Liberal Art

A spider preyed me to the window.
In the blow of its jaws and the infusion of wanton saliva and rolling in mid-lucidity,
my face smushed into the glass's condensation.
 
The sun in the city sits on napes of the black mule and the albino donkey
and the light kneeds in cricks
unrelievable; concaved features in the new spine
in the shape of a maxim's posterior.
 
A clew of norms,
midday, unwound and threaded out to suspend and pop the dominant wrist when the pencil approximates the first line of a ruled sheet.
When the body has passed overhead, so was a subsequent day where the dream stayed unwritten.
 
The omnipotence of the sensitive eyes of the arachnid on my window sill,
even in course resolution,
it seems it ought to know
 
how many times the sun was carried east to west by laborers.
Sometimes a crane would gobble the floor underneath them, replace it with a different constitution of the same earth.
 
The spider had broken off and propped its journal to a vertical plane  
with radials of artificial roads
on the thesis of crossing every one.
 
Like insects of poor self-concept
that navigate by incandescent bulbs and the shards that overwhelm blinds,
I followed the blue luminescence from bed.
The ceremony of lord sun of this renewed day of coronation, I wince,
"That's not light. That's not light at all."
But the Y in the web's netting closes like a warm pitcher's glove after a fast strike.
 
I want to go out there
because the broad shoulders bearing the gestatorial chair of the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet haloed skyline at dawn are my people.
 
But
this spider, this spider that built on a vertical plane
without reference to the sun or feet to the ground,
though I will not be consumed in its orb,
is an artist of its own sun.
And I can't forget the awe parsed by part terror in how masterfully it maneuvered the radials, like to star-bows,
when the norms were of its own making.