spider on the ceiling

you can't smile
and laugh or tell me it's a
good time for poetry when you've
run out of all the good things to say.
you can't forget being sprawled on a bed with
half a dozen eyes and all shades of blonde and
pretend it never happened seemingly a
century ago.
you stare at the ceiling and think,
you've run out of it, man.
even the coincidence of a wine-spotted page on a poetry book
is no longer romantic. all the art, all that shit, man,
it's for the birds. it's been given away to the others by god
closing his legs and saying
enough