Monday, Nov. 25, 2002, 4:16 PM

My Muse and other poetry

Whispering Harlot

My pet rock bled today
and I was so enthralled in the lifeless words
lying on the page
I failed to notice

Blood from a stone is easy
so you said
but I've beat the grindstone
until I bruised more than my ego

And at night when I lay
limp as my words
you fill me with ideas
and curb sleep from his visit

You enrich me when I'm penless
and you dance away when I call
singing a tune
too soft to hear

You excite my mind
bring my story to climax
and leave no note in the morning
to fill my empty page

You're a whore of ideas
selling at your price
a queen of the word
leaving my poem to flounder in your wake
once again


Left Handed Thoughts

The time we got lost on our way to Ashtabula
you made nothing but left turns
and kept us going round like a carousel

Three times we saw the old man
with a deathgrip on the blond boy at his side
before you asked for help getting to familiar ground

He mumbled and he grumbled
and I couldn't help noticing
the way the boy's eyes followed your lips
when you talked

"Turn left where Magee's barn was
before it burned to the ground," he said
we laughed at how useless he and his directions seemed
and tossed a coin at every crossing

I think I found you
hiding behind the eyes of that boy
even though Ashtabula never crossed our path


Mindless passion fruits littered his den
leaving their seed all around
The peels rent from the flesh
strewn in a row
Shards of rind puncturing the carpet
pile atop their clothes
The glass capsized upon the end table
its life blood spilling from its mouth
Searching for cracks in the floor


clichés abound in every line
and measured feet keep track of time
structures are built upon the sounds
of the words, counted out, laid down.

A poem grows inside this form
mental fodder spit out, still warm
from the hot recesses of a mind
stocking shelves at the five-and-dime.