These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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I set my pen to paper and say the prayer to summon my other self and she appears, smiling like a muse who has just taken half a hit of acid and probably some poor virgin's innocence, as well –
Politely, for once, I ask in meek and deferential tones if she has seen my better nature anywhere recently; it seems to be gone, along with my guilt and my familial ties and my money; for I had always assumed that the other three brought the first along like a distant and priggish maiden aunt –
And the muse laughs, and tells me how much nicer I am now that I'm not trying to protest my innocence, tells me she's glad to enjoy getting laid for a change and as a parting shot before she returns to her couch on the Olympian heights, informs me that my poetry is still as rotten as ever
and I thank her gravely and cease to torment my notebook.
