How I Think Of My Muse

Vintage Words


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



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,



Time for wine. Maybe I can

drink my feckless muse

under the desk again










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