What the Muses Leave Behind

Each morning I meet my crazy quilt bright eyed, in from the edge, spectacular as Easter’s ilk eggs tuck in ditch and hedge . What’s so crazy about a mantle pieced from robe and shirt, summer culotte, tartan flannel destined for the dirt. Each day a junta erects regimes Of arms and legs and balls Time is bottled, black deals are sealed, piked heads fill the halls. What’s best about hegemony; when sovereigns step aside? Begets a tidge of larceny and mayhem for its a bride.

"Think of chaos as dancing raspberries." - Judyth Hill from " Wage Peace " I. How the morning meets us matters. A crazy quilt met mine. I woke with a pigeon’s view of Easter processing down Peachtree. What’s so crazy about a blanket? Pieced like family jewels from denim jacket, brocade skirt - my clan spread eagle. II. Truth is - juntas stalk regimes with kudzu enterprise. They’d freeze time to collect enough arms, legs and testicles. What’s amiss with coup d’état? Glorious in stealth, they bring justice home by its scruff, savor the spoils like Hampshire boars. III. Luck finds the writer who consummates work with good whiskey. Good and bad saturated Thomas. Catlin's fire matched his muse. Nothing kindles like lust and duty to goddess and queen - purple robe lifted by salt wind, her ruddy fuse goading the tide.

I would trade for a better dessert, Trade it in for the white skirted waitress. Her chocolate and cream holds its own allure So does thirty three footsteps When there are bullies in the play ground. Give me a hop for good measure. Instead of snapping gum in this cold depression Between Sir Hillary’s expedition and the cold comfort Of sliding home alive, I could be still as a pond Crouching under a roof of stalactites, Dodging the icy daggers that pin me to my word. Summer rain comes so seldom, especially now Under the January skies of the northern hemisphere. My unwashed hair chides me to trade it for a better season Trade it in for apple blossoms and hummingbirds and wilted lettuce salads. But these icy daggers have their own allure, They hide me from the bullies – across the playground now chasing the scent of some other prey. I’ll give it a hop for good measure.

Every morning my crazy quilt meets me bright eyed, in from the edge. I might as well have a pigeon’s view of Easter processing down Peachtree. Tell me what’s crazy about a blanket so carefully pieced from robe and jumper, summer blouse and kitchen curtains. It’s my Ursula Clan spread eagle in slatted sun, stitched together with more than thread. Every day a junta pieces together its regime arms and legs bound in testicles. It bottles time – cramming clock into calendar. Even in sleep it’s abuzz with jolts of blood bullied by heart and lung; abuzz in kudzu dreams. Tell them what’s crazy about conquest; tell them even the tightest stitches loosen, even the best fabrics fray. When water and sun exact their tithe, everything red fades to green. The force that drives that fuse drives the Fundy tide; drives Thomas to down 18 shots of whiskey, drives Caitlin to hedge her bets that he’d ever make her happy, drives her albatross view of the corduroy sea between Wales & Milk Wood. Tell her w...