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This voice is quiet now.
I have not put pen
to paper. Nor have I heard
you, beautiful muse.
Come to me! Grant me
your omniscience
and the confidence
of strident satyrs, who are not afraid
of foolishness- they bear it
in all around them.

I seek you outside
my car window,
near my tools, where they lay
at home. Man
on the corner, he looks, too,
but cannot find you.
The book under his arm
with the pineapple on the cover,
that talisman will bring you.

Continue, though, I do.
Are you in this cold cup of coffee
I purchased at Starbucks
an hour ago? I swear I saw you
leaning over the counter
refilling the sugar. Words
filled my head, but quickly left
as if you snapped them back
on a rubber band tether.

Muse! Oh, muse!
Where are you?
You must be somewhere
incomparably better. In the smoke
produced by laissez-fare
cigarette banishments and sonic souls.
I know the folk singers wake
somewhere. Have you given
a note or line to him and her
on pastoral accords?

Shall I wait here,
right here until I feel you
providing the neurological
connections between heart, hand,
and head? Where is it
without you? I shall sit
with ink dripping from my mind
and watch the evaporative progress
in my teacup, where you might be.

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