Nancy Grace Bitchslaps My Muse

I SHALL HUG some happy-horseshit tree
        until the poem comes to me,
I shall wait, and then it will come.
No TV, no tunes, and then it will come.
I’ll stare at my dog and resist inflicting the world
        with another damn dog poem.
I’ll hard-squint like Clint, and it will come.
I’ll think of lines from deadwhitemen poems
Then gaze afar and envision an image of (       ).
I become distracted by a clump of loose hair from aforementioned dog;
I shall ignore it and wait, and then it will come.
I see that the hairball is larger and moving across the floor. . .
I crank up my contemplation to "Almost-trembling-soulful."
I think of my anger (damn righteous)
                                    And it will come,
Think of my fears (spider founded)
                                    And it will come,
Think of Beauty and Truth and heightened Vocab
                                    And it will come,
Think of my work I need to finish this week
and it will NOT come, and thank god I don’t have to write  
        this poem for a class.
I strip-search my soul for a Subject:
                  Childhood: wronged, like everybody,
                  Brothers: nah, one’s a lawyer,
                  Mother: only if I like to be guilt-lynched,
                  Past lovers: not 'til I'm 80.
I’m getting serious now,
        Getting po' pumped,
        Getting simile-ic as hell on a cracker,
        Getting punk’d by the writer’s block
        that I don't believe in.
I am drawing a daisy around a freckle on my leg.
I am staring at a TV set, tuned to a dead channel.
I am inventing dog hairspray made of Elmers glue and water.

I realize days have passed since I watched
Nancy Grace bitchslap an eyewitness!
My lonely spouse Whatshisname roots around in my brain,
A limoncello plays a catchy tune from the other room,
And my feet slide into Later’s red snakeskin shoes
        to shitkick the Muse. 

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