sent these to my muse, lately...

everyone should have a muse, y'know. They're all the rage, lately...


so i confess to you,
my dear, i am a snob;
the art i make is never
meant to quell the mob.

the angels, only, who
uphold the higher laws
are they from whom i yearn
to hear applause.


as peaches dangling amber in an orchard by the ocean
where the crest and trough in endless roil seem saying
"you there, dreamer deem to highlight in your visions'
spectacles of golden ripeness all sublime in sunrise;
stars in waning facets vanish in a blare of morning,
bleary, waken to it urgent and heartbreaking in the pallor
of eventual demise in twilight...."

So it wilts away the delicate beauty in your fingers
tracing lines along a road map of the years
with memories augmented bubbling up in frothy dreams
a face unnamed, a name that knows no face,
all gone into the oblivion of night's reproach.
Ah, the years, my friend, you cannot know the years
until you've lived them and the seasonal tears
have washed new lines into the old.

Ancient injuries return to bite again
as if arisen from the dead, to cripple brittle
all my yellow bones, my mess of brain, ejaculations,
seepages and sundries soiling all.
I am an old man rummaging in discards for a dream
of gossamer to cure the bladder sting with visions
of a memory long buried under weathered boards.