Lawrence wrote:
Poets have written volumes of nonsense about the poetic muse but no one
really knows what it is or how it happens. But so what? If it happens
from
time to time we'll be more than happy to take the credit for the finished
product.
All right, Muse, stick 'em up! You've
conned me long enough--Fifty years
or close to it. Fifty years and I'm waiting
for some word, some words, really, but any word,
a little bubble of inspiration from your makeup kit,
something that doesn't melt as soon as it hits my ear,
something that starts things running like the perpetual
motion machine I invented in eighth grade, the one
that ran the generator that ran the motor
after the battery started the whole thing. Impossible!
Some law about energy and no free lunch and the universe
running down because it can't get no satisfaction,
which is what I'd have guessed if I'd been older
and known more about satisfaction. Invoke you?
How much is that? I mean, how much, and what
does it take? I just call you up and say, Start singing,
Babe, you're the ghost in my machine--? Uh huh,
and how does it go after that? You are my sunshine?
A pull-down menu? I see: love, sex, death, and?
there was something else? But never mind. Go on
home. Sorry I pulled the gun. But now I know your street
we might meet again. Oh, right: the other was war. Just now
I'm not up to it. Let them fight. You are my sunshine.
Here, you take the gun. My only sunshine. Please don't take
my sunshine away.
Trebor Luap
School of Inspiration
Mutton College
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