(Inspired by) my Muse

Wednesday night friends ask
If I have premonitions,
As death is my constant muse.
Hell no!
I’ll die when I’m good and ripe.
Unlike the beauty on highway 33
Beneath the farmer’s
Tomato truck.
I know,
My God,
What a way to go!
All I’m saying is

I’m still writing–
Writing my guts out
And my pen
Gushes life and death
Laid out
Like her small intestine
All twenty-three feet,
Four inches of it.
Tell me how,
How can you not appreciate 
Drawing closer and closer
To her

I’m okay, dear friends,
Though I visit her there
Under the muddied wheel,
You should know–don’t you know?

That her soul
My soul, your soul–
All souls, are never in
Need of repair.


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