Jack Scott writes

The Spider Artist 

Master muralist, 
almost up, but tiring, 
on the concave underside 
of ornate ancient dome, 
a high and cracking Capitol, 
in need of paint and care, 
needs some solid place 
to hook his bosun’s chair.

No solid timber anywhere 
to hold a lag or nail. 
He needs to rest, 
but doesn’t dare; 
a pause, however brief, 
would most likely lead to grief. 
His plight injects adrenaline, 
demands tenacity, 
implores the muscles   
not to yield to giving out, 
giving into flailing to the floor below.

Desperation calls for quorum 
of the powers that be 
within the laws of physics 
and his personal capacity. 
“I invoke this empty Senate 
before it votes my fate for me, 
to let me rest as spider rests: 
lightly, gently, easily, . . .

To save my life I leave it, 
divest my mind and body of it, 
transform it into something lighter,  
distill it to my finest essence,   
mold it into sticky finger tips, 
cast out the urging of ambition, 
drop the heavy weight of hubris, 
drain the acid of anticipation, 
forget the fear of letting go, 
descending far too fast, 
muffle the sound and fury 
of my Doppler screaming 
should I fail and meet my last 
upon that deadly, distant floor. 
Congeal the might 
of all my maybe 
into ten tiny fingertips, 
so totally invested now 
with all the rest of me. 
Do it, fingers, I am yours. 
I must lose weight, 
and be no burden 
despite my former gravity. 
When that works - and work it will -
I’ll become so light, so feather 
I’ll jettison this useless bosun’s chair 
and sit upon the air.

As long as I am fingers 
as long as there are ten of them 
to one of me 
I’ll climb this fucking Capitol 
one finger at a time 
if need be 
and if this works for fingers 
I’ll sprout wings, 
and fall up, 
or fly." 

Spiders Web -- Terrance Prysiazniuk