What the Muses Leave Behind

The dream wakes, wakes and shuffles down the stairs- pours a cup of Joe. Sugar stirs up a silly tune- sings hey now, my girlfriend's back . Upstairs, smelling the coffee dreamer shakes her head, finds an echo to the walls - my, my, my my girlfriend's back . Dream to dreamer, where’s the cream? Dreamer drifts on wobbly knees, follows the aubade's aroma. Dream to dreamer, let’s rise ready - let’s be ocean and sky. Let’s be aroma, let’s be song, A chrysalis of sweet déjà vu.  Dream to dreamer, let’s quit the queue, let’s be the quest.  Dreamer wants to follow cosmonauts, lifting white arms, smelling of Stoli's; she banks with the morning star, waves as dream shuffles on, sipping java. 

We grow famished with duty, hold a boney line. Do the right thing.  Say the right word. Live the right moment. Here we go, combing days for purpose, an army of sea urchins.  Swooning for octopus, supple and keen this one – could we be that?  Could we trellis darkness with ink trails like the one you climb now, word by word? Can duty sing beauty like catgut on wood? Can it upholster days in both silk and sacking? Make Tuesday a rich brocade. Wednesday, corduroy, Thursday, Friday, Saturday tatted Chantilly lace. Sunday and Monday matted felt. It’s a Gordian puzzle – and how did it happen? A march for Maslow’s dream – our bruises the crown and scepter, climbing, climbing and where would we be? Not Avalon nor Shangri-La, not nirvana nor Eden, crawling to another frontier – a fresh start. Out of sticks and stones and mended bones, we light another fire. And this Kevlar vest, we unbutton it – notion by stoic notion. right vie...

Define the word – besotted. They promised next year, the Year of the snake, to be agile and open. They promised to relax, cheek to shoulder, adrift the San Juan . On desert currents, breath weaving breath, they would become an oasis; island of reed and pitch. There! Sage wears fists of turquoise: one for patience, one for hope. The jungle is everywhere and she frets about forgetting this moment. Forgetting is like a fox chasing chickens - dreamers scatter. Cedar chases frontier along granite walls, expects to feel embarrassed; already love has stripped them down.

Someone has to greet Sirius and Saturn has to gape at the motley gang at daybreak,  the gaudy stains of salmon, periwinkle, fuchsia, tangerine. Welcome the wind and rain. Someone has to disturb the morning peace has to trigger a bugle call: rooster, guinea,  the brace of faithful beagles that push  their prattle into the thin air. Begin the daily rabble. Someone has to wake before the calendar and clock,             has to, for a few precious steps, shadow eternity             soon enough NPR and CNN beckon,                             thar she blows, they wail.                          Here we go, I say.