I set my pen to paper
and say the prayer to summon my other self
and she appears, smiling like a muse
who has just taken half a hit of acid
and probably some poor virgin's innocence, as well –

Politely, for once, I ask in meek and deferential tones
if she has seen my better nature anywhere recently;
it seems to be gone, along with my guilt
and my familial ties and my money;
for I had always assumed that the other three
brought the first along
like a distant and priggish maiden aunt –

And the muse laughs,
and tells me how much nicer I am
now that I'm not trying to protest my innocence,
tells me she's glad to enjoy getting laid for a change
and as a parting shot before she returns
to her couch on the Olympian heights,
informs me that my poetry
is still as rotten as ever

and I thank her gravely
and cease to torment my notebook.