talking with my muse

i get out of the steamy hot bath,

still covered in suds,

a towel wrapped around me.

i call up my muse.

hey. i say. what's up, what's

going on with you. i need some

inspiration.

i've got nothing, i tell her.

i'm so tired

of writing about the same

things, and people are tired of

reading about

it too.

past relationships, blah, blah blah.

i think i've beaten that dead horse

a hundred

times over.

okay, okay, she says. slow down.

slow down cowboy. breathe.

maybe you need a change of scenery.

a road trip.  ever been to canada?

canada? what are you nuts, it's winter.

look, she says.

i can't do all the work here. inspiring

you day in day out.

you're killing me. i'm working overtime

with you.

i've got bags under my eyes

trying to think of

new things.

why don't you try going five hours

without writing about the first

dumb thing

that pops into your head?

five hours? i've never done five hours

before. my hands start shaking.

yes. she says, and then we'll work up

to a day, two days without writing

a single word.

you're crazy, you know that.

i don't know if i have that kind of

will power.

breathe, she says. you need a break.

start sending this stuff out,

start publishing, get a few  books

going.

photos along side.

come on dude. you can do this.

as your official muse you need need

to pace yourself. get some rest.

get fresh, get real. take a break.

okay, maybe you're right i have been

pushing you,

writing like a madman lately.

i'll try to go three hours then work

my way up to five hours

without hitting the keyboard.

honest, i'll really try,

but i have to go now, i just 

thought of something.

the time i saw a cat with a peanut

butter jar stuck on it's head.

and i had to chase her all over 

the neighborhood to get it off.

there's some kind of metaphor there,

don't you agree.

about relationships?

oh, brother, my muse says.

i give up, and she 

hangs up the phone.