Begging for the Muse

Blue lady down the lane,
Dialing up a dream
Of vanilla ice cream
In the morning bright …
Got a light?

True lady on top of the hill,
Sipping from a stream
Of chocolate milk,
Near the high-wire zone …
Got a smoke?

Red-hair runner along the root canal,
Bouncing up dust, a trail of pheromones,
jogging a pot of molten silver
At the end of a world-weary rainbow,
Got a rose? A nose, a toe to hold.

Feeling pretty lonely,
Don’t you know?
It’s Saturday night,
Mexican bandito music
And whoops fill night,
But I aunt quite right.

Centered, alone, feasting on electricity,
Stereo, electromagnetic sparks and TV,
Waiting for the phone,
On my black-metal folding throne,
Ask the mute city stars for answers.

I close my eyes, the vampire
Winged dragon does recall,
His glory days of an angel before the fall:
None, he says, in aged infant ego disdain.
Get answers for yourself. Now go away.

Olive-skinned warrior lass
of flatlands and little hippie towns,
In the sublime corn-fed country
of April floods, crazy need and dread,
Puts a laundry list over her eyes,
tugs bed sheet covers over her head.

Feeling pretty lonely.
It’s a Saturday night.
I aunt quite right.
Centered, alone, feasting on electricity,
Waiting for the phone,
On my black-metal folding throne,
Ask the dirty city street for answers.

Sight, answers the angel,
Of self-possession,
Yearning, awe and woe:
Tis more a matter of how often, you know,
And when. You sin a bit; pay the rent, do it again.
Ask your infant anxiety to halt the ill winds.

Brightly, the archangel Gabriel beams:
Be yourself that you own. Just know.
Stare down this melt of lightweight,
porous pumice stone. Kiss
The maternal metaphysician on the mouth,
Move north, move south … do not doubt.

With that I moved outside
Perfect prison cell and broke
My gravitational sorcerer’s bone,
and floated away, Aye,
In a hot rush of helium
burning in heavenly thin
Rocky Mountain air,
Bidding the eternal
territorial gloom, adieu.