Words - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 21 – Miriam/Zeus

“I'm coming at you with a baseball bat!”

“Let me ruffle the fur on your gut.

Girl, you are just one dumb bitch.”

Call-Up - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 22 - Terpsichore:
Cats disappeared

into the olive grove

until the Greek marines

trooped down the road again

there clambered down

from every limb

a feline-muscled woman

with one breast
a quiver on her back

and bow of olivewood

arched in her hands.
The neighbors

from the further slope

arrived to offer help
and there Amelia

bade farewell

to all her bosom flyboys
found a charred knife

Miriam had left

among the pots and pans
administered

her own mastectomy

congealed into a crust

as hard as adamant
beneath a poultice

of enchanted laurel leaf

a bow and took her in;

intuited

but this is not about a woman wooed

then wed, deceived and scorned—

sister by brother, lover by lover,

a hundred years and craving more.
It's not about revenge

or humbling Zeus to force him to return:

the time comes in a man's misdeeds

when it's too late for him to learn

a lesson except pain.
It's not about rehashing fracases

from Homer's Iliad:
'False Zeus, why is it dearest to your heart

to think of secret things and act on them?

You never frankly tell me what you plan.’
'Hera, don't expect to know my every thought;

some are too hard for you, though you're my wife.

No man nor god shall hear, before you do,

whatever thoughts it's right for you to hear,

but certain plans I wish to hatch alone.’
'And what of Silver-Foot who sat with you

at rosy dawn and clutched your knees?'
'I can't escape from your suspicious mind!

It only distances you more from me!

If what you fear is true, it's what I want

and no one of the other gods can help

if I resort to laying angry hands on you!’
So yes, perhaps it is about that threat;

for who can live with any happiness

beside a monster snarling about death?
The enemy of my enemy—the latest woman

scorned in Zeus's long career of serial abuse—

the scenes and make sure she achieves her end.

False Zeus, your extant and my ex,

“Although Yeshua is my gutsy stock,”

The spartan Moors know how to fight,

You can drape Yeshua's crimson crosses

as I've had,

I can't complain,

you all arrayed

against me now.
Complaint is not

my style, anyway;

for longer than

the Cristos olive-tree

has shaded soil

on sun-blinded Crete,
the archetypal

Solitary Man, the king

of aces, boxer

bristling with arms

to strike an enemy

of many faces.

link dainty hands

yourselves

to Swabians who

lend you might;

the lot of you to hell:

Nancy-boys from any

of the earth's four

corners can survive

brawn and wile.

Yesterday the East fled swiftly

underneath your horses' hooves!

Today jihad turns West!

He commands Ride into battle's jaws!

Heaven summons you forward!
Israel once magnified One God,

His name so sweet up on their tongues!

Now Christians say Yeshua is His son!
Ride hard!

Allah is boiling in His people's blood!

His wrath electrifies your blades!

The enemy blasphemes One God!

sacked Rome centuries ago!

You muscled the Gaels

out of Gaul and Vandals

from Hispania!
Now, King Roderic,

the Muslims cross the strait

from Africa to Calpe Rock

and ride to Asta Regia

to test how Visigoths

stand up in an attack!

Egilona's shapely hand

and whether or not

brandy will be added

to your sack!

At stake is whether

cross or crescent moon

overshadow the land!

Yeshua is my son!

He sent me here

to promise you

that He and all His saints

await you and the bravest

of your men in Heaven!

Reflections Before Battle - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 28 - Roderic the Visigoth:
Who's more of a hick, me or the Umayyad—

his tribesmen scratching sand and eating camel's dick

to try to make their own as long and thick,

or mine, sailing our dragon ships from Geatland

both conquered far and wide to meet here at Earth's ends,

Pillars of Hercules about to clash;

but my wife Egilona, instead of puffing up my confidence

or nagging me to come back whole,

cannot help wondering aloud

if Abd al-Aziz ibn Musa may not be a tad less crude.
Where does she get her airs? She claims Marcus Aurelius

as distant forebear—fucked a Marcomanni captive at Carnuntum—

but even if that Spanish Stoic rid his mind of Fronto

long enough to bounce on some well-traveled German cuntum—

and for the glory of the Cross when sun comes up,

but honestly, if I should lose my head to scimitar

and Egilona fall into the Muslim general's clutches,

then good riddance, best of luck to her new husband.

Sonnets At Sun-Up - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 29 – Miriam:
Nothing commands a male's attention

more than war.

Visigoths ride forth to breast the Berber horse

and Zeus will watch and cheer:

that's when I'll bring the gore

to him by my own hand.

mariticide luxurious compared to mine,

her spouse already having slain her child;

but Zeus's hazard to my son is indirect,

and since he might amend his ways,

my own assault might be precipitous.

my love for Zeus unfortunately still alive.

though he cares most for aggrandizement

and slipped off to shore up his renown;

all I accuse him of is carrying

the selfsame quiver of qualities

that pierced my heart originally.

if not the latent warrior he sensed in me

as I sat reading by the window

feigning innocence?

and yields so little profit in the peace!

and chips fall where they may.

The gospels' Miriam is not fleshed out,

but readers after twenty centuries cannot

accept a wildcat with her claws out, Tom!

Humility and tenderness are traits

we know and love from other texts:

in his “Don Juan”—so how far can you stretch?

Fierce Miriam rears up and slays great Zeus?

I dare you, ask your reader here and now,

Nobody wants the Story of Antiquity in verse,

or to replace their mild and tender Mother

with some chippy grinding Romeos to pulp.

if Miriam intends to keep Yeshua safe,

she should remind him, Poet, of his place.

The lyre and lyric turn of phrase

are your domains of expertise,

but is the content of the rhymes

supposed to be composed by you or me?

Go to your mighty dad while you still can.

Who knows?

A father and his long-lost girl's embrace

just might melt Miriam's heart

and stay her hand.

Zeus Kuknon dabbling

the lush fringe of a pond

looks up, and Miriam—

trains at his lengthy neck a Cretan double axe,

the single implement he fears.
“Call back your heathen troops!” she orders him.

“Cast thunder in their midst,

confusion in their cavalry, immediately—

or with this twinnèd blade I'll cleave

your final heart-beat!”
They come! they come! I see the groaning lands

White with the turbans of each Arab horde;

Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving bands,

Alla and Mahomet their battle-word,

The choice they yield, the Koran or the Sword -

See how the Christians rush to arms amain!
“Dear Miriam, good luck!” Zeus squeaks.

“The boil right now in my blood is such,

your axe will have a hard time finding in it

anything but coursers in stampede of love,

and pain, because love's object hates.”
“I'll count to three,” she says.

“The time for honeyed words is past.

This axe is aching for the home I've promised it.

Call back the African invader now!”

to what you ask, much as I wish

I might. I have a character,

a personality in which I live

and no more can escape than you can yours,

in all its bloodlust, loveliness.

So why object? Let me enjoy my final sight.”
She lifts the axe

and as she does

she hears inside her head

the voice

she heard in Nazareth

so long ago

advising her to take the unexpected,

hidden path: Change course.

In that moment's hesitation,

the sly swan springs up,

gold spilling from his eyes,

latches his bill onto her wrist,

his breast electric with adrenalin,

more alive than ever!—

and she realizes

she's not a natural killer.
“I knew you had a lot of tricks,”

she laughs,

“but never guessed ventriloquist.”
He trumpets.

Winning always makes him hard

and getting hard lifts up his mood.

“I have some wine and food,” he toots.

“Come, this is something we can celebrate.

Nine of my daughters, muses,

are twice pleased:

both that you spared my life,

and stayed in character.

They're all good girls,

if chipped a little stiffly off the block.

How would you like to meet them?”

his beady eyes two beams of light,

victorious enjoys in love

his masterstroke in fight.

I hear you've got the Saxons up your ass

east of the Rhine, north of the Main.

The other Frankish princes are a royal pain.

And what was done to Roderic in Hispania

is enough to unman you;

but this chance for fame

won't ever come again.

Historians could care less

if you win wars in this icy wilderness;

you need a theme

the average man can understand:

emancipating Christian civilization

from the Mohammedans.

Don't fear. They're just a pack

of skinny men on skinny nags

disporting skinny steel

and gaily trailing skinny flags

and multicolored pennants.

The only scary thing about them is

(if scuttlebutt is true) their virile cutlasses

swing both ways nightly in their tents.

Your infantry is loyal, steady, veteran;

tell your mess cooks to start

“Je crains!” or “Je suis fatigué!”

“Nous nous battons pour Notre Dame!”

All your enemies and mine

are mired in the past and frightened

of a future more enlightened.

Yeshua represents an innovation

similar to yours: new ways to skin

the cat of hegemonic grammar

and to frame a sturdy new Jerusalem

from his nails and your hammer.

A Frank Note - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 2 - From the Desk of Jackie O's Ghost:
How do I disabuse

you of the notion

there is anything of interest

about one muse,

much less your bloated

bevy of all nine?

a mistral gust to Mississippi steamboat,

a propeller to a plane.

Give up those mannikins,

and you just might

have something somebody

could stand to read;

but keep them,

and your manuscript will get no farther

than pretentious dilettantes

like Daedalus and Ruskin did.
And mon Dieu,

please stop adding points of view!

Your monologues by everybody

and their brother's kitchen sink

have driven me up to the brink

of trading in my Montblanc

for a punch-ladle of scarlet ink!
If you've got a story, dammit,

Mr. Riordan, tell it.

Cram it with as much crude sex as fits

without appearing trop gratuit,

and maybe there's a 50/50 chance

that Doubleday can sell it.

Look at the miracles we worked

in better days

with Mina Loy and Chuck Palahniuk.

be sacked,” Amelia asks,

“how many times her churches burnt,

how many times the Saracens

arrive in a flotilla

from the unsuspecting sea

and send the garrison

of untried Byzantines in terror

up into the hills?

“Ladies, I know I'm out of place

advising you or anyone

in this part of the world

about your business,

but there seems to be

a classic power vacuum here.

Why not step in and take the city

that you founded back?

Or are you having too much fun

pretending to be cats?”
“Miss,” chant the Amazons,

“your male friend seems

as docile as he ought to be

and you yourself seem brave

and enterprising, to a fault;

we've also heard a rumor

that you over-reached,

made bold to circle Zeus's sky

without an offering.

“We get as stirred as anyone

by Satan's speech to all

the ex-celestials in Milton's hell,

but wouldn't it have made

more sense to put their energy

in air conditioning

or an archangel-retardant fence?”

as the grey cats

spring into the air

to catch the scraps

of goat intestine

she had saved

to toss to them.
The city smokes

and Muslim dhonis

ride the evening air

back out to the sea;

the Byzantine guard

tumbles loudly down

the hill pretending

to counter-attack.
“Zeus keeps me

as a pet,” she thinks.

“I'd rather risk

the cats to life again

as warriors...

rise up on her wings

and dare the sun

to lay her low again...

her tearful dream.

All around her,

all around as far

as she can scan,

is empty sea.

as the star

that Herod's agents

clumsily explained

was “overhead”
(deceiving no one—
the new parents saw

the writing on the wall

and by first light

had fled)

the shepherds

of the field
who angel choirs bade

to look in on a child

in a manger

on the outskirts

of the town
and who were

quite amazed

though they could

barely spell

when Miriam explained
“I'm calling him Yeshua

to fulfill the prophecy

itself

a warming breath

and encouraging

bray.
I'm not as cold

as my detractors claim
but always curious

about the intermix

of mortal and divine

resulting from my

dabbling in eugenics—
as usual

a disappointment.

The feeble infant

would have died

the shepherds applied

a schmeer

of their veterinary

ointment.
This one, I thought,

lacks any markings

of a hero.
If it weren't

mathematically irrational

Ena Akomi̱ Mi̱den—

One More Zero.
What I did see

though
is how his mother

metamorphosed

all the agony of labor

into love so feral
I and a couple sheep

wandered across

the road
and tried to crowd in

with some cattle

at the neighbor's.

A Scholarly Analysis - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 5 - Abu Isa:
“The Christians' trope of the Nativity,”

says Outreach Minister Abu Isa al-Warraq,

“exploits a potent trinity of god, human and holy dove.

Our Allah and Muhammad cover 1 and 2,

but we still need some extramundane animal—

maybe a dromedary's or a falcon's ghost—

if we are bent on out-competing them.

Straight and Narrow - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 6 - Ibn Ya'qub, Minister of Tawbah:
We don't need female figurines—

doves—trinities—dromedaries!

We strip away embroideries,

stand straight in naked zeal!

The almonds in the brain Greeks

call the amygdalē?

That's where Allah's voice speaks

straight into our hearts; the rest,

as Jews say, is just commentary!
Compete with Christians—why?

Man doesn't choose his Lord!

Let's keep it simple:

Islam—tribute—or, the sword.

since they moved the stone

out from my tomb

and Yeshua called me forth

still bound in graveclothes

hand and foot

and my face wound in

the funerary napkin.

and they did

I can't imagine what

I looked or smelled like

having never encountered

a zombie myself

but even through the smoke

I saw all those

who loved me

shrinking back.

assured me afterward

they were just

awestruck by the miracle—

there was no stink,

no filming of the skin,

no blackened toes—

but she has never been

above white lies.
Why don't you ever smile?

everybody asks me

all this time.

You were entombed four days

and then you walked right out!

But anyone who's seen

what I saw knows

there isn't anything at all

to grin about.
After Yeshua's crucifixion

the companions said

So I took sail.

How many of us floated

like orphaned coconuts

to every haven

of the Mediterranean?

My adoptive isle: Cyprus.
Everybody had their hand out.

The consul Arminius Proclus

demanded witness that

the underworld is grim too

for Yeshua's closest friends;

then John and Miriam

set sail from Joppa

hoping to convince me

to go public, saying I'd been

resurrected by their Christ.

They said it would save lives,

though others thought

the persecution

probably would only grow.

but winds from Asphaltite

pushed their ship off course

as far as Athos

on the east-most teat

of Chalcidice's uddered

brow of Greece
which ever since

has interdicted females

of all natural species

from its sketes

and monasteries,

even from Saint Anne,

Saint Andrea,

Annunciation of Theotokos.

that day?

The more I see

the more I see the veil.

of Bethany

with my two older sisters

when the biggest mysteries

we had to solve

revolved around

the disappearance

of a pear or quince.

They say he groaned in spirit

and he wept

while the twin Tau'ma

cried empassioned

Let's all hasten to him

so that we may also die

with our dear friend!

But Yeshua chose

abiding where he was

for two days more

to make the point

once he arrived

that he was heaven-sent.
I don't know what to think.
Nobody understands

I've only been

through hell

and have no testimony

pro or con to tell

about religion.

Death, life,

what's the difference—

clay steals from clay

and there is nothing

else to say.