Speaking of the poetry bug...
I have reached the startling conclusion
that my Muse is either a man or a lesbian
because nothing seems to excite him (her?)
more than the sight of my naked flesh:
wet, covered in citrus-scented soap,
and in the shower.
That’s the cause for complaint right there.
All of my best ideas come to me in the shower!
There I am: leg balanced on a two-inch shelf,
body twisted down, soapy sponge in one hand,
disposable razor in the other when BAM!
Inspiration strikes me like a Spanish bull;
it knocks the breath out of me
pulls my slick feet out from under me
and sends me to the bathtub floor
where the blood from my cracked skull
combines with the soap and suddenly
I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.
I have got to write.
I need to write. I am quivering
with the force of this idea. So I leap
out of the still running shower
and grab for some paper-
but the paper fractures.
It swells and folds and rips apart
earthquake style. The force of the idea
and dampness of my hand
turn the once pristine sheet
into a glistening pile of shards,
glittering under the bathroom light.
And the pen! The pen that I keep
in the cup with my toothbrush
has been metamorphosed
by the wetness of my fingers
into a giant sea slug
wrestling, yearning, turning in my hand.
Desperate to return to its tidal pool
and completely unwilling to write
or even act like a useful tool.
So I grab a towel and dash out of the bathroom.
My legs are half shaved, covered in suds.
My hair is flat, plastered against my brain
by water and blood, because my cracked skull
is still bleeding
and the shower is still beating out behind me.
I make it to the kitchen
where I use a carving knife to scratch a few lines
into the wood of the kitchen table.
The table does not mind.
It has had this kind of treatment before
and is scarred with haikus, phrases and
disjointed words that read, to me,
like a poetical grocery list. Finally,
I have the bones of my idea
spread out before me. No meat,
but a feast nonetheless.
I return to the shower.
The hot water is all gone, so I rinse off
and get dressed. Then I go to the store
where I buy:
a single sewing needle
thread
three ripe kiwis
and six bottles of beer.
The kiwis and booze are to sustain me
while I sew up my skull
and then stitch
the lines of this poem together.