the Table of Speaking

Most Muses work with me from afar.
Fickle illusions sent to stimulate
a cranky non-poeting poet.
I swore off them. Decided –

Walked away into the bright light
of annihilation and bliss, into
that place of Mystics and Wanderers
(and that was okay! I was fairly content
in that abyss of emptiness)

And then — you called me, or
I stumbled accidentally into
You. And You — Lord! More stubborn
than I, than any other Muse before You
showed up all flash and sparkles and
deep-sight serious wise and you can

Sing! Damnit! You woke me up!
And so I trudge to the Table of Speaking,
pick up the cursed pen, and start saying
your name in the silences that come
between the wing beats of my heart.

The Dance

The days come and go
another winter drizzle
laughing --
I think of mice in the walls
of houses
all that scurrying about
and what serious objectives
move them.

The days go and come
another year rolls in
grinning --
I think of poets and lovers
and all the horror movies
I've ever seen
wondering why
we drink the gore and blood
as if it matters.

The day
comes and goes
quickly --
I think of you
and wonder how many lives
we've lived, how many times
our paths crossed, the touching
of hands
so commonly common
as if dying held no meaning
we take up the dance again.