The Poet

After it’s written I begin to forget when –

being awakened by the montage

running through my brain and – 

rejecting vestigial images of the mundane

became simple tradition for this ink pen

No repertoire to speak of

A mendicant thespian

practicing celestial invocation – 

when missing pages lead to silent rages

the fundamental lesson

absolute zero kelvin

Then the muse awakens

always on time – imperiously enthused 

divine inspiration more than I can take in.

Incessantly thankful for this sidereal affliction

any chance at gaining sanity – I fervently refuse