May 4, 2009


I understand, Muse.

It is not the words I write but the value of the words written. I agree. Still, if I write 10 thousand words and all are trash except words 1,917 to 2,006 are not only revealing but exciting, and the words from 7,218 to 7,246 are not only exciting but fantastic! - doesn't that make me - in the true sense of the word - a poet?

Hey, only kidding, Muse. Lighten up a little.


I am the sleep gap,
the way-wind surfer,
a tom-tom man
with staccato pulse
targeting the dish
and scooping the net.
Counting the swoons.


Suffice it to say
it has been
a rough day
and on no account
as we shall see
if there is any
in moving
the action
beyond the realm
of dreams.


Here. Now.
The cat walk
on the high wire,
stalker with grim face
and ready claws,
poised to pounce,
and crunch anew
the tempted,
the neglected,
and the edible.


We learn what we learn. Choice is not a factor. Nor is truth. Step on a crack, break your mother's back. Sugar and spice isn't always nice. Puppy dog tails sweep aside the snails. Snapping turtles clamps tight and only releases at midnight. So cross your heart. If you lie, you die. Reality intrudes slowly. Content to follow its own path.