my Muse ain’t my bitch

oh, yeah,

a poem that pulled me from my writing cave today.  may it tighten the embrace between you and what Inspires you.

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my Muse tells me, "i ain’t your bitch, sweetie."

She likes to play coy, hide and seek, especially when i’ve cleared a day entirely for Her to do Her thing.

and when time is clipped, in short supply, when i have ten pounds of juicy ideas to fit in a one pound pot, She piles it on thicker.

She often flits, escapes the scene like steam.  to see Her at all, i have to act all casual.  i have to look sidewise, out of the corner of my eye.

straight on, She bolts.

and just as often, She likes to grab me by the throat, stare in my eyes (all the way down to my guts) and wait.  to see who will look away first.  She never does.

i keep imagining there is a time when Her lighter will spark my piles of tinder and i will finally feel like we are cooking with gas.

“oh, honey,” She says.  "rub your hands together.  that’s the way to heat things up."

"and then," She says, "focus your eyes like a magnifying glass so the sun can pierce through, igniting."

"use your belly like bellows and blow on the embers."

"that’s your way to start the fire,” She says.

"but listen!” i say.  “the noise of hungry bodies, waiting!  Your way, we will all be so far past the point of hungry by the time i get it all cooked.  surely there is a better way?  a faster way, a more efficient way?"

"it’s not just about what we get to fill ourselves with at the end," She says.  "there is magic in the heating and stirring."

"there’s magic in watching a pot of water slowly boil?" i ask.

She holds my gaze and hands me a spoon.

wise-and-trustable

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to what you’re boiling,

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