muse me



say hey 
bard-tender, 
won’t you please pour me 
a straight up shot 
(in the arm) 
(in the dark) 
of some rum
-bled phrase? 

fuse me 
(shaken, stirred) 
a word or two 
to spill, some cocktail 
napkin poems to fill 
the time. 

lose me 
to the page, the space 
-bar rage of fingers flying 
and syllables 
sighing 
in broken keys. 

ruse me 
into happy hour 
highs 
when letters clack 
to sky, before it all blows 
by and the hang
-over begins. 

::
In April we poem. Today is day 21.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Use your words.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.