How I Think Of My Muse

Folder: 
Vintage Words

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Guttersnipe, don't know the definition

but it sounds like my muse. I think

of my muse, the little frizzy ended

dreads and twists and mudcloth

sneakers and my mind goes directly

to gunshop windows and big

shells that blow open inspiration

mongering.

.

I know, I rant against the runt,

the flipping of pages of Chaucer

at me, the dogeared pages

in my complete Shakespeare,

all the fault of a muse who

will not get the message.

.

I want to roam the aisles

of John King Bookstore,

I want to go to the library

and steal my favorite volumes

but I do not want to get caught.

Jail is not a place for a poet.

Irony, the writer went to

prison for stealing rare volumes

of Ian Flemming.

.

I'm use to the quiet. Home

is where the head is, but

shopping on line is a miracle

and I recently learned

that National Geographic

has a Christmas catalog. My

muse at my shoulder singing,

"Yummmm".

.

Time for wine. Maybe I can

drink my feckless muse

under the desk again

tonight.

.

allets

12-04-13

10:17p

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