Prowling the Isles of the Muse Store

Prowling the Isles of the Muse Store

 

I’ve seen the looks I get

When I prowl the isles of the muse store.

Sloth eyes slithering stoned

Over packaged people

And dragging my lead indecision.

 

All the self-advertisement

Trying too hard to be a freak,

Individuality stamped right next

To the certified organic stickers.

 

Amble through the rows of

Manic pixies and strangers,

Running my hands across all the molds

Waiting for some sign of life.

I know artificial sparks by now.

 

The newer models, with their drawstring

Dialog and whimsical factory settings

Say it all right, and that perfection

Is the problem.

 

Of course, the clearance rack

And hand-me-downs should

Be where I find what I’m looking for,

And I’m fond of tracing the lines of scars,

Yet the familiarity scares me.

 

So instead I wander and touch

The cold plastic, double-checking

Price tags with the online retail prices,

Another shambling mound

 

I scuffle and shift, careful not to

Bump elbows with the others,

The Ginsberg’s and Whitman’s

And all them bearded poets

I see at our weekly meetings.

 

I’ve seen the looks I get

When I prowl the isles of the muse store,

Illuminated under that neon sign,

“Poets Must Pay In Cash.”