I A Muse

Rocking in a straight back chair,

I sit cross legged

and pen my time in biding wait...

Music blares a daring dirge

of yesteryear's angst,

I succumb in numbing,

trussed in darkened doily

under the chenille, my rabbit

waits in stare... we both wait.

In a glare of celebrity screen,

(an appellate taunt) he teases

his fashion born of a new found freedom

on literary pretense...

the meta-foreplayed is never literal...

a dancing thought that delights in

rapturous laughter.

I know the cleaving-

sex, and religion scoffed,

which reigns in harmony

of a dissonant reasoning.

We wait... the mute and beady,

the blurred and bleating

who lives in a silent splendor

of rocking and charity.

Those words that hook and play...

a veiled mystery to Salome's dance.

The marooned head will meet me

where words have no meaning,

and a soul patch is a badge of honor.

Mock on... the crockery

awaits the next melt of the buttering.

Slide the slope, it's just a musing.

I'll meet you on top of a creamsicle dream...