Improv 2, Week 3

The Attic
by Adrian Matejka

There’s no god to be found up here.
Only gangly insects mid-migration,
using my place as a rest stop on the way
out of Texas. Wood panel hinged

to patchwork carpet like Cameros
to sideburns. Hell-bent spiders on the creep:
the softest shoe of eight-legged double-talk,
Loose-limbed beetles, bo-jangling

moths masked as dust fronds on brown
walls. These dead bugs marionette
in the webs’ captivity, belly-doubling
like banjo players for the food chain’s

higher-ups. These hors d’oeuvres
can’t help me find The Cantos, stashed
in a box with the rest of my college books.
Siguiriya of man-sized bugs, libations

for homies who fell during the long trek
up my attic stairs. These spiders, sacrificing
whatever spiders do in a dust-blessed
space full of a language they tried to forget.

On this morning when creek and gulf
handshake sky, my attic is absent of verse
except for the ping of roof water, the caesura
of moving gifts still in their original plastic.


A line of ants fleeing the Pharaoh across my concrete floor while I stand over them with a red can of Raid. Loose tobacco on the coffee table like cocaine on a mirror. Mold creeping under the windows, slowly crawling through air on saucy plates and rancid bowls. This green carpet forming on wood as the whole bathroom becomes a litter box. These deserts can’t help me find my paper, thrown in a scattered pile on top of the filing cabinet. These sands covering the filth in an apartment naturally clean. On this late night my apartment is absent of work, except for the ants pulling the food down the hole in the floor.

A line of ants flee Pharaoh
across the mill floor as I stand
over with red Raid.

Tobacco leaves dirty the table
like coffee grinds on the microwave.
Mold creeps under windows,

crawling in air on dried
up plates and rancid bowls.
A green carpet on the wood

as the cats make the bathroom
their litter box. These deserts
can’t find my paper,

in a pile on the cabinet.
Sands covering filth
in a clean apartment.

On this late night, work
flees my apartment, except the ants
pulling food down a hole.