But, whenever you feel lonely on Writer’s Street you can always fall in somewhere, at some shaggy dog beatnik cafe. It is there you will find out that the Muse has been cheating on you. She’s been having it off behind your back with some other hired throat. You sit und listen to poet after poet do their turn und all you can think is “I used to be able to write it like that.” “I should be doing work like that,” or the ubiquitous “I can do better than that”. But saying it is one thing, dude. Proving it quite another.

And there is absolutely S.F.A. you or anyone can do about it except wait it out. Stopped on a semi colon in a bell jar county. A killing pause or winterlude in the hinterland. Where every day begins und ends with all this serious syndromatic “Paralyzed force, gesture without motion”. You walk entombed like a mummy in this inscrutable sarcophagus of effing ineffability. This isn’t good for anyone, but it is anathema to writers, or to those who think they might be writers.

Then, just like that. Smack dab out of the black und blue. Without phoning or writing to say she’d be coming by there she will suddenly be again. Just like “Hi honey, I ’m home. Did you miss me?” You did. You must always say you did, and never complain. Just take the lumps on your chops and smile pretty for posterity. This is like high tide to a surfer. When the wave is up you ride the curl as far as it will take you.

You get as much done as you possibly can because you know that there is going to come a day you will wake up and need her again, but just like that she will be gone.

Attsa da life, wot’re yuh goingk to do? Muse me, baby. Only you know the way, and you show the way to go.

© Ian David Arlett. 2014

<Incidentally, I have no idea what C.U.T.M. II refers to — if anyone knows — please let me/us know — wm.>