THE PUMMEL & PUMP, THE PUSH, THE FIX & THE TRIP
Autumn puts its overnight kibosh
on summer, buckles the hot
August knees with a crisp hook
to the liver, a definitive i-dotting
body shot, then drops it
with a sockdolager to the jaw. Rocked,
summer does the sunfish-
tossed-on-the-dock death
rattle flop. I, quivering, bones
chattering with thrill, lust after this
socked-in morning, thick air
pungent with whiffs of the unpicked
edible inky caps—words stirred
so near I can catch the staccato ticking
of my Muse’s red stiletto heels, Her hubris
as She takes Her blue-bile, not
nubile, vitriolic time back to daddy,
traipsing Her way, making me pay
in diamond-studded spades, in clubbed hearts,
for months of neglect. I, writhing now,
suffer Her comeuppance like a smack
addict locked with bucket,
blanket, bunk, and cold-turkey ghost
screaming from a windowless turret. All
I need, baby, please—pretty
please—baby, is one thin line,
albeit feeble, or even just two
ruby syllables, elbows hitched
symphonically in sync—a tease, a taste,
a sliver of sour cream raisin pie
a la mode with macadamia nut sprinkles
topped with a dollop
of something chocolate, devilish, a little
tiny slice of how, true or not,
I believe it used to feel
smothered in your dark, lithe arms, my face,
my spent brain pressed
between bicep and breast. Smothered—
yes, smothered—in your musky scent, I want
poetry’s musical perfume worked deep,
the morning after, into my pores,
into the sweetest cells of my honeycomb
lungs—so deep, I don’t care
if ever I breathe real air again.
WHY I AIN’T BUYING INTO THE WORD, INSPIRATION
As definite as gravity, the steady pulling
force of poems implores, cajoles, solicits,
summons me magnanimously to tag along,
to join them for pie and coffee, or drinks,
now. More often than not, I say thanks
but no thanks, turn my back, maybe scratch
a distracted note, a fast jot, a quickie
scribble for rainy days. But the Muse does not
do rain checks or futures, run bar tabs,
dole out go-cups, doggie bags or cash
advances. Her clip-‘n-’save coupons all sport
the same right-this-frickin’-minute
bold black expiration notice. Thin-skinned,
heavy-handed, She takes umbrage
even to the politest no. She slaps me
out of hackneyed dreams at 3 a.m.,
hoists me from my bliss
like Sister Superior, uncloistered,
pried me from seat to tiptoes with a triple-stern
pinch-grip to one ear. The Muse knees me
joyously in the groin, doubles
me over, my forehead resting on Her
instep, my wet lips pressed against
Her toenails painted a shimmering
cathouse candy-apple red. She makes me
plead pretty please for one more
chance to meow yes, sweet Goddess, yes,
while my first surge of words, within ruled lines,
penetrate, punctuate, consummate
this lust for whomever is lewd enough
to lure the pen into the page.
© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
5. Second day home from Pigeon Forge—Tuesday Feb. 24th—Wylie and I FINALLY (3+ months after our recording sessions in Nashville with John Carter Cash) got back into songwriting sync. We have 4 or 5 prospects in the hopper, tentatively titled Lone Wolf Waits, You Can’t Know The Pain I Feel, She‘s A Great Old Song, etc. THIS is what I live for. And WHO I live for. Yup, The Muse—mine, a vindictive (no-doubt, EYE-talian!) spirit, who makes me pay big-time whenever I abandon her for so long, I’ve written a number of poems, in fact, delineating the degree of her frigidness, of her vindictiveness, each time I come crawling back begging forgiveness and an umpteenth chance to try to become more regularly attentive. What? You want to read a couple? I thought you’d never ask. Here’s what I’m talking about:
