by t. zoEy benally

I cannot write because my muse no longer listens to me.
I feel her back--smooth, oily shale
Ignore me.

I am shunned, and words are repelled
by the force field that she has installed around my brain
by the iron walls she has welded around my heart.

I am unloved, and have been relegated to a hell
of perpetual false starts.

And each time I jump the gun
Bound out starting gates
I am tazered.

Portions of poems stick in my throat
Uncried tears, unacknowledged sobs
Partially masticated truth
and never digested.

I am left malnourished with scurvy
Dehydrated and infested with worms
And my poems emerge in tatters
because she has left me only
boll-weevil infested elbow macaroni
and contaminated muddy water
to consume.

She is like a silent cat - my former muse.
Sleek refusal to reveal my transgressions.
She kneads my flesh with freshly peeled claws,
Purrs, and sheds silver fur on my black sweater and face.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Don't know much about the Muse business, but this I do know:
The Muse dosen't listen to you, you listen to her.

Through the centuries poets have been frustrated trying to lure the Muse into working for them.

Thwen when you are quiet, unexpectedly .
the inspiration is there.

Maybe it's all that Sccience you are crammmmmmming into your brain that is drowning Her out . *L*