Muse, O Muse, edumacate

me, so I can write a poem:

Maybe those dead gods from across the sea can inspire me.

Set can set me up

With Isis in the back seat, and Osiris in the trunk,

Then I can learn me the arts of erotion.

And with Minerva I can cloak the emotion

In erudition and write like Pound.

Anubis can teach me to write like Plath,

Or maybe Byron in a bad mood.

Old Tlaloc can bathe me in blood, but he’s from Mexico

And all that’s come out of there is One Trillion Years of Aloneitude, or


Maybe Si Wang-mu, Royal Mother of the West, can teach me to create like Li Po,

But he’s a little dry for my taste: only the wind of the immortals and

bones of the Tao.

No meat on him.

Hey, there’s a god who’s worth looking to: Thor.

He can smash stuff…

…Well, maybe he’s not such a poet after all.

Visnu could come to me, and I could be Arjuna,

Or I might end up like his uncles.

Those Hindu gods are poets, but mean.

I think I’ll stay away from them.

Gilgamesh was ⅓ god, but couldn’t stay awake to catch infinity.

Utnapishtim judged him right:

He would probably fall asleep in the middle of inspiring me.

Dead Cthulhu, sleeping in his house at R’yleh,

Now there’s a god worth volumes of poems:

He gets in your head and drains your sanity.

Maybe Dutch Schultz was an aquaintance of his,

But I rather like the order I impose on the universe.

The Bear of old Rus might give me some rhymes,

But I hear he’s in cahoots with a witch.

Lament, O ye masses:

The Gods are dead!

And the Orisises ain’t risin’.

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