The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided.
Dante and I are out near South Detroit Street in Yuma, this is last year before the Holidays, a few months before the end of August when he would die. It’s midnight, could be a dream, maybe real, what’s the difference, I’ll let you the reader decide. We are both drunker then catnip, higher than kites. Don’t judge me here fellow citizens, I was just trying to survive. We’re laying right by the railroad tracks, looking at the second star to the right, discussing, what was the meaning of the season and such. An important topic for a muse and his possessed.
“It’s special” I say, “for the mystery inside, the daemons in the firelight, under snow filled skies. The Nicholas in shadows, the one of which I’ll write. I know you have seen him my muse, while inside, painting the pictures from which I will scribe. There’s the eve before midnight, while we pagans dance, and our eyes reflect candles, and sugarplums in our heads.”
“There’s a train coming”, Dante bends forward looking around the silo toward the west. I can see the pale yellow single light stirring the cold darkness in the distance. “It’s a haunt coming”, Dante’s voice is low like a growl, as he turns and looks at me. I can see his teeth, shining. “Your turn”, I say! “What”, Dante looks down studying the cold gravel near the iron track. “YOUR TURN to talk about the season”, I say. The train is getting closer, the distant horn, sounding louder, the light from the single eye brighter. “Well” Dante says as he stands up and steps out onto the tracks, his long dark cloak flowing out behind him.
“It’s special” he says, “for the scotch and elves, and the wishes we toast, the garland in windows and Jimmy Stewarts ghost. The treasure of Gloria, the heavens of host. The storms of strife, looking, to find peace somewhere. The comfort of snow, for it hides what is dead, but promises living, in spring far ahead. The folklore of Dickens, whom I’ve never read, but G-D bless us everyone, well there it’s been said”.
The train is upon us, as Dante gently steps to one side, his hair not moving even with the mighty wind, that stirs around the rumble of the heavy dark cars whipping by. “That was beautiful, really it was Dante”, I say my words rising as I’m having to scream to compete with the moving sound of the train. Our little spot on South Detroit Street, seems centric with our seasonal philosophy. The muse and I for once are not arguing, not divided. It’s as if the spell of scotch and elves has brought us together. – 12-16-2016- דָּנִיֵּאל