I don't believe in muses
when
just reaching for the keyboard
makes me feel like
Mary stretching out her hands
and waiting for the deadline:
there lies my neck
and all that it implies. Yet
I
keep
on
reaching
for the keys
and their dream-muted clatter
maddens and
soothes
me. Complacency
will get you
to Paris on a moonlit night,
but that's no place
existent.
Give me liberty
or give me
writer's block.