A Few Days of Thought

It took him forty days, forty nights. In hot desert sin, his heart was warm, his body cold - his feet were bare. Dust storms came and midnight freezes and the serpent found many shapes of sinful comforts, but the vagrant's heart kept warm.

Artists try to allude to something with metaphors and analogies that have become so abstract that the point becomes elusive; like trying to pick up oil with bare hands. The greatest writers had the right words to put to life rather than illusions evading understanding. It's as if artists anymore haven't the words to explain a situation in its purist whole, so they create concepts upon concepts that miss the idea and lead to utter confusion.

Last night the Muse beckoned. Reluctant at first, I heeded her call. It came in a dream I decided to write down. As always I missed the details and could only recall generally what happened. Is there a way to recognize a dream, wake to write it, and, while writing, fall back into the dream? (I think they simply call this Creativity.)

I've found, the safest refuge is closed eyes,

next, a beard,

or placing chin in palm and biting the pinky nail.

You can hide behind drama or comedy

or face it all sans facade;

or bury yourself in a veil,

try not to reveal your fears... (so on...) (working on it)

I've come to realize, noone slithers in the desert.

Cars pass, crackling rocks,

elbows knock door jams,

fists pound coffee,

chirps cackle through cellphones,

heels clack pavement;

but the spider trickles,

subtle,

onto your neck,

through your collar,

down your back,

like fingernails.