to ash,
civilizations tipped over
and smashed,
and an immortal celebrity
realized he was the Deity;
first one city filled all galaxies,
then one mind.

We
were in that place
we could only reach
together.

Spiders sewed potholes shut
and sheathed the city in lace;
it was the Year of the Weaving,
and the twenty-one years before
had been really fucking long:
I’d kept my hands in fists and
crossed bridges without reaching land;
but now I blared nonstop free jazz
on my throat-trumpet,
grew a threadbare beard
to embrace ugliness,
and believed in everything we did,
and nothing else,

but especially
in him.

Binging on books,
he lazed with a permanent smirk,
never endeavored
but always hit with instant wit,
ate like shit
yet had Botticelli ringlets
and cheekbones like knuckles
under ice-moon eyes,
and deep below sunrise
coolly composed razor-glass prose
magnitudes greater than mine
though I tried much harder;
and oh, how my envy
hurt me;

I thought about him
constantly.

And one insomniac afternoon
of a necessary day,
in the high summer of youth,
amid a fever symphony of dreams,
he sprawled on my ramshackle sofa,
scheming yet another killer scene;
and waking up in place I witnessed
loose light crown his crow angles,
and forbidden words jumped lips—
for after 30 hours awake,
I could see freely,
love without flinching,
worship without remembering
I needed to be king.

In a weightless metropolis
spiders spun silk fortresses
with firefly chandeliers;
and from our separate nests,
manic with happiness,
we stepwise unmasked
our secret past:
like, when mistaken for a couple,
how queerly we’d chuckled;
or the night we raced two girls
back to my place,
and just
ignored them
to talk to each other;
or when he ditched our city suddenly
and I stranded my damsel
and shadowed him
just to stay inside us.

Our love,
forced to rot in closets,
had tainted our relations
and poisoned all our toilings;
but now the dark stick stuck
in the spokes of our luck
broke,
and beaming like projectors
we wrote
of him and me as we,
two male mothers
unbent in unhoped heaven,
spinning mazes from air
in a constant conversation
that would itself be
an act of creation.

Toward the end of our universe,
in an unwritten script,
a cartoon spaceship pursued by God
absconds beyond all stars,
its crew of two
talking in the dark;
yet when the lights arc on,
the two are no longer characters
but people.

For us,
there would come an evening,
a room, a bed, an hour
in each other’s arms,
just
one evening
out of all we’d promised
to ourselves and each other,
one trip to a different world
that never really existed:
for in that crawling dark
we finally spoke
not of knitted cities
but of ourselves—
and nothing fit.
With one hand I invited,
with the other I pushed away,
teeth hit teeth,
and his silences grew darker,
the subtle fangs sharper,
the smiles slick & sicker,
and the hidden venom
fermented;
and the spiders
ate themselves;
or the spiders
caught each other,
just two flies in disguise
forced by fear
and propelled by pride
into absurd verbal brawling,
brisk back- & frontstabbing,
a bitter diabolic break-up,
and an aftermath of barren
horror,

and the wilting and wastage
of a universe.

There’s freedom in truth,
but I wanted the dream.

It was the Century of Hunger,
and we scaled night mountains;
spotlights painted spirals in mist,
and a high red light signaled above,
telling me to look up…