Bukowski and the spider by Henry Kellogg

The spider did not want to die
and I did not want to kill it

Yet as it crawled over my bag my sleeve
I wanted it gone

“leave me in peace” I want to read poetry alone in the park
Feel the pain of a man now dead but living somewhere
in the ether between the page and my brain

But the spider would not leave me when I looked back to it again
and again

I felt something

It meant me no harm or malice
maybe it meant nothing at all but

It looked like death
and I didn't feel like dying just yet

Small and green bigger than a pin head smaller than a penny
I was probably sitting under her tree, invading her space with nostalgic
quiet sad beautiful poetry which engrossed my soul

Then for some reasonless reason I realized the spider had to die
And it went the way of Bukowski under my soft thumb

I know the spider will meet Bukowski
Somewhere in the ether between the page and the universe
and if they should decide to write poetry together

I know it will be nostalgic

Author bio:

Henry Kellogg is just some cracked nobody on the other side of the internet. He likes to travel around the world and wander into unexpected and awkward situations. He doesn't let life get to him, and he loves to write. Bukowski is his idol/homeboy.