Douglas Allen Rhodes

Words don't come when you want them.
Nothing is ever that easy.
They have to be coaxed, teased,
seduced.

You have to fuck the muse if you want her gifts.

Three ounces of Ciroc,
a drop of vermouth,
five ice cubes,
shaken until the shaker almost burns my hands with cold-
the perfect martini.

On my laptop,
forms the story
of a woman
who's having an abortion,
because we've finally isolated what gene
determines homosexuality.

Erato and Melpomene lie snuggled together,
breathless,
on my bed,
as Bacchus smiles upon me.