My hands have been emptied,
robbed of their once bloom’d roses!
And I am left with the pitiful,
ragged stems of an afterthought.
My mind is like smoke seething through meat.
My creative morality is charred black,
made all the worse by a vain and hopeless hope.
O’ Great Hope — you downtrodden, immaterial spirit
you wanton ghost of this poet’s lament —
what a waste you are! I spit on you!
All the same, I spit and curse and hopelessly hope
like a desperate fool that my spiteful saliva
is your desired seed, O’ elusive Muse.
Never has your absence been so demanding!
Never has your blackness been so back-biting and blinding!
Jesus Christ, you make me want to wrack my brain
upon my writing desk until the forehead draws blood,
I walk the ancient, endless streets and drown in the soiled bars
and frequent our favorite city cemetery;
all the places we used make our love,
and not a trace of you do I find!
You ravage me utterly,
while I wait in the eternity of a gutter savagery.
Still, A train blows its whistle far off in the distance.
A sunbeam breaks its way through the window,
shattering glass upon my feet.
I feel that rumbling in my belly,
I feel that pulse quickening in my veins,
that steady thrill of invention
working its way through the neural circuits,
beating my heart for me. I am living again
with a writer’s sturdy hard-on.
At long last, there you are, my blessed Muse!
My ragged stems shoot out rapid sprouts
and the flowers take form once more.
The passions of my anger
has returned you to me.
My anger has captured you,
forced you down into the dusty,
burlap sack of my beating heart.
You are mine now, dear Muse!
You can run, but you cannot hide.
No more looking back at my books of poetry,
with all the dreary bitter sadness of the world,
wishing I could write poetry.
This is it,
and there you are,
and here I am.
Let us make our love, dear Muse!
The keyboard is a’waiting
for the eager fingers to jab
and for the spirit in the blood to thicken.
Already, the love has been made.