Donkey Muse 2, and farewell

So the Muse is Beatrice. The Muse is a donkey. Not the beloved person but the beloved beast, intransigent. The beloved is wholly human, or wholly cat or ocean. The Muse is form and the struggle to incarnate. Think of the souls in the Bardo, desperate to be born: you want to tell them, "No, don't. Not those parents. Not that time or place." As if any time or place is kinder than another. Blake's Thel knew it. But here we are, the rest of us, in bodies ourselves, needing to make bodies for the ghosts inside us. The chune in the head or the jar in Tennessee, its doesn't matter, as long as you get it out of the head, as long as you find a hill to set it on. Even pneumonia, that fogged my mind so much the only body I could give it was a cage of rhyme.

It's the end of May, so I pass the wheel to the next Trucker, having covered so few miles myself. Perhaps it's the beginning of Might or Shall, some other month less tentative than this one.

May you all be happy and free.