*
A hostile, ridiculing muse came to me. Was the modern muse, assembled from bric-a-brac. It had the wrists of a painter, the arms of a famous statue, a car's chassis in place of a torso, square.
"The boheme is dead," it called from within its Bob Ross head. "Why ornament, or try? I found some delectables on a tray."
*
I flew in the face of that incorporated waste-voice, felt it was maybe goading me to act as well. A first important step was to inhale the air, along with its smog and haste.
No more, the delight I found was seemingly endless, in fields of nomenclature and political collapse just about to occur. What's behind the microphone bare, but you could sit there.
*
The amaryllis was coming out on the avenue, I knew. Though no one could see the traces of that yet. Though no one could understand what those words meant, they sounded good, they swayed to that sheen.
[ page 3 of 3 ]