My muse died today.
Although how could I lose
abuse
or amuse
what was never mine to use
as I see fit,
hear fitness,
feel fitfully?
This muse dies tonight
not from old age
as I had long predicted
must be my sad and unread case,
but for a new voice
or vice,
for deeper lyrics
and wider melodies
and globally local choreography
perhaps a ridiculous younger person’s game.
They say
not to write, unless you must;
Not to paint
or sing
or dance
or become a prostitute
unless you would otherwise eco-bust
ego-lust away this lifeline.
If you can live with something,
most anything, else
to occupy your time
and pay the rent,
then do
and be those more civil relationships instead.
It never occurred to me
perhaps because They didn’t say so,
I might do most everything else
so I could retire into writing
and reading
and singing
and dancing
But not prostitution
because no one would pay
for what I can not give away
with integrity intact.
I miss this muse already
but doubt she even remembers me,
a right hand
useful
responding to her labored demands
too ponderously telling,
psychic yelling,
when I longed to show in grace
integrity’s newest face
rhythm pattern pace
divinely humane race
robustly timeless space
without dissonant disgrace
Showing
not telling,
Belonging
not longing,
Dancing
not marching,
Singing
not shouting
to and with and for
tomorrow’s mute muses,
today’s deaf listeners,
amusing to move on
with overflowing emotions
not mere museless motions.
Now I have broken
my only two rules of unself-conscious writing.
1. Never mention the muse aloud
or dead
for She abhors a nonvacuum
of light,
and
2. Never write
about writing,
For the same non-reason
that optimal sexual
sensual
neural experience
cannot happen
if my sole
and sold-out purpose
is this Great Orgasm.
of we-consciousness.
My more retiring amusement died today.
Although how could I lose
abuse
or ever timelessly muse
what was never mine to use?
gdill52 