On the Matter of Inspiration

Tomorrow I will write 100 poems
Or 12 songs
Or 1 story.
But let that be tomorrow.
And let me sleep tonight.

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One tall black woman
thin as the number 1
and full of possibility
stands on my left
blinking in disbelief.
She asks me why things need to be dirty
why I can’t leave things be.
I tell her voids are meant to be filled
with things – that it is not
a matter of importance
but of beauty – not necessary
but nice
and that  I need her to move.
“A lot like God”
she said as a way of explanation
“and why we are all here
to begin with.”

I suppose. Now will you dance?
Like you always do
fast and furious
at the command of my hands?
Silent, but not without
music? Would you please just
dance? Do anything but stand
and stare, with your talk of God.

But there she stood. Blinking.

 

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Used

Get used, is used, will use
say it even if you want it
get it without earning it
call it, name it, use her,
she’s your muse.

Ink it, stain it, erase anything
you don’t see fit.
Maintain it, support it, forge her.
Pay her off with two coins
at the bottom of a glass of gin.

Smile as you spill her. Thin
estuaries spread like
spider webs. Finger it,
smudge it, use her as she sins
to float.

Want her, need her, let
the moment move you
without consent. Ride the wave,
harness her nature,
and crash.

Move each rusted out desire
onto her back. Save a people,
change their minds, cut through
to see the divine. She doesn’t mind.
She’s your muse.

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A Poem In Silence

She appraises herself in silence
and laughs when I touch her.

What stops your tongue?
From tasting, from twirling?
Ears are gluttonous
and cannot be sated.
Don’t cork them with silence.
Caress them with soft
tyranny, lick them with your
wishes, fill them with your
dreams to make reality.

A list or a catalog.
Alphabetical anatomy,
hypothetical gymnastics,
hyperbolic sensuality
amplified by silence.
Cut the hungry beast
and unleash his hounds
on every inch of
a painter’s fantasy.

Laughter is a coin with two sides;
the blushing face of a beloved
and her soft palpable pitchfork
tail. A coiled tale of insecurity
in comparison to perfection.
Only compared to a painter’s
embellished strokes
made invisible by stillness,
a poet’s envious words
made deaf by an eye’s demand,
and a composer’s romantic hymn
made unbearable by loneliness.

She appraises herself in silence
and laughs when I touch her.

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Stockholm Syndrom

Inspiration is back
to steal and reveal
I hope my hands don’t fail my eyes
or the heart they inform
because the brain they conceal
Doesn’t trust our conclusions.
It can’t know what they know.

First Impressions are back.
familiar things are new
as if more real than real
words made material
A girl’s hair, the wind, a moving car,
A symbol, a sign, a detour
they’re being metaphorical.

Imagination is back
like lemonade on a summer day
quenching but conditional
sweet before sour.
Its always eventually sour
like a last kiss
(that’s the one they never talk about).

Impersonations are back
trade one face for another
because nothing is really new.
Besides which it’s easy,
and unavoidable.
Was I supposed to believe
I’m the only one she talks to?

Temptation is back
to call me a king or prophet
to offer me alchemy for ink
gold for words
greatness for loneliness
exile to paradise.
The devil has inspiration too.

Inspiration is back
the called lover in chains
welcomes the captivity
for a change of pace
there is a tenderness in her embrace
despite its inescapability.
Love devouring. Love devoured.

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