RED MUSE POEMS  

What is a Muse? And why is a Muse necessary in the confabulations
of the present day? Let us consult the Poets Handbook:

(Muse, n. closely identified with the color Red)
A Muse seduces with delight and signals to the Poet that his spirit
is real, a body, filled with worlds. She seduces with a look of
eternity and brings him through the dog-days of autumn afternoons
when the TV drones uselessly on and the rain has stopped for
two days and animals have no curiosity. She is a red navel,
an eye pinched into the skin, where he peers into a happy abyss.
She smells faintly in traces of sweat and love making. Holy
wine rolls from her breasts and he drinks fully until he is
drunk with anticipation.

The Muse is the Word fully Bodied and Dancing Across the Sea of
Anticipations. Her tapered legs are paragraphs disappearing into
the heaven of her delight. The Poet vanishes through its flash
of light and flesh. Her symetry is language written before speech.
She's emptied out of a holy gash in the sky. 

Her look contains encylopedia's hidden in her lovely hair.

The Muse is a fusion of everything signficant from the beginning
of time. 

The Muse appears before warring armies and declares their idiocy.

For the Poet, the Muse is endless variation carried through the air
of fresh mountains when the eye can see the owl sleeping in the
tree.

The Muse is a letter tumbling out of control through the staid
and fixed streets where no one laughs.

She is the clean, obscene shout from youth fully realized.

She is the one who rises above the earth's idiocy and dares it to
dance into the next horizon.

A Muse arises in the guise of a Texas woman when the earth is bored
of itself and verging on total destruction.

A Muse drives from her Poet calculation and infuses him with Beauty
and Song.

A Muse sleeps in mountains made of misty blue, in the nude, waiting
for the Poet to awaken her.

The Muse is made by God to kick the Poet in the ass.

The Muse is a character far above the reach of First Ladies and
Wanton Debutaantes and Beauty Queens.

A Muse knows the stairway to heaven.

A Muse tells the Poet to get some Balls.

A Muse drinks hearty wine to fill her breasts so the poet may
drink to stir his dreaming mind.

The Muse arouses the Poets pen and, even, kisses it to fill it with
crazed words that come shouting out looking for the Egg of the World.

The Muse is a Flame that sings with Joy on top of Crystal Blue Lakes.

The Muse attains to the finest things in life and feels no guilt. 

A Muse weeps to clear the pathway to greater joy and happiness.

When the Muse and Poet are conjoined at the heart the universe
let's out a great song that lasts 10,000 years. It is heard at the
seedling of life in distant galaxies. It is required at the birth
of all great things.

Without the Muse, the Poet is a crippled rabbit set on by mad
dogs.

Without the Muse, the Poet thinks he's smart but is a fool and
serves the wrong masters.

Without the Muse, the Poet puts his head between his legs and
barks like a seal hoping someone will declare he is a great poet.

Without the Muse, the Poet lives in angry streets among homeless
washerwomen who berate him until he weeps.

Without the Muse, the Poet is sought after by national police agencies
who see cryptic messages in his poems.

Without the Muse, the Poet lacks eloquence and spirit and sits
in an empty river bed drinking dirt.

So, the Muse is a signficant personage and is transfigured five
times in life. She is a Body open to the flow of the Poet's passion.
His passion for her is eternal and wanton. Every opening leads to
her infinite soul and capacity to love. His passion is roused like
a great fire sparked from a casual word. It rises, rises up and
sweeps her onward toward great red skies. His passion is like
the twirling swords of the Cherubin guarding Eden. There is no
force capable of stopping the Poet from loving the Muse.