morning muse

 

 

 

I wake up each morning at 5:30 exactly

to s**t my brains out and think

 

and jot down words on perfect

squares of Charmin as if two things

 

twisting

 

could spin opposite on middle age

like little yellow qubes of Rubicks boy

 

arms extended, wanting from the sun

the full weight of the eastern

chromosphere.

 

But there's this sticky truth about

children. Even when their hands are

 

clean they are soiled with spit and

Bozooka pie and dream;

 

then the sunset somewhere to fall

into, a caramel river of warm

 

with its rays from the Quaker oats man,

his 1 Peter 2:9 piercing eyes and token talk

 

of fiber and good cholesterol from his shiny

little hat and captive delight;

 

it's the morning after pill for poets

it's the udder

it's the blue baby

it's the string on the

end of the tampon

that holds you still

that makes you

push, push that

thing out as if a

giant, toy train was

in your gut

your womb

 

your liver on the moon.

Reviews

[Tree]

A distsurbingly good write, dana:) We'll find our muse in whatever fashion/ we must. ''it's the morning after pill for poets,'' had to smile. That Quaker's been at the head of my breakfast for 5 years now

[Corset]

Only a man would assign a string to a pad, that should be tampon or Tampax , that out of the way, this was amazing as usual, you even make crapping sound divine.