Brian Rosenberger

Whore of a Muse

At times, he wonders if it’s worth it.
Never knowing his audience, if and by whom, his work is read.
Still he hopes. Sitting at the typer, long lonely nights, listening to
Monster Magnet, Rollins, and Hank III, drunk on bourbon and Pepsi
And thoughts of what might-have-been and never-was,
And God-Damn-did-I-actually-do-that?
He eyeballs the midget, short skirt (like duh! it wouldn’t be a long skirt),
Those thick, welcoming thighs, her smile, red as Satan’s asshole courtesy
of Cherry Kool-Aid and cheap Russian vodka.
Is it worth it? Word after lonely word, struggling to get the syntax perfect.
He dons the latex raccoon mask and steps forward, memorizing the setting,
Cinnabon incense, and Slipknot posters, everything looks better by candlelight,
Images stored for later. What matter is the Now; his hard-on points the way.
Is it worth it? What he does for inspiration?
At this point, seeing the midget smile,
what comes after is gravy.