RED MUSE POEMS  

And the Poet loves the heart of Fire
It is a sword through the meaty chambers of the heart
and gets rid of the fake and false
says to the truest being, "live or die," Live out, live
fully and with flames at the edge of some great ocean
not yet conceived; where no thing waits. Where new
swords and new fires are made. There. Above the old
and ancient crowds with their miserable sufferings; 
their eternal nuttiness. Rather than looking with keen eye
toward the infinte sky where all is made new again.


The Poet is fire and wine and a dance through the meat
of shadows who flit around like sorrowful fools. The Poet
wants fire, the Muses fire and all the passion she is capable of.
Bring it on. Make it a good one. Seethe in it. Lurch drunkenly in it.


Let it come and be itself in the light of day among the quiet and
passive crowds. Be Red through them and shame them. 


A Muse is one who in Fire and Tempest and Passion doesn't
allow the grubby people fuck with her and bring her down.
Up, come Up and be youself, be the Red Meteroite streaking 
through the last constellation. Be the one who bares her breasts
on the last day when the storms come. Be her, be made over in 
the Wisdom of that Fire.