As you will
Alexandria and Sylvia were
writers. They were both
writers, they both wrote.
Alexandria enjoyed listening
to jeans hitting the sidewalk.
The sidewalk hitting jeans.
She had the habit of laying
face down on the floor, for
which Sylvia could never
figure out because she was
a face up person herself.
Sylvia read the same words
over words and words over and
over again that made her eyes
hot so she would have to face the
ceiling. Sylvia was worried because
she needed to find a muse. Yes, she
needed a muse.
Where does one find a muse?
She looked n 8th Avenue past
the flower shop where the flowers
where and on 6th where the silversmith
lived. Fuck that jingle-jangle song.
Sylvia went somewhere else. Looking
in flower shops and silversmiths was
counter-intuitive. And what is the point of
that? A muse can only be useful in intuitive.
Alexandria was always making grand portraits
of grand people, of grand characters, of grand ideas.
She was always writing about love and life and death.
For Alexandria this was exhausting. For Sylvia,
it was stupid. Sylvia found it counter-intuitive,
and what was the point of that?
Sylvia found her muse in a green gray building
on the corner in some bebop joint on the corner.
The muse was very odd. Very odd indeed. In fact,
she was queer. Very queer indeed. Alexandria didn’t
like having such a odd queer person in her work space.
Alexandria asked the odd queer muse to leave immediately.
Sylvia of course objected. Alexandria walked
of in a huff. Very nice, said Sylvia. The odd
queer muse just sat there waiting to be a muse.
Alexandria wrote a very loopy poem about
the virtues of life. Oh! exclaimed Sylvia.
A virtuous life, a life of virtue life that is
virtuous. I knew I was missing something!
At least I don’t have an odd queer muse said
Alexandria.
Sylvia gave the Alexandria’s poem to
a bum on the street. The bum liked it
extremely well, extremely well the bum
liked it. Sylvia didn’t know what to say.
She thought maybe the bum was lying.
One day Sylvia woke up facing the ceiling
and noted how this particular day, right now,
that single day was like sitting on a chair. Yes,
that was exactly it, sitting on a chair.
Sylvia asked Alexandria if she felt today
was like sitting on a chair. Of course, she
did not, and instead she said it was like raining.
Like raining was preposterous thought Sylvia.
What does raining have to do with today?
Raining is like today like how today is dry.
Sylvia still thought sitting was right.
Alexandria suggested she ask her muse.
No, insisted Sylvia, one never talks to
ones muse. It negates the purpose of the muse,
and what is the purpose of that?
So Sylvia said sitting and face up and odd and queer,
and Alexandria said raining and face down and love
and life and death. And they never got along. But what is
the purpose of that?