.
.
.
Muse wakes me at 3:42 a.m.
with coffee and a truncheon;
she drinks the coffee
while whacking me on the feet.
"Wake up you lazy fuck. Get writing."
I try to explain that it wasn't me, it was someone else,
anyone else, I wasn't there at the time.
"Don't insult my intelligence," says she.
"You were there, and you're going to tell me
everything you know."
This time, I think, she means business.
+++++++++
I will turn this room
until the window
still catches the moon.
+++++++++
The dog keeps speaking about
the party two blocks away.
Even he wants them
to turn that shit off.
He'd call the cops if he could.
I hand him the phone, go back to sleep.
.
.
.
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We begin to write as any other art, because no one tells us to. Then this project, suddenly deadlines. it is a challenge to the process and uncovers what wouldn't be found otherwise. Definitely worth it. I'll be quoting the mid-section of this poem to myself for the rest of my life as a position of strength. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteWonderful. But that's an hour before mine. Geeez.
ReplyDelete