creativity

  • Socrates Versus Muse

    The muse are often a flighty band. Some days they flitter about in far away neighborhoods. Others they will hover in silent stares, casting shadows on my tombstone, withholding all information, letting one think. The inflicted occupation of thinking has caused many a malfeasance. In this neighborhood it spells death. The friction of the feet must generate enough heat to keep the children from freezing. The reflex must be honed as the switchblade sidearm is, ready to strike with fists of hardened bone. To stop and figure is a gesture to the predators of submission. A confident tone and sharp intuition goes a long way here. We are the warriors of understanding, letting the information wash over when it rains, following the patterns that it paints for our sake. And when the sun shines in its unsettling silence, we wait.

  • Bring in the Wolf

    I want to let in the wolf
    To roam the halls
    To pull a howling believer into me
    To savage the pallid flesh
    To wreck the furniture
    I trust his style
    Unrelenting and wild
    It can be difficult to get him out
    But while his hoarse cry rings
    The world is right

  • In the Absence of Ambition

    Sometimes, the voices in my head are so loud, they come out of other people’s mouths. The “should” becomes the theme of self destruction. Wayward desires conspire to confiscate the joy of a passion or an honest vocation. If I heed the voices, hurled from surely loving directions, I may become lost in a dilemma of indecision, self reproach, even loathing. Yes, it can be turned against the host–an autoimmune anti agent of urgency.

    If the throttle of messages is regulated, there comes a stillness, pervasive and persuading, to ease the force of steel will. A light and modest unleashing can then take place, in the absence of murderous ambitions.

  • Shine and Hide

    There will be days
    When the muses sleep late
    I don’t even believe
    These mythical beings be

    There is a flood
    A rush of blood
    A cosmic alignment
    The assignment suddenly becomes clear.

    Who am I to suppose
    That these beings come specifically to me
    That they only live under my tree
    Bearing fruit for these hands to harvest

    The stream is infinitely wide
    With access on both sides
    We all swim, drink and lie
    We all shine as we all hide.