there is nothing like the pre-dawn quiet,
when you can hear the approaching winter.
and the pictures I finally looked at,
but another’s muse holds no sway,
‘n that’s not to say that my muse will stay,
from day to dream-drunk day.
Today, she is visibly older than I,
though how much is a secret I won’t hold,
‘n she’s got this plagiarizin’ bent
breathin’ the same language,
dancin’ fancy ‘n writin’ free.
there is nothing like the pre-dawn quiet,
when only the few will stir.
‘n she’s got her plain page pasted to the window,
tracin’ the rays of that risin’ sun,
hair-whipped frenzy in the cold dawn breeze.
‘n I ain’t seen the like of Yosemite from Glacier Point,
the like of low-summer breeze through Kansas plains ‘n wild grasses,
‘n I can’t deny the intimate of this,
the rushin’ of the two-step as we dodge mis-placed feet.
the like of vinyl hums that lull vagabond children to sleep,
of Texas bridges over protected seas,
hand on your waist, pushin’ to lead,
darlin’, ’cause I’m callin’ you darlin’,
my dance, darlin’, my rules.
there is nothing like the pre-dawn quiet,
when the possible is infinite.
poetry as play,
write as dance,
no rules brings me to the day,
you wouldn’t know her,
it was long ago,
but my hips still sway with her hips,
‘n my lips still stick to her lips,
partners ‘n phantoms both twirllin’ and trillin’
but that’s, that’s the dance, the fanciest of box-step,
the weariest of waltz.
wrote my first poem to someone at twelve,
made my first fan at fifteen:
blonde boy with feathered hair
‘n a closeness I regret havin’ missed.
wrote my first kiss at sixteen:
was her birthday gift to me,
‘n it lit embers that lick softly at always.
wrote my way into beds, again ‘n again:
‘n I don’t know if it’s the words,
or the lips that trip ’em on the way out,
that do that hard-hope sell,
but they kept buyin’ ’til somethin’ stopped flow.
so here we are, darlin’,
this charleston chokin’ at the chit,
‘n I know, I know you don’t mean nothin’ by it,
but the lilt of your play,
the flirt in your diction,
it don’t mean nothin’ but some distant altro-affection,
but, amusin’ or not, I’m musin’ on the muse of you,
‘n findin’ that I got more to say than I’m willin’ to admit.
you got me longin’ the left feet stumble,
the learnin’ sway.
My muse, my muse for today.
