Morose breath of inspiring gods
forms over the gun barrel gray lake
Awakening Creativity and Conviction
as I discover all the vices that form
in this stagnant pool of a life
which has kept me tied,
face-down,
nose-ground,
and drunk on digression.

Sing to me, Calliope,
something dark and expressive,
something relevant and real,

for the days of late have worn me
                                thin as this paper’s edge.

My head falls
             out,
and my teeth go
               bald,
but still I dance
                 for
              the piper.
Please, Erato,
I beg of you, please,
spit some oil paint
                   wash,
                        and prime the canvas.
Summon all souls of creativity, old friend –

For no friend
of mine paints the sky today.

So may it be
that passionate poets
                     bleed
                          forth through the head of my
                                                   pen.
May the
Mad Poets’, Sad Poets’,
Passionate Poets’ cries
                      be my own.

For if not, then with
sincerity and severity
the envious moon
        will
    rise,
and
shoot all the stars
                   dead,

even this Golden Boy.


Blue blood will
               flow,
sending all into shock.
As this proxy poet
                  falls
                       into
                         a cave
with fragrant, vacant sign at hoist,

cobwebs
        quickly
crawling
        in place,

the song poet sings with no voice,
and the Muses all retire.