Anansi

January 6, 1999

Clever the austere.

Luckily, for me, my sentiment

is arachnophobic.

Silent-clacky creature,

you lulled me at first

with elemental croonings, singing

in verses, spilled elixir.

How incredibly, secretly, blissful

was it to rest on your

self-made hammock; though

a bit adhesive;

Reciting your telltale stories,

folklores, advice: while your

babel is grandiloquence, bewitching

in neatness.

Largo, your song took its time,

though you were bold and determined

to make me a keeping

in your silky macrocosm.

Addicted, afflicted, your legs

gesticulate with a composer's

percision - I was weak to your

magic.

Nonetheless, you saw instantly

the untethered; blasting forth

hail-fellow-well-met repetoires to

settle me. I, drinking in your

reputed savor, was nearer to

your venom.

Mmm, the stock and stuff of dark

meat, but your tasty tenderloin was

no longer home.

You replusively spoke of your all-

possessing prisoner, wisdom.

Foolishly rescinded, you nearly

feasted on me, and for one abscent-

minded open sesame, you flanked

your ingenuity.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Waiting Room

February 26, 2001

An unnecessary balsam

with few, necessary

patrons;

And it's crowded, even

with available seating.

How could any person

with a cusp of endurance

allow the forward of this

quiet author of this agrivating

complacency?

Watch how they hobble for the

baked goods and bad coffee.

Sorrow for the television,

that unbiased attention-seeker.

Then there are those faces:

Incurable patience pretending a good outcome is pending,

while one is at least purple with portents, feeling life

is unfriendly.

Note: This piece was written while waiting patiently for the results

of my mother's surgery. I couldn't write any more than this.

Nervousness overpowered me.

© 2001 Jarrod C. Lacy