Sing to me of the woman, plaintive Muse,

By | 14 December 2009

Sing to me of the woman, plaintive Muse,
the one with chalkdust in her shoes
Let her spin Medusa’s curly premises
and weave a syllogism of stone
Give me words not my own but the steel
and dust, and bone. Let her smile her moorish smile,
and fall over when she wears stiletto heels
And the music she plays is endless and brave.
May a thousand men fall away from her
in the squares of the city, eyeless in Gaza
wanting her embrace in their terror of her face
Make my song yours, with your faraway sorrow
she is silent about the one who matters most
whose name is the beginning and the end
of company-denying, housework-defying poetry
she unveils sorrow, weaving braids of pain from hollow words
bandaging the soul
a moored heart unhinged terrors
a new day today
perhaps the new day
would bring with it a
promise of good
instead it brought snow –
trees covered with winter’s white tears
of ancient rainbows
timbered low in sleep embraced
in enormous whisper of worship
Who smoked me out of adolescent bliss.
take the white one…the pill…the big one, tom budge
the muse intoned high
brow arched her bow finger laced
spittal dry I chose
stripped naked, upon my head the wreath of words I wove
forsaken or consumed, she’s an entity ripe with promises to be entered
samleterol, albuterol, beclomethsone
and other useful substances like
the slow metered drip
of sheep-milk scarlet cloth green revolution
mashed apricots and an infusion of bougainvillaea
blood stream clogged by petals and grand expectations
calliope, the headless torso of your son dances within the wild rapids,
     his dead fingers waving like memory wings
of unpublished poetry

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