cover art by Tomm Scalera

Exhortation - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 20 - Urania:

Take a ticket. By Zeus!—number 2,900,001!

We started out 3, then swelled to 9; you poets have no one to blame but yourselves for this long line.

It's not like we can fabricate more wisdom or beauty at will just to meet an increasing demand. Such things take time. You understand.

Old-timers made liberal use of hemlock to ensure their access to us, four or five times a month. But don't fear. Unless you wilt from the sun or collapse from dehydration, I'll see to it you get your audience: the quickest, faintest whisper in one ear that only someone starved for something never heard before will hear.

Pitch – Muse's Advisory, Sept. 21 – Thalia:

Once you make it to the head of the line our personalized service guarantees your inspiration is a perfect fit, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

Langston Hughes's number came up late one night during his busboy shift at the Wardman Park.

I double-dared him, Lay your 'Weary Blues' down by the tea-cup of that grim Illinoisan with the swell cowlick.

Halfway through his pastry and the poem a plug of prune got stuck in Vachel Lindsay's throat, his wife dug out his gullet with her index finger and the first words to come popping from of his mouth: My God, who wrote that?

Bukowski was a tough nut. When I first lit on his TV set, he leapt and lunged at me with a rusty fly-swatter!

Even a would-be angle he brushed back, until I whispered in his ear:

Rent. Food. Miller High Life. Pall Malls. White Owls. Child support. $100 a month!

He gave me props in 'Betting on the Muse': this is why I chose to be a writer. if you're worth just half-a-damn you can keep your hustle going until the last minute.

He thought me gold.

We midwife every plump new poem that bawls or coos its way to print. Become a Byron on your own? No. You'll learn soon enough we are the best and only game in town.

The Sincerest Form - Muse's Advisory, Sept 22 – Clio:

You who pander to posterity as successfully as Nathan Hale inspire me: though green behind the ears when facing Extreme Unction at the New York city gallows felt no inkling of compunction about plagiarizing Cato he'd just read at Yale:

"What a pity it is That we can die but once to serve our country";

or Abraham Lincoln several generations later borrowing a page from George III's old playbook magnanimously made decree that every slave held by rebellious foes— and only those—

“shall be thenceforward and forever free”;

or Jesus cribbing the less two-faced Jeremiah's "Turn the other cheek."

Pull out the stops! Beg, borrow, steal with all the cheek that you can muster— gloss your own lips with the luster of dead losers who turned lovely phrases but no profits of éclat.

What goes around comes around. Nothing's new under the sun. The sincerest form of flattery is looking out for number one.

Cherchez la Muse - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 23

Clio:

Big mouth and hyperbolic pen both preconditions for renown, but though you loudly toot your horn, you'll want one sidelong bag of wind to fan you both while you live, and subsequent.

Take admirable John Paul, Scots murderer and slaver, who embarked to Roanoke, threw in with rebels also hunted by the Crown, pirated a cargo of woolen coats off Labrador, inked his first heroic boast—

The news of the captured uniforms renewed the courage of George Washington's army and contributed significantly to his success at the Battle of Trenton against the Hessians—

and appended the alias 'Jones.'

Angered by his arrogance the admirals whisked him off to France where he no sooner disembarked, but won the war again—

After General Burgoyne's army surrendered at Saratoga, it was I who carried word to Paris, whose King embraced our cause with a treaty of alliance!

Returning to the brine,

I found myself so near a Scotch coasting schooner laden with barley that I could not avoid sinking her, though I was flying no external appearance of war—

he came ashore at Whitehaven for wine and inflated a moment of drunken arson—

Had we arrived with a different aim, not one ship of more than two hundred anchored there would have escaped and the whole world would not have saved the town from flames—

into a highflying balloon of fantasy.

But strategy, not boasts, fan his fame. Cannon-battered, the white flag of Bonhomme Richard flown, he turned on the English who'd ferried his men aboard—

I demand you surrender to us!—

soon revised to

I may sink but be damned if I strike!— about halfway to the gallant cry Teddy Roosevelt would later cite—

I have not yet begun to fight!—

long after he died in ignomy face down at No. 42 Rue de Tournon and was buried in St. Louis Cemetery for Alien Protestants.

But that was but a bump in the road. In 1905 an unidentified coffin was dug up to serve in Roosevelt's campaign for U.S. Navy appropriations, shipped in a bronze sarcophagus to the Academy at Annapolis where the dead Scot's reputation was finally gilded with oration

To our ancient ally, the great French nation, to whom we owe it that this great patriot won for the Stars and Stripes the victory that gives him deathless glory; to whose courtesy we owe this hero's body; his own intestines churned as immortality was earned.

Though he should have been hung, the name of John Paul Jones now sweetens every school-kid's tongue in every corner of your stupid land.

And they can say who Homer is, but never read a line.

You'll want one sidelong bag of wind to fan you while you live, and subsequent—

Euterpe:

That might be me.

As much stems from your vintner's stature, backer's pockets, vendor's savvy, as your vine.

Forget landscapes, zephyrs, grapes.

More prize your angel, John Paul Byron, than your wine.

Caveat - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 24 - Calliope:

If you really had something earth-shaking to say, would you put it in a poem?

Einstein dipped into Baudelaire but saw that Imagism didn't suit e equals m c squared. Kennedy thought the Cuban Missile Crisis might fit nicely in haiku but Jackie just said Jack, and he knew.

Are you okay? I haven't discouraged you? Okay, move up in line. Patience is liberty's grease. You're now 2,868,232.

From way up at the front, Homer looks back blind, the thing he's proud of most not Iliad or Odyssey, but having kept his hair.

Festa di Compleanno - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 25

Clio:

De Felice wrote, "I don't report on History. I stick a carving fork in it and see what I can get it to confess. The juice is several inches in. The facts are but the skin."

Polimnia:

Silvana, Delia, Maya—Zucchero— stop squabbling over the flowers! All four of you are acting like bambini! You cut it out right now or I will throw the tutta torta maledetta straight into the trash! You will all get slices with a rose on it!

Clio:

Push the tines in as far as they go, yank them out smooth and quick, apply your lips, and suck! Don't worry about what comes out.

Polimnia:

And what good does History do? Mussolini pledged that the line for ice cream would move faster, but your tutti-frutti great men aren't worth the milk they're made from.

Clio:

Sister, speaking of not growing up, when are you dropping this Italian thing? Are you ashamed of your Bœotian roots, cling to a fantasy that long-lost Pop is actually Marcello Mastroianni?

Polimnia:

You're a cynic. What's wrong with fantasticheria? Put on your birthday-party hat! Why rub your nose in merda when imagination's mirror offers faces that are fairer?

Orientation - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 26 - Melpomene:

I bear another "omen," one nightmare of my own— a sadistic dentist, what else?— and one of my sister Euterpe's. He liked the piccolo, she moans, but turned up his nose at the lyrics.

We take a risk in this line of work of ending up like poor poets themselves tragically chasing praise.

I stroke her hair and coo, The genre's changed. Since Jethro Tull grew gray, combining flute with singing is hopelessly passé.

You see that colossal heap of myrtle and laurel branches, snippets implanted in a million poets' ears who failed to summon stanzas and eventually gave up?

We used to burn them in bonfires but the smoke of dactyls stirred great Zeus's allergies, and clouds rained dousing tears.

Now nymphs weave baskets from the new lines at the top, fill them with humus from the base, and then haul it to the Thespiae haymarket to sell it for compost.

You see? As the Pythia foretold, The road down from the muse's plinth is sparkling with gold.

Zsa Zsa's Sentence - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 27 - Terpsichore:

The dyke prosecutor mocked her for craving attention. Zsa Zsa huffed from the courtroom in tears. Yes, she had punched out the Beverly Hills cop who pulled her Rolls over—tags expired, no license, open bottle of Kecskemeti vodka. Yes, she said of the man who testified against her, "He's only a little punk with a hairdo like a girl," and of her wrist-slap of a sentence, "If anyone didn't know me they at least know now I'm white and rich." That last bit I made up myself and fed to the guy from E!TV, but Zsa Zsa squealed, "Daaahling, I'm soooo pleased! That is exactly what I wanted to say!"

Melpomene says you don't find spirits in a bottle, in rotten meat between the teeth, or even—as in her case—in the breath from a crib death concussion.

"It's what you open the vein in your soul to." She is the tragic muse. I circulate much lighter ichor. I'm the hum-a-day one. Zsa Zsa? I like her! I like big tits! And I like hearing my lies on the news.

Pocket Change - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 28 - Erato:

Mister, you want to buy some gum? An hard-boiled private eye paperback, all empty calories, to pass the time? Hey? Something a little spicier than that?

A couple extra dollars helps us make ends meet and compensates us for hard pro bono work. We've other mouths to feed than yours. Our toddlers, should we ever procreate, cannot eat art; and since we don't travel much, can't even follow in our footsteps: so there'll be tuition. And we're the single occupation Obama's healthcare bill forgets.

I have to go up front and start my shift, pricking the ears of some lyrical johns. Good luck to you. Most writers say it's worth the wait. A few complain it's all hot air— you can't predict. The Ave's short, but it's still shrift.

One of the others will come by soon with information about protocol, how to address us when your number's up— You don't touch us, we touch you— that sort of thing. Then Euterpe's famous teaser, “How to Make the Most of a Wisp of Inspiration.”

I'd like to go back to school myself one of these days, but when? Paid for with what? Our 10% of your royalties, pre-tax, buys less and less each year. Call Mary Oliver grabby if you like, but it's pretty much her oar alone, since Rob Frost's prostate went. that keeps this gondola afloat.

But I try to think about the future— a Golden Age around the corner, a regular income, the revival of rhyme. Saturday's mourner is Sunday's heir. So brother, could you spare a dime?

Muse's Advisory, Sept. 29 - A Stern Word from Urania:

May I have your attention, please. Before we clarify how things are done here on Mount Helicon, one caution about slipshod vocabularies.

Don't paint if you can't sketch. If you want to script a climax you should know exactly how to scratch your lover's itch: if you can't caress the sweet spot of an idiom you have no business putting hands on it.

Don't be afraid to be a geek. According to the Google oracle 1,650,010 instances of everloving vie with 1,600,663 of everlovin'; epochs of a woman's life prevail, but epochs in a male's; as masculine pronouns for the unknown gender retreats he/she, s/he, one and he or she all fall prey to the singular they.

"You're scaring them!" Erato cries. "Nobody wants to hear your peeves! "No poet with a dick between their thighs is going to consult Ask Jeeves!"

You'll see. We muses issue wisps but they will never coalesce without both discipline and diligence. Don't waste our time and yours. We're busy women; mercy is not what we dispense.

Faith - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 30 – Euterpe to Tom:

From Pseudo-Tertullian's Diarium Actae Fidelis, The Christian's Almanac of Daily Tests of Faith:

I. In labrum lava anus antes saeta. In the bathtub wash your butt before your hair!

II. Promove infantum in via tanquam desinant aurigae. Push your stroller into the crosswalk as if drivers will stop!

I jest, but here you are all lined up like communicants, eyes shut, hands folded, tongues extended. Does that strike you as ridiculous? I'm not supposed to tell you this but couldn't you be self-inspired: grab the bull by the horns and shake its head till augury or gore fell out? You might get gored yourself but isn't that a better tale than "How I Stood Awaiting Dawn"? Tom Eliot worked at Lloyd's and Wally Stevens at Equitable Surety and Hartford Accident & Indemnity. They labored in the vineyard of the bored and you can press the juice from the poems they produced into Emily Dickinson's brass thimble. I'm sorry, my dear voluptuary, but I'd actuarially prefer a symbol! They stood in line, you know: they passed where you pass now while in each district of the earth ravines and chasms swallowed bolder men who bolder wrote.

We don't just stand around and dub unerrant knights Inspired. Sometimes we coax them into mischief, failure, fire.

Serendipity - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 1 - Clio:

On this day in history Mao Zedong unveiled his new People's Republic and Henry Ford his Model T and it was a darn good thing the Pacific Ocean squatted in-between or instead of one brigade of blue suits after a long march killing 400 Tiananmen students and one in plain black coats after a hour's drive pummeling seven trade unionists on the River Rouge Overpass— before the desire for luxury and options buried both— there might have been real trouble.

Monolith - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 2 – Urania to Tom:

Gibson struck out 17 at the start of the '68 Series. Wilson had his stroke, Warren swore in the first black Justice, and Beagle tied up not in Plymouth but in Falmouth. So much happens every day around the galaxy, the Chinese Zodiac a radiating sun of wedges where a date's occurrences might all occur at once: jade-smooth bamboo bones, sugar cane and teenage Japanese red maples, shape-shifters disguised as this or that to get a better look at us anchored in the stream or diving off and swimming for the oozing shore unspooled ourselves, then to unravel three silk threads, snares masquerading as entities in human history with faces and emotions and futures that can't say if they're available to occur or not.

Your lockstep advancement one day at a time is the way to get what done?

Perspective - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 3 - Calliope

There's a poem in everything, I keep hearing. So where are they all, then? I've nothing against white sheep, but the black ewe with the nappy ringlets is the one I'll hurry back for when the hillside trembles or the Medes come. The sooner you learn that a spark is nothing more than a spark, the better.

Is that lady behind you driving you as crazy as she's driving me?

And that serious young man furiously pacing up and down gesticulating and rehearsing?

At least you're standing quietly. Considerate.

If I seem discouraged, cynical, do pardon me. Look how much more the deities with better attitudes have managed to accomplish! How metalwork has progressed! Grain cultivation! Medicine! War! Did you read, just today, about motion-capture 3-D imaging or about Georges Charpak's multi-wire proportional tracking chamber? But every poll shows large majorities who think history and poetry are in a steep, long, irreversible decline. Eminem's no Gershwin and the Reverend Jesse Jackson is no Martin Luther King.

I shouldn't take it out on you, though. Folks don't understand that, in the day, they sniped that Gershwin only reached the limelight on the coattails of Fred and Adele Astaire and Dr. King was demagoguery made flesh. Even Homer when he blindly groveled at the campfires of the Greeks was poked at with the glowing-hot tips of uncouth warriors' shish-kebob sticks.

Prophets are dropped and lost like nutless husks and I'm the only one who knows how many they are, where they lie moldy, and the greatness in them.

Ennui - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 4 – Clio:

Abe Lincoln views a balloon ascend today. Sputnik is in space, 184 pounds (your weight), and Bessie Smith's abandoned in a grave till Janis Joplin finally has a headstone made.

A white pine sprouts. A white pine dies. A black pine sprouts. A black pine dies. A white pine sprouts. A white pine dies. A black pine sprouts. A black pine dies.

The very next poet to complain the wait's too long or their ens insane gets nothing but tongue in their ear and my usual middle finger.

One Hand Washes - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 5 – Melpomene to Tom:

How does it feel to be in line for our 2,780,826th next sliver of inspiration?

Have I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?

Dude, he was one of mine! I still remember that guy, he was a trip! When he finally got to me, he said, No thanks, don't want any help, just came to stand in line where I could have pure boredom, I want to sometimes write and sometimes not, once in a while have a good day, once in a while have a horrible day. Do you know Chris never liked that book? He told me, 'Dad, I had a great time on that trip. All the rest of it was false.'

Our father Zeus went right after him. Zen & the Art of Now Let's See What You Say When Your Dear Son's Been Stabbed to Death Right Outside Your Groovy Zen Center.

Results matter. Wouldn't you rather walk away with “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower” in your notebook or “The Things that Make a Soldier Great”?

Both those writers got the same hint—No. 41, one of the best.

If everyone in front of you sticks it out, if no one cuts in line— which happens, Yeats once came barging in and no one had the balls to stop him— you'll get No. 94, a fine one, tried and true, the same one Coleridge got for “The Garden of Boccaccio.”

You look like a man who might also profit from a new service we're offering. It lets you riffle through the discards while you're waiting: near-successes: “Kubla Khan,” for one. He didn't see it to completion but that doesn't mean the inspiration sucked. It could just be, his opium ran out.

To pay for it, you'll do a little job for us?

Graft - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 6 – Melpomene:

This is a bit like Doctor Faustus, isn't it, you rummaging the dustbins for chicken bones the gods threw out, but cheaper. We don't want your soul to make our soup, only a cone or two of ink, a snippet of information; and you get to paw the ash of fires gone cold. Sign here. Nobody has to know you have the inside track. Ah, good.

That's it. Now go. Go start your work: a peak behind Ralph Ellison's "Three Days Before The Shooting..." first, or John Keats's “The Fall of Hyperion”?

Feast, and when your lids are glutted, sleep, and I'll slip in to carve my pound— no, thin carpaccio—of belletristic flesh.

Come On - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 7 - Euterpe:

You're no one's fool, there's no wool on your eyes. It doesn't come as a surprise to you to hear being a muse is more like pandering than frolicking in bed— that we have unmet yearnings too, although no more than anybody else.

Muses Inspire Selves! No harm in that. The Oxford Anthology of Human Literature's already pretty fat.

And you: not only will your own work join the rolls of the renowned but you can gloat in pubs that it was you who acted as the muse when the Immortals wrote.

Query - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 8 - Erato:

On the topic of love-making between a god and virgin girl:

The god approaches. The virgin drops her book. Does he seize her arm like Zeus in Apollodorus, or curry her with compliments like Angel Gabriel in Luke?

She's immaculate. How exactly does he do it?

Walk me through it.

Come On II - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 9 - Erato:

So hard— one hand restraining her so she can't flee while lips spread butter on her all too mortal ears.

“Hail, thou art wiser even than thy cousin Elizabeth.

Be not afraid, nothing is impossible, don't run away.”

Then his clasp on her forearm loosens and becomes a caress, and his other hand hooding the microphone,

“What an incredible dress.”

Satan the Muse - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 10 - Erato:

The bug I slipped in Dylan Thomas's ear that spurred his never-completed “Elegy”?

Too proud to die; broken and blind he died The darkest way, and did not turn away, A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride

On that darkest day, Oh, forever may He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow

Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost...

I just whispered, "Your Dad is soft now."

Not a bad inspire.

See what you can do with it. It still has blood in it, I think. Thomas would have finished his had it not been for the drink.

Your Dad's died too, I know. He's softening. Don't sit there blubbering.

To ink.

Discernment - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 11 - Euterpe:

I'm on duty now up front. Urania's coming. Tell her all about the motions of flesh and blood bodies— the friction, smells— the hot and cold of it— each sigh and grunt.

We're thinking: one particular prick of pleasure opens the door to a mid-coitus panic— maybe a memory that turns Zeus sick. And she's just stunned: an interruptus with a god who took her where she'd never gone before...

After that, we're not sure.

Maybe she's furious and slaps him hard across the face; or a maternal instinct bubbles up and she responds to him with compassion, grace.

It all depends on how the language bends.

Words lead the poet, not the other way around. One of the greats said once she upended her entire conceit because of a felicitous consonance.

I used to think, One glove fits all. Now I glance at your fingers. Is there callous? vulnerability? Is the eraser more worn than your lead?

Volition - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 12 - Urania:

Some call it heavenly and some just heavy but my body lets you know I'm permanent, not subject to a wind or whim, substantial.

Did you say sensual? Don't be impertinent. It's degrading enough I have to regale you without you braying like some randy mule.

I soar above all that, inspiring the planets, stars, and moons all through the celestial distances. I hold back no time for dalliance.

Depravity isn't what my chassis wants; its impulses are gravity, reliability, regulation; its acme, competence.

Human women in rut would stitch their legs shut to know the pull of imperium; I'm not so louche as to envy them their pleasures.

Enough gets lost, displaced: today silent cowboy Tom Mix crashes his yellow Phaeton and breaks his neck, death denting his metal suitcase (pilgrims to the dusty arroyo find only a small iron statue of Tony his Hollywood horse) and Christoffa Corombo exits his Marigalante to go ashore the since-mislaid isle Lucaya.

Urania's Query - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 13

Mid swarms of small edits and careening revisions I pilot the craft of poetics without fatal collisions. Verlaine went at Rimbaud with a pearl-handled pistol but the bone of contention was only bisexual drivel.

But enough about me, son. To pen! Lewd Zeus is up to tricks. I get it. But for the Virgin is sex less about lust than chasing what feels inaccessible?

“...He butters her up, caresses her, tries to get her to give in..”

What flits through her mind?

Take your time: you have tons, thanks to this interminable line.

What does he represent to her? How does he overwhelm her keen appreciation that it's sin?

Incarnation - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 14 - Urania:

Divine prick craning, erect, under a tunic, he gingerly unlaces the front of her kirtle, luring her nipples up too, galvanizing her pussy.

Both smile, shy. Her lips are wet. She breathes, “Tell me your name. Don't lie.”

His slight growl soothes, “You know exactly who I am.”

Are you aroused from telling it?

Don't be ashamed, you're not the first.

Those porta-potties? Third from the left has a Screw taped underneath the lid.

But hustle back. I touted prudence. I never said I was insensible.

The Human Touch - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 15 - Zeus:

You saw it in the paper yesterday, the man who claims to be a saint.

I was a sandwich man for years in a canteen in an office building on Madison Ave. and 50th Street. I had a miraculous vision, a face of Jesus on the ceiling framed by colorful rays of light. I knew who it was because it was just like in all of the paintings. He pulled me from my bed by my eyes, almost pulled them out of their sockets...

How many spirits I have known!— familiars met in unfamiliar forms.

The tug-tide of vaginal walls funnels me back to my first dawn, its rosy fingers on Mount Ida's breast— Mother lifts a swaddled stone to Father's infant-eating lips, then spirits me off to be raised by goats as the Kouretes dance and batter shields with spears so Cronus doesn't hear my cry— I and my phallus collapse.

The former Virgin lays my thick black locks upon her delicate brown bush and strokes my cheek until I sleep, the only mortal who has seen me weep.

The sandwich man, eyes bulging from his sockets, a saint? What's so extraordinary? Spirits pick everyone's pockets.

Oh Dear - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 16 -

Urania:

A sea gull said there's Borges somewhere over by that tree, so inspiration can't be far away.

I'm off now to bring night down and a thousand other items on a lengthy to-do list that would leave one of your supercomputers sparking.

Lord, listen to that lobster pot of Language poets! Not much wittier than barking.

Melpomene:

My gut says the virgin doesn't make it through the week: he's make it seem an accident, a capsized dingy on the Black River beneath which a shovelnose sturgeon christens the seed of a mussel Obovaria olivaria didn'tmarryher, or they'll find her Plath-like on the floor of the charcoal hutch as desiccated and kippered as a mummy of the Nile.

He's afraid to take the chance she's pregnant with a male, thanks to the old wive's tale that Cowper-fluid babies mince.

Stone Cold Sober - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 17 - Calliope:

On this 2nd anniversary of my 27th go at a 100 years of sobriety, the only thing that keeps me functioning is grit.

I'm known for wisdom and assertiveness, which goes to show that reputation is a crock of shit. Whatever I advise, do the opposite.

The soul you bartered to posterity is bathwater under the bridge. Spilled milk cannot go back into the breast; resign yourself to titillating us with soft pornography and doleful beads of sweat above the raised brow of celebrity; the glue that binds is selfishness.

Wash out your underwear, your mouth with soap, I knew you when you masked your breath with peppermints,

sniffing the lips of screw-top booze; and I can tell you from experience that once the bloom is off that rose, you've very little else to lose.

The bonafide beggars mass beyond that row of cypresses. Real gods, real poets stir the pots and dress their concrete wounds.

Does chicken soup feel better in the soul than in the gut? Go take a vat of mush out there and watch them hold the Bible out as if it were a plate.

I'm jaded and dry-drunk with doubt. This is no avocation for the sober any more than those befuddled geese— you see? up there? that undulating vee?— should flap north in October.

La Musa Travolta (Swept Away) - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 18 - Polimnia:

To keep sharp we challenge each other with rompicapi:

"You're a muse in St. Louis. Who do you pick to write the Illiade and the Odissea— Mark Twain or T. S. Eliot?"

Terpsichore likes scioglilingua:

"Babies blow balloons, big boys blow bugles, beggars blow bum bags, baboons blow bog bugs."

So your pittoresco Olympian theme just makes us seem like antiquati. No one today believe in gods like Zeus who prey on innocents. Divinità moderna are all straight-laced, never-married men, don't smoke or drink, high-minded, sober to a fault, inconcepibile as statutory rapists.

Tuttavia, avanti con la storia!: "The god's head heavy on her lap, he sobs himself to sleep..."

What does Miriam think?— How did I turn a magnificent man to a blubbering boy? What's going to happen when he wakes? And when my dad walks in the door?—

She hums a local lullaby? O little town of Bethlehem How still we see thee lie Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by....

The smell from the charcoal kilns of the colliers on the hill genially inspirits the odors steaming up from Zeus's genitali—then he just vanishes into thin air and it sinks in, he isn't of the ordinary run of men.

But listen to me getting carried away! Please, you pick up where you left off:

"He falls asleep, head in her fragrant lap..."

In-F-Able – Muse's Advisory, Oct. 19 – Terpsichore:

Why Zeus crumpled in the midst of the Virgin? Who in Boeotia knows one thing about a god? Carl Jung's "Olympians: Pastiche Psychology" describes their sphinx-like lack of scrutability.

Can you shed light on human thought, bridge Classical and Christian faiths? The Hebrew god picked up obscene ideas from Zeus during the Romans' rule— another god-man made a deal to make his mom immortal too?

He didn't use Viagra and he lost his erection prior to ejaculation. Cowper's fluid did the trick instead. Whatever else occurred was purely in his head, or a manifestation of sexual orientation.

Diatribe - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 20 – Erato to Tom:

Muse's Advisory, Oct. 20 – Erato to Tom:

Harmonia and Cadmus hungered for each other even when the gods turned both to snakes: they found a way. But you think Greeks are fixated on theories of democracy.

The root of the Aristotelian Academy's eggheadedness and lack of vice was never pedantry, but lice.

What's Greek to us is how your English lens of guilt and reticence refracts fair greediness and blessed lust to a discolored literature of self-disgust.

Pro-Choice - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 21 - Euterpe:

The Virgin sits there by herself and wishes her dad was home. Her mom will rail and weep, flush her with vinegar, hustle her off to the ritual bath and pay for two white doves to forfend a conception; but her dad will understand. He once had counseled her, Love offers you one fifty-fifty chance for a half-decent man.

Maybe she wants to keep this baby, be its mother, maybe it's her ticket to a more expectant life than sitting waiting to become another charcoal-maker's wife.

She kneels and asks the Lord God who rerouted Moses to Pharaoh, Should I follow this summons of illogic, or toe the straight and narrow?

He answers, Girl, a child articled to certain doom is seeded in your heart— he will break it, and mine, if you bear him. No one would blame you if the midwife cleaned him from your womb— and how would anybody know?

My Lord, she says, let not my will but thine be done. A sharp sob catches in her throat. If my beau really wants to give the world his son, then he may visit me again. But I'm too young to make this choice alone.

Joachim comes in, sees how the light inside the room has changed— he's dreamt, and knows— sees Miriam's tears, puts her cheek to his breast and whispers, Don't you weep. He's not the one.

Legacy - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 22 - Clio:

2,645,762: that's you, Tom. 2,645,761: the poet 7th from the front just got cold feet and showed Urania his soles.

The male Plath wannabe she has her lips to now? He'll be a one-hit wonder, get a chapbook published next July that sinks like lead but leaves a ripple in the literary pond: in 60 years or so his grand-niece rediscovers it; inspired, writes her way into a sweet gig teaching MFA's at Indiana University, and one of them goes on to be a quite successful suicidal author of three desperate poems in the August 2080 New Yorker.

You have to take what you can get. The reading public only wants so much. A Shakespeare more than once in a millennium, and there's a glut.

Log Roll - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 23 - Urania:

My hair is fixed atop my head in scrolls in service of no beauty but concinnity. My memory's not chronological; though humans move from step to step, we're anagogical.

The midwife claims the hymen's partially intact; a brew of poison herbs gives Miriam a bellyache deep into the night—and that is that. She cries. Both parents leave her be, Joachim respectful, Hannah punishing. The heel who knocked her up still hides his face...

Okay...so you've run out of juice? What's smutty you give us in detail, then afterwards clam up like Zeus? You're afraid what comes next will be anticlimactic?

Well, I brought you a gift— a scrap McPhee put by, but never saw the light of day:

The Graves CO attests: no trace of name, rank, unit, or date of death for 4 corpses dug up in the Aisne-Marne, Somme, Saint-Mihiel, and Meuse-Argonne graveyards. They're all draped with flags and trucked to city hall in Châlons-en-Champagne, where a Sgt. Younger circles all 4 thrice, then sets white roses down on one, springs to attention, and salutes the brand new Unknown Soldier, who gets one night in Paris, thence by train to Le Havre and aboard Olympia for trans-Atlantic cruise and reburial with utmost ceremony in Arlington National Cemetery. The 3 losing contestants will get their consolation prizes: an eternity underground in Romagne-sous-Montfaucon as the bugler plays variations on 'Better Luck Next Time.'

Thanks to a splendid nudge from Clio, McPhee got close—the same prompt Master Yunmen nursed into his koan: When the tree withers and leaves fall My full body exposed to golden wind.

You're ready to continue now, you think? How great. Zeus what? He comes around again a few weeks later— and Miriam does what?

A Epidemic of Romance - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 24 - Erato:

Hannah also wept. What mama wouldn't cry her eyes out? Joaquim's permissiveness had led to this! Compassion, all the rage with the Samaritans, was neither godly nor made sense. It just turned weakness to a bigger mess.

"I promised an angel years ago," she repeated to her sister Sobe. "If God granted me a daughter, I would give her to the Temple. So how do I walk in and find her? Up to her pupik in rock-roses! I cry 'Miriam, who's been here?' She says, 'God Himself, I swear.' So that's how she repays me!"

"My Beth's the same," said Sobe. "One-track minds—'A son! A son!' I said, 'Elizabeth, you're young,' but she, 'I'm not, my time has come.' They're man and baby-crazed! We can't stand guard. I have my shop and you your eggs-and-butter stall. They can't conceive of the disgrace! If this keeps up, the two of us will be ashamed to show our face!"

Joachim came in and cooed, "Sobe, how nice you've come! And how's my favorite niece?"

"Keeps babbling about a man," Sobe repeats. "Not man—a demigod! Please talk to her, before it all gets out of hand. She's fond of you."

"We want our children to find love," he says. "Then, how we fear it at the very instant they go near it! Our Miriam's had visitations too. Who are these phantoms skulking in the woodpile—men we never see but leave our daughters with swelled eyes, or worse? They're all the talk down at the charcoal souk. The Romans claim it's Zeus— but then, their girls have always been too loose."

"Husband! You think it's all a joke? It could well be centurions! We need a neighborhood patrol with good thick sticks to keep an eye on the back door when we're at work."

"Who thrills our daughters' hearts," Joachim asserts, "is not deterred by staves. I was a young man once and, you'll recall, did quite a bit of skulking both before and after your great-uncle beat me senseless."

Absence - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 25 - Euterpe:

I'm typing as fast as I can! Who knew your inner Miriam was so fast-talking, Tom?

...ללל ללל ל לללל... My soul doth magnify the Lord, though my womb rejecteth him. He regardeth the low estate of his handmaiden, yet hath done to me great things, hath shown strength with his arm, and scattered the proud in the firebolt of his heart, hath stricken down the mighty from their seats and filled the hungry with good things...

Okay, stop, hold that thought! I can't just keep on scribbling. I have to ask, What makes her think her beau's a god after he left her high and dry like that? Is he the only man she ever met who didn't reek of smoke? What did he do or say to prompt such faith, such love, such hope?

Or am I missing the point? Is the lover who lingers suspicious?

Me! Me! - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 26 - Erato:

You're now number 2,613,981.

No, lady, that makes you 982. No, you can't help but overhear. No, you can't help noticing we're talking more with him than you. No, you certain have not stood here in line this long to hold your tongue!

Where does your little ticket promise equal opportunity? Or in-flight entertainment?

Imagine Virgil, Wyatt and Morgan Earp at OK Corral. No guns and no Doc Holliday. Clantons and McLaurys run amok in Tombstone, terrorizing Cochise County, murdering and rustling stock... and you're there with your little walnut heart your pappy looted from a newborn baboon. You're waving your fist in the air. You see? If there was justice in the world, not one of us would be here.

What did you say? Ma'am, I'm a volunteer, so kiss my ass What you desire and deserve are different things.

Downstairs in the saloon are filthy men who need their rocks off and their pockets picked. Deal blackjack, clean their whistles and then tell them one by one if they're flat broke they're going to have to suck their own dicks.

Islam - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 27 - Erato:

She looks up. There he is again, come in so silently he might have been a stork, a shrub face lit like polished jasper, palms held out as if he's offering an unseen stole or unwound yarn.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

She can't speak; she's liquified; can only stare. Her heart flies open into regions so expanded, she's in shock.

He says, “It was a test. The role I have in mind for you requires the same surrender as it did of Abraham in ancient times, Ruth, Moses, Jacob, Shirprah, Rahab. If you accept, come here to me and open up your dress.”

She doesn't think, unclasps the ties which bound her formerly to sense: she has no choice, no fear, no innocence; strong nostrils flared, he takes her right there in her mother's house, again, right underneath the nose of prudence.

Sweet-Tooth for Erotica - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 28 – Terpsichore to Melpomene:

Darling, what's wrong? Urania has lost her cool up front— you're 20 minutes late! Best get your skinny asteroid back up there now before she launches a McNaught right up your you-know-what!

Now, who are these two sorry specimens? He stinks like he's been eating too-ripe cheese, and she— she might as well grow fins! Call me a metro-homosexual but if you smell this bad you shouldn't smell at all, not if you ever want to meet someone who isn't interested in tapping carrion.

Oh yes. You're poets, I forgot! You call that muscle tone? Why couldn't I be fated to inspire chiton models and pentathloners?

Darling, no, Urania's not going to put hemlock in your cocoa. Still, if I were you, I'd go.

Where were we, here? Let's see... His nostrils flared, he takes her right there in her mother's house, again, beneath the nose of prudence.

You wily bitch in heat! You're lolling back here lapping up this smut while I'm up there with ticket #106, a double-glazed daouli nut who thinks she's a Beatnik! Vamoose! Scoot! Git! This kind of thing's not meant for gloomy ears like yours. It's more my cup of tea.

Devilish - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 29 - Terpsichore to Tom:

You straight men! You haven't even said what the supposed Adonis looks like yet.

You think he's mesmerizing sex rays straight into the addled virgin's brain? I don't care who he is— that isn't how it works. You'd ball a garbage bin. A woman's more discerning.

And put that lame, dead inspiration down. What makes you think the sow's ear William Carol Williams couldn't heat is going to gild itself for you? That man had sweet, sweet breath—I've heard. Your pants could turn a bonefire cold.

Turn your attention to the matter at hand: what Miriam saw and felt, and how my father's fingers looked, what he was wearing, if there was a gap between his two front teeth, what sort of eyes, what sort of style to his hair?

A sterling girl like Miriam just doesn't melt unless the heat is searing.

Omnivorous - Muse's Advisory, Oct. 30 - Eavesdropping Woman:

I'll tell you what he looked like! You wouldn't know it, from who I am today, but I once was that girl— naive— and when a handsome god said just the right thing— bam!

It's not so much the hands. Hands are a piece of it and so are eyes and smiles and coaly curls just as you say, but no, that's not enough to get a girl in bed.

In ancient times there lived an exiled Sufi on my home isle Lemnos— candlemaker from Malatya, Niyazi Misri. He could write too, 'I thought in this whole world no beloved for me remained. Then I left myself. Now no stranger in the world remains.'

Indeed no stranger in our town remained to him. He fucked them all, the fishwives, melipasto makers, children, goats, and mules.

He was one of those men.

Wives say he whispered in their ears, Only the sight of you inflames me. Husbands say he whispered in their ears, Only the scent of you inflames me. Children say he whispered in their ears, O, you are special! I have treats here. In the ears of four-hoofed animals he cooed, I love you.

He was an ordinary looking man, good, thick eyebrows maybe, nothing else.

But narrow tastes constrict response. If god or man has appetites omnivorous, his prey respond unhesitant, assured of a response.

The lover in your tale— promiscuous, untruthful and remorseless— we know well. He's who we ask to play with us in bed alone.

Muse's Advisory, Sun., Oct. 31 – Euterpe/Eavesdropping Woman:

My father was a lot of things and was accused of being many more, but Sufi donkey-fucker, no! He was a sexual adventurer who took on bestial forms himself—

Dear Muse, your father was a god like any other god and did exactly as he pleased. Nobody judges him—and honestly he didn't judge us either. When he got angry, he got angry but there weren't all these rules, no 'Oh, you brought it on yourself.' The self-extolled Enlightenment pulled far more wool over the reading public's eyes than any other bull since the Mosaic Law.

I'm sorry for the way Terpsichore complained about your smell. Who cares? You're wise.

She lacks her father's stomach. When did you see him last?

You're wise to grasp that learning who our father is and where is half of what we're doing here. Nobody knows for sure: some say he simply disappeared; some say he changed, the woman Miriam made him monogamist, then celibate, then old; some even say he helps his son spread Christianity, condemn the bull and swan for wooing virgin girls, and then repackage him as myth. Still, thousands every year around the world insist some beast seduced them. If, these days, they're judged insane, and Zeus's name is wiped from everybody's lips— well, that's just politics. The world has turned on him, and he's a fugitive who works on cargo ships and plies whatever's left of the Olympic trade in ports-of-call where everything except cast-iron bollards where the tramps tie up, and the sagaciousness of hookers, has decayed.

As Wilder wrote insipidly, "The saint or poet might have caught a glimpse." The rest of us toothpick our minds by day, by night apply the Trismegistus Dictum— "To hear truth you have to close your lids And fit your ear to the dead witch's rictus! Pinch your nose and squint the moonlight Through the ruined housing of your rectum!"

So what's your name? Why do you stand in line with all these blind gulls mewling after fame?

Don't ask. Suffice to say, I'm human—pitiful, my reach so far exceeds my grasp.

Physics - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 1 – Urania:

He woos her face to face and she has generous time to take note of his features, bull and drake, the faint blue-gray of skin once smeared with grime but dutifully scrubbed clean, eyes dim, lips softly chapped, uneven scar across the chin where she imagines someone's husband scored him with their embers rake.

He looks familiar. She knows that gods will sometimes borrow forms of other men or beasts, whose limbs and faces yield to wild unnatural storms arising from within, and knows that common men, by ordinary passion stirred, don't dare to slip inside the door of young girls given to the Lord, and can't inspire in them fever, frenzy, greed.

She knows that humble olives don't beget great cedars, nor wood-cutter's caresses unstraighten lofty poplars.

Apostate's Creed - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 2 – Gabriel da Costa, the Friend of Spinoza:

I feel crazy. Pacing like a wolf, gesticulating, raving, raging. Feel insane. Do I believe God sent His Son? J ehovah E ventually S ends U s S alvation omething, anyway— an expression of sympathy if not an apology. My acronym is JIBTN, Jesus Is Better Than Nothing. He and the coming of the Dunciad of Pope have so far seen to it I haven't lain my neck, an ape among the apes, inside the teardrop of a rope.

Bad Seed - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 3 – Euterpe:

I'm back, and bearing better gifts than Sinon, earless, noseless:

bushel-baskets of rejected inspirations all for you, ambitious poet-friend; a triton shell for you, young lady, plucked from sun-balmed Moudros Bay within which, if you listen close, you hear the sea god moan; and for our half-mad acrostician, here: a cellphone snapshot of a guy back at 1,700,009 who sports a Greek-house tee shirt lettered ἸΝβἸ.

And here's my sea-rose baklava drenched in yellow holm-oak honey. All three of you: nutritious misery can take a break and sink your teeth into my wizardry.

Now, yes—: back to the lovebirds...

Clio:

This time the goat goes through with it and Miriam gets pregnant once again— exactly what Zeus wanted from the start, another brat to pine for him, to fantasize, O, he's a millionaire, celebrity, omnipotent!

Not, He's a spineless rat. What kid imagines that?

And Miriam? Zeus might well be a bust, she has no choice but to admit; but this new fruit inside her womb— why, she'd devote herself to him, he'd prove the critics wrong that clamor in her head, You threw your life away, disgraced your clan for honeyed tongue and out-of-wedlock lust.

Joaquin has met a man who builds the market stalls, who lost a wife in childbirth years ago: he'll take the baby and madonna both— if Miriam only consents to be a faithful spouse.

She pledges, Yes.

She bears the baby prematurely, in a roadside shed, but then she raises so much hell, poor Yusuf calls the Wise Men and faith-healers in to try their bag of tricks— then finally has no choice except to lash her to a mule in dead of night and schlep her and the infant south to Egypt to his aunt, a Thothic witch who'll try the old-school cure: scold, starve and beat some self-control into the crazy bitch!

But she too, in a fortnight, quits: Your little strumpet wants her sugar daddy, wants her sugar daddy.

Yusuf's having none of it. The purse that Joachim gave him came with strings, the thickest one of which was that Joaquin and Hanna now were off the hook: had left town, left no forwarding address, and last were seen outside Kirkuk on the main road to Tehran. So Yusuf has no choice but tell his wayward wife to shut her whining trap and get on with her life.

Oh, then the Infancy! Good Lord, almost from birth Yeshua made his mom seem quiet as Penelope— one day, he cast a playmate from the roof (or else he stumbled in the thatch) and angrily demanded he arise, despite a broken neck. The last straw: the delinquent burst into the Temple, cried, This is my father's house! and latched into the horrified High Priest.

I've been around the block. I know how disregarded women seethe. Your Miriam, she had Medea's heart. Making the absent deity who was her son's begetter squirm was all she thought about.

Fear of Commitment - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 4 – Tom/Euterpe:

Damn you!

No, Tom don't.

Imaginary sisters, figments, ghosts at best— head-colonizers!

Please stop! Don't get yourself all lathered up. Go take a walk. I'll hold your place in line. A little solitude and mountain air will clear your mind.

Geysers who who whisper in our ears not inspiration but diversion while you pick our pockets! Poetry, “free thought”? It's free, alright, for you, who char dried sap to waft its incense to your ghoulish snouts!

Why shouldn't I enjoy the holocaust of fancy? It's unprincipled to help design a product I disdain. If you're afraid this molehill in your mind's too steep, you're free to walk. I'm not by any stretch of the imagination Greece's only source of gilt-tongued talk. That soup-line there beyond the cypresses is also a popular haunt.

A trap— behind nine wooly masks, nine wolves!

Tom, that's cliché.

Far better to fail the task of banishing confusion than to belly to the vampire's boot and beg transfusion!

Then go. I've no dog in this race. Your tale of Miriam will wag its way to a conclusion without help. It's pretty obvious she's thrown her lot in with the whelp she hatched with Zeus.

You sell her short. You don't know what a human woman is and never will! You're too impressed with this genteel procession to and from your lips— two million strong— to see the billions wading through a field of thorns to touch that whelp's worn hem! Whose influence do you think makes a difference? He didn't just inspire with well-crafted turns of phrase, he put his money where his mouth was, walked the earth and let the chips fall where they may!

Got himself killed, you say? Then resurrected on the third day and eventually ascended into shangri-la? If you find that stirring, good, then walk that way yourself. Go bite injustice and iniquity! If you're as lucky-starred as he was, somebody who knows their way around a pen will bark your story to posterity.

Mirror, Mirror - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 5 – Clio:

It's Guy Fawkes Day: contemplate the ethics of your swollen heads of state:

King James, Make use of gentler tortours first, et sic per gradus ad ima tenditur, and so on step by step to more severe; and so god spede youre goode worke,

George Washington, I learned of plans for that ridiculous and childish custom of burning the Effigy of the pope by Soldiers too devoid of common sense to see such actions as improper at a Time when we seek the alliance of Canada's catholics.

Do your attempts to muck the work of writers greater than yourself produce just inkstain after inkstain? You can't pen ambition in a corner of your brain.

Get down off your diaphanous high horse. What would you promise a maiden, and with what rationale condone it, to be your age's leading poet? You'd gouge out your dying father's eyes for just the shortlist of the Pushcart Prize.

Senza Vincoli (Unfettered) - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 6 – Polimnia:

His babbo nowhere to be found; his patrigno having given up after his hopes were briefly fanned by the ragazzo's unexpected reappearance and apparent pentimento one day by the Jordan River: sackclothed, come to join cugino Giovanni full-time eating locusts in the desert— until Miriam arrived and hauled Yeshua by the ear back home— then off into the hills, zingari fending for themselves with what they had at their disposal— wedding catering, if sometimes watering the wine; another zuffa at the temple, this time flogging vendors with a cat-o'-nine while henchmen rifled cash drawers and corralled the lambs and heifers he drove off; some dabbling with prostitutes; then segni e prodigi, faith cures, spoken word performances at farms and mountainsides, apostles circulating through the audience and filling basket after basket up with hardtack, salt fish, olive— they did well for vaudevillians, brigands, Galilean merry men one step ahead of the authorities, free as i passeri dell'aria, wild as i gigli del campo, spiriti liberi more than ruffians, bones in law-and-order's craw until the High Priest flipped one of the inside Twelve and got the tip that brought the end— to the brook of Cedron Yeshua crept and prayed, Padre, è l'ora ancora arrivato a riconoscere suo figlio? Father, is the hour yet come to recognize thy son?— then led in manacles to Caiphas. It all came down so suddenly, dismaying everyone except the Son of Man himself, who took it filosoficamente, with good grace; said it was destinato, even welcome: he was bored, had other fish to fry; would miss them all; was unafraid; ciao, ciao; goodbye.

Safekeeping - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 7 – Polimnia:

Oh, Miriam wept; all great runs end, her son's was no exception though disciples say he slipped the noose of death and found a way to his inheritance after the pentecost.

The youngest, fondest of the twelve whisked her to Sidon and a northbound dhow to Telmossos thence overland to mount Koressos above Ephesus and settled the stricken woman in a roundstone hut atop a fragrant spring mid olive groves patrolled by cats with watchful olive eyes.

He vows to care for her until she dies but as she kisses him goodbye his haunted face reveals he's more ripped up inside than she and it will rather fall to her to try to nourish him with grace.

This mount is also home to Zeus's cave and rock-cut throne— Coincidenza? Panoptos smiles. His lodestone stirs; some quarter of his heart remains hers.

A Fine Meal - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 8 – Zeus to Miriam:

So much has changed, your boy stole everybody's thunder, didn't he? It's nice, retirement, love's lava cool as snow, the silence comforting: my joint gets swollen only every other Wednesday when I take my Erbitux for cancer of the colon, and my ego bloats but once or twice a month when clerics puff me up with some new brucha! The climate's paradise, this olive-oil an elixir.

Now, your rare roast lamb with figs so savory it makes the fare they offered on Olympos seem...well, charred; no disrespect to Hestia, but most of what we ate could not have been much nastier. The icing on the cake— the cake itself, in fact— is you, taking me back, my getting to spend time here now with you.

My only unfulfilled wish is that one day soon Yeshua will forgive me too. I'm a classic absentee dad but have hope. They say he is as merciful as Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu.

Mis-Prognostication - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 9 – Clio:

“I told him straight-out: 'Jesus, those ideals you and your zealots tout are just a crock of shit,'" the Blessed Mother says.

“'Turning the other cheek won't stop a spear; without survival of the fittest you'll all end up livestock for the Parthian lunatics.' But you can count on kids to do the opposite."

She takes a sip of wine. Zeus takes a slice of brie. The cats purr lustfully.

“They're young,” he says. “Give them a few millennia and they'll come round if they haven't run civilization into the ground by then. First mercy to each other— then to beasts? Where does it end?”

The sun has started to condense, grow redder, rounder as it draws near the Aegean where Zeus once in youthful virulence swam bloodthirsty to kill the dragon Kampe.

“Eventually,” she says, “the wheat-head bends unharvested in autumn wind and grape feeds crow and fox. Their sect will shrink and die, hoping to resurrect. Asking a foe for love— it's just psychotic!”

They're both immortals but naive, dead wrong. Fast-forward two millennia: the Christians still hold sway, their ingenuity to swear off savagery and do it anyway.

Adieu - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 10 – Euterpe:

"John's due to come today," she says to Zeus. "The cats all know. Look how they prick their ears and prowl. Go on back to your cave. Since Patmos took him in, exiled, he hasn't been too steady in the head, but fills his brain with grim apocalypse. If he finds you here it will set him off, I fear.

"Agreed." Zeus drains his cup and stands.

"At least they let him visit still. He always brings fresh fish. Will you come back tonight, after he leaves," she asks, for octopus and chips?"

"I know you loved that boy, Who didn't, me included? That way he had of looking up so soulfully! I blame myself a little bit for his decayed condition. Since I raised Patmos from the bottom of the sea, nothing has been quite right there. I covered it with royal palms but when Orestes came in flight after the murder of his mother, Furies burned them down to hunt him better, and the island's homed one wild-eyed outcast or another ever since."

She stands and kisses him. "He was the only one who never watered true with fake or faith with doubt that Christianity could carry souls into your sight. The last thing he could bear to see is you here relishing your solitude, impartial, aging, more excited by my apidakia than all his piety. You did assume a human form and learn our limitations and delights— John certainly got that right."

"No, more than that," Zeus says. "The god he worships truly is a ghost beyond death's reach. If he can blow breath into such a ghoul, then maybe doing something similar for his own soul is not too great a stretch."

"That's why I love you, Zeus— ever the optimist and loathe to judge another's view of life! Remember our first kiss? I prayed to be your wife but thank god— all the gods!— I didn't get my wish. You're not the husband type, but as a next-door neighbor, Thunder, you're just right."

He grins. "See you tonight."

Valediction - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 11 – Miriam:

John's eyes saccade, a flickering glance in contrast to the smile immobile on his lips. The octopus and mullet in his sack already stink but from its heart he fishes out a wickered flask of Patmos tsipouro.

“Shlom, Miriam,” he says, “mleetha na’ami, Maran imakh, baraka b-inshe, baraka pera d-kasakh Yeshua.”

“It's good,” I say, "to hear my native tongue, but let's dispense, dear friend, with the formality. I've two cups here— do we propose to let them suffer any more from thirst?”

“Mother, Yeshua comes to me, His face aflame, and bids me write down visions in His name. Ah, chaya! As He turned wine to blood to set us free, may what we wet our whistles with this day likewise infuse our veins with sanctity!”

“Chaya!” I toast, and drink.

No matter how far from the truth, he thinks me pious as a presbyter and I think him a youth in spite of trembling hands and hair as silvery as Samos Bay on a thinly misted day.

“Church doctors theorize,” he says, pouring again, “immaculate conception will exempt you from the ravages of death.”

I laugh. “It hasn't worked a lick for age!” The cats mewl sweetly and suggestively they brush their cheeks along John's foot. “I have fresh bread and olives. Come, let me make a fire and cook lunch.”

“No,” John says, “the boat that brought me waits below: my hosts only allow this weekly trip because they fear Yeshua will send earthquakes if they don't! There's gossip you and Zeus are friends! The depth of superstition in this land has led both Paul and Philip to despair!”

“It's true—” I say.

“Turks say Izmir takes its name from Zmirna, heathen Queen of single-breasted Amazons! And pagan Greeks of Chios say there are as many worlds as grains of barley!”

“—Zeus sat where you sit, earlier today.”

“The alpha and omega cometh, yea, a heptad of gold candlesticks, a golden bra, a stumbling-block, a sardine stone and seven seals, a lamb of seven horns and eyes, four horses— milk, red, jet and flax— a moon—"

I take his fevered hands and cool them with my own. We stand. “We'll always remain near, John, I beside this grove which you obtained for me, you on monastic Patmos."

Great tears tumble down his cheeks.

The cats dart hungry eyes at the foul-smelling sack.

Vis-à-Vis - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 12 – Zeus to John:

John, Brother, May I walk with you back down the Mount? I too have business down in Ephesus.

Our friend in common Miriam would kill me if she knew I laid in wait for you like this, but I'm beyond the age of pussy-whip.

Is that striped sail the ship that takes you back to Patmos?

Oh, I did some sailing in my day, like you— saw Rome, Phoenicia, and the many isles.

There's a promontory named for me at Haifa: The Carmel, not very far from Miriam's Nazareth.

She says she knew your mother Salome in Bethsaida, where I also have a temple; and she speaks so fondly of the two of you.

You have your mother's face.

That's really all I have to say. I wanted you to hear my voice, maybe defang the bogeyman a little bit.

I know you'll write what you're inspired to write. I don't request you soften anything, just that you know who is it sits with Miriam on winter afternoons in gentleness.

A Bit Farther - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 13 – Zeus:

John, you're the epicenter of a great ferment.

I'm supposedly omnipotent but you're creating real change in the world,

I'm barely keeping pace.

Look what your brethren have accomplished since Yeshua hid his face.

You set the world on fire and I've no doubt can stoke the holy flame yet higher: a universal church with its basilica in Rome is not beyond your reach.

Imagine a million children memorizing every word of what you teach.

Just Before a Storm - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 14 – John the Divine:

Miriam feels as if some figment of her discontent was planted in her son, Zeus broke in from the groaning sky.

I didn't lift my head but kept on walking like I didn't hear.

Yeshua didn't spring out of the deosphere self-made, he went on in his choice Hellenic arrogance, any more than your own divinations come verbatim from a god who has no better means to air them.

His grain tumbled from a basket idly strewn by a young Don Juan with trim on his mind, fell hidden in the scat of sparrows scattered by the talons of a hawk, or was the seed of su teresi, Turkish watercress, escaping its maternal brook to mat as if miraculous a hillside runnel far from any ancestor.

She's always felt herself in him, the urge to take the road less traveled, transcend pain.

A Greek-god crock of shit, pure, pseudo, pop psycho-analysis.

I hurried on.

Game - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 15 – Terpsichore:

My mother Memory danced me in rings and sang,

Terpsichore, Terpsichore, Unclip your kinky hair. Don't think the earth is fair Or that there's gold in meek. The only way to savor life Is to unclip, unclip, Unclip your kinky hair.

I had a lover once well versed in trickery like Zeus who made a big deal of my hair and said I know, I know when I complained about my dad seducing this, that, and the other goody, none of them my mother.

My big complaint like Mom's is that the loving wool she pulled over my eyes is gone, my grouse not being serenaded by a Juliet so devious but that the days I spend now in comparison are much too tedious.

Though she was one of them who stole my mother's place, I envy Miriam—

"The Miriam," Whored Byron asks, "we ten invented here?"

Do you suppose I made her up? Oh no, she's real!

—I envy how she gets her lover back and now she sits with him all afternoon watching gay baghlahs and stern triremes make the breakwater below and wonders, What's he thinking? What's he cooking up?

My own lot, helping poets gain a handhold, isn't quite a black cat on a hot tin roof nor even the warm calico of fondness.

I'm not sure how we muses got it in our heads that we'd be spinsters too but I would drop this lame gig like a hot potato for one week with Cat Ballou.

Schreibblockade (Writer's Block) - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 16 – Thalia:

Terpsichore, self-pitying again? We're not here, Sister, for regrets or might-have-beens. That's what the pub's for afterwards. Euterpe needs to pee, so pull yourself together if you can, and go relieve her up at inspiration's fountainhead. I'll spell you here.

Lieber Schimpanse-Byrons, ein Geschenk von Goebbels und meiner Schwester Clio:

"The yellow stars are humane, hygienic and prophylactic, since some Jews can't be recognized by external signs. When they first appeared on the streets of Berlin, what a surprise! Who knew there were so many? We all suddenly saw someone who had always seemed so harmless—perhaps complained or criticized a bit more than normal, but nobody thought was a Jew! "And now we see Jews walking with non-Jews. Their excuse? Jews are human too. I don't deny that, nor the humanity of murderers or child rapists— though I never feel the need to parade down the Kurfürstendamm with them! "Jews have a trick. They know the good-natured Michael in us, ready to shed tears for any injustice, so now they pretend they are all little babies and fragile old ladies! They send the pitiable outside. But when we feel pity for an old woman in a Jewish star, remember that a son of her distant uncle is a warmonger named Baruch or Untermayer who stands behind Mr. Roosevelt, urging him to war, so that a U.S. soldier will one day shoot Michael's only son dead. "If we have a flaw in our German character, it's thinking everyone as good natured as us. That’s how we are. But there are differences between people, as between animals: some are good, some bad. That the Jew lives among us is not proof that he belongs among us, any more than a flea is a household pet because it hides in our sofa. It isn't there because it loves us."

All the makings of comedy, nicht wahr?– a pimp, a dog, a flea, a goy, a Jew, a crippled President, a yellow star like Tinkerbell or that little ball that bobs over the notes you have to sing— a sort of karaoke thing?

No, it's been done, no doubt— Mel Brooks, Kurt Vonnegut. I recommend you play with word replacement.

I'm being unmenschlich? You're too dainty to reheat a plate half-eaten by a Nazi?

Kein Problem. Vorwärts! 2,415,356 more steps.

Daughter - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 17 – Calliope to Zeus:

Your dam dropped you in a cave Then created streams to rinse Birth's soilure from your scalp wrote Kallimachos. When your umbilicus fell off Upon the plain Cydonians call Navel Field nymphs hurried you to Knossos.

In other words you were a child once too unless St. Paul was right when he wrote Brother Titus Their own prophets Say that Cretans lie and the thunder-strikes that shook Mount Ida weren't the same kind that knocked the cocky Saul of Tarsus off his horse. Who guessed that it was you? Why would you smite the persecutor of a cult that was a foe of yours?

Who ever sees how sly you are? How much you work behind the scenes to boost your son and earn your current ease?

Who parted the clouds that shadowed Jordan's sands? Who perched Yeshua on the desert mountaintop and offered him the Holy Land? And when he pushed the cup away until a time more opportune, who eased him down on oread's wren-feathered hands?

If you weren't such a sexist goat, you might have just once let me hear the oracle of your white cockatoo or offered me your lightning-bolt.

No, that's too cheap a shot. The truth was Miriam had somehow sank a root into your barren ground and for the first time in your long career you thought about an heir.

Extended - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 18 – Calliope to Zeus:

But you didn't think enough. You let him think he was your only son, and where does that leave us who make our livings as your underlings?— stuck here garlicking word-sausage, very possibly retrainable but too dispirited to lift our wings.

And all our half-siblings? The last one heard from: Klotho, making headlines when she sold her spindle to the Drs. Edwards and Kevorkian cartel, and then the next day when the FDA disclosed she'd taken bribes from John the Baptist's mom and from protagonists in Robert Heinlein and in Walter Mosley's books?

Yeshua seems so lonely. There's this idyll of him lolling on Cloud Nine with you and Miriam— harps, angels, saints— but you and I both know you hung him out to dry, and like a gay sex addict he sashays leafed-over country crosscuts and dark alleyways, whispering love to adherent minds.

I don't want you and Miriam to give up your retirement; no, quite the opposite. It puts a warm glow in my heart to see how stable you've become. I just think finishing unfinished business with your kids means more contentment all around, especially for her— he's all she's has— and he's your last. No one's a hungry young god anymore, our family's legendary bickering over imperium is something of the past, and there's a good chance we could have some fun if you and Miriam just passed a pipe around and made the introductions.

The Kind Stepmother - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 19 – Miriam to Muses:

Dears, your father's not the bronco he once was, but he's still Zeus: guilt-tripping him won't get his ear. The only squawk he hears is his Carian-crested cockatoo, St. Paul the paraclete.

Meeting Yeshua won't recoup your birthright either. When they first styled him "Only Begotten Son" he came to ask if it was true. I said, "If the shoe fits, wear it," and no way he'll change it now. "Latest of Many Begotten Offspring" lacks cachet and admitting doctrinal error only scares the flock away.

And he'll kill your joie de vivre! He's never cracked a smile. For laughs, bark up a chestnut tree; find Dionysos, Herakles or nephew Pan; but give my only son the widest berth you can.

Not that he even holds me near. Nothing's farther from the truth. When I have something I want him to hear I get down on my knees like everybody else, then search for answers to my prayers in clouds, in trees, or unexplained remission of disease.

I truly wish I offered more than cautionary tales. And if Zeus ever says, "I just might give some thunder to my girls," I promise you, I'll say "Why not? Why stop at Trinity?" If anything, the nine of you might be a boost to my son's masculinity.

Relief? - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 20 - Thalia:

People call me the queen of comedy but what are laughs but tears by other means?

Unlike poor Romeo and Juliet united finally in death by drugs, most lovers shipwrecked, nightmared and romance-marooned in Shakespeare or in Aristophanes are casualties of madness: Cupids lifted in by cranes.

The pun? the clever turn of phrase? the swish and twirl of magic wands? That's me. I know 1000 ways to insult blondes; mock country folk; poke fingers at the Sapphic dike; recite That Nigger's Crazy inside out; mix recipes for love potions from 1 to 99; play every wedding dance from Etta's sweet “At Last” and Trini's smooth “Bésame Mucho” to “Hava Nagila” and “The Tarantella"; reweave the tales of Scheherazade to keep the shah awake for one more night.

The funny thing? It's pretty much the same: the sudden plunge into despair or love so blinding and erasive, victims call its lightning-bolt first sight.

Kismet - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 21 - Thalia:

But this eternal, golden, afternoon-lit interlude above majestic Ephesus—

whose house of Artemis raised high by Croesus won the Sky God's kindness

—this, beyond what even dramatists legitimately insist is possible, a labyrinth of story twists and sheer coincidence enough to overtax even those innocents addicted to theatrical narcotics whose antagonists are paper thin, and Cupid's toxic archery accomplishes the most unlikely couplings— unless the whirlwind in John's brain is not psychosis nor Yeshua's newly risen and as yet ungoverned grace, but crafty Zeus inspiring the apostle in delirium to pander him— no sooner had John hidden grief-wracked Miriam on Mount Koressos than her admirer rose from ancient granite throne and quit his nearby cave to take an evening walk, appearing more a goatherd than the handsome goat she first laid eyes on over thirty years ago, out of nowhere now he came upon her as she sat and wondered what to make of cats, a gurgling spring, and the extraordinary light— is farce too strong a word?

Of all the mountainsides in all the corners of the earth, she makes her home on his? Zeus must have had a hand in it. If not, this plot is utterly ridiculous.

Recognition - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 22 - Melpomene:

He walks up quietly and asks, “Woman, why do you weep?"

“My only son is gone,” she says. “I'm lost—no husband, and my only friend worse off than me. He brought me here to hide after my son was crucified for giving prophecy to hope-starved Jews.” She peers at him, and gestures toward the facing bench. “My name is Miriam, my sire, Joachim of Nazareth. Your speech is Galilean too. What was your father's name?”

He smiles crookedly, as if her question drove his tongue to run and hide.

“The spring that gurgles here is sweet,” she says. “Have drink.”

“Such awful grief,” he says at last, “asks both for balmy water and forgetful gere. I have strong wine here in my skin, shall we commingle and commiserate? It's been a long, long time since I was young, my own life had its ups and downs, though not so hard a fate as yours. It breaks my heart.”

“Then, mix, here is a bowl. The third day after burial, a man one mourner didn't recognize identified himself as my son risen from the dead, and she embraced him. When she told Yeshua's other friends, her words seemed wishful tales and they believed them not. But afterwards a strange man came to them as they cast nets onto the sea of Kinneret. He said, 'I am Yeshua, raised.' They said, again, 'You lie,' but then my boy's beloved John, who leant upon his breast at meals— who brought me here to live my days in peace, and die— cried out, 'It's him!' That startled even stalwart Peter so, he pulled his oilskins off and leapt into the lake! Sometimes beloved faces come disguised in foreign forms, and sometimes thieves of love wear most endearing masks.”

The goatherd pours and they both drink.

“Eventually, in Bethany,” she says, “as they looked on, the sky above Yeshua thickened slightly, drew him upward and a cloud of faintest gold absorbed him from their sight. Some of his zealots say I'll also be denied, or spared, the grave."

“Poor woman, drink again. Let me become your friend. My cave's not far. This evening let me fill your cup and then tomorrow come to sit another hour.”

“Something's familiar in your voice and mien.”

“My father wandered, as have I. New languages come easily to us. My other legacy from him was strength beyond my size, but shooing goats on hillsides long since squandered that.”

“Your name, goatherd?'

“My mother named me Zeus, her mind inflated by the love that witches mothers without men to view their sons as gods.”

She weeps again. He once more fills her cup but she no longer drinks and he gets up and leaves as quietly as when he came.

Skulls - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 23 - Melpomene:

They clustered at Yeshua's feet among the zealous flies and swarming sacerdotal ants: the daughters of Jerusalem, Miriam, Magdalen, John's mother Salome and John himself unbearded and effeminate, mistakenly admitted to the Crucifixion Grounds from which male followers were barred after the incident of Peter slicing off the ear of Caiphas's slave.

The afternoon grew overcast as things wore on. Yeshua's small talk with the highwaymen collapsed, and there was just the odd sob, groan or catch of breath that notched one of the men or mourners nearer death.

The centurions grew bored and started throwing dice— the Jews, such pests in life, were also too slow giving up the ghost. One of the robbers' country aunts thundered at three o'clock and finally roused the guards to act:

Now lance these wretches, whose agony's too long, ye smelly jack-ass brutes! An' git ye back to barracks, the quicker to git yer oats!

Happiness - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 24 - Euterpe:

They sit again and see the haint-blue bay turn gold. "What became of the others of your Twelve," she asks, "who co-inhabited Olympos?"

"Ah yes! Delta Omega Delta we called ourselves!—Dodekatheon— Dēmētēr, Hēra, Poseidōnas, yours truly Zeús, Hēphaistos, Áphroditē, Árēs, Ártemis, Athēnâ and Apóllō, Hērmēs, girlish Diónysus. We had good times up there, quaffed immortal wines for as long as they lasted, when the last cask sighed: for no one finds contentment long without inviting time, and time itself's iconoclastic."

"You aged?"

"Not aged. That's passive. One by one, we bit those airy, temporary plums inside whose pits attachment waits— tanha, the Buddhists call it. We surrendered immortality for objects out of reach to gods' compellent fingers. "And they're all gone now. The last was Hera, headstrong, obstinate, who finally gave in to a sinewy young Gaul's tradition that she come feed under Celtic oaks. Guarding the fiery spokes of Helios's chariot— what's left of them, that is, since devious Prometheus hid one inside a fennel stalk—"

"—And you're still sore at him for that?"

"Not as sore as he is!" And Zeus smiled. "Truth is, I miss the little rat. If one day I went back, I wouldn't be surprised if he's the one who sits cloud-cloaked and keeps the furnace of the sun well stoked. I'd like to think, too, Hera's lot in Holyhead has turned out well. On the way to middle age, though—boy, I bet she gave those druids hell!

Miriam took his hand and thought, remembering the way he'd wooed her like a god, How nice it is to be loved by a man.

Cynical Daughter - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 25 - Clio to Her Sisters:

Love of a woman altered Zeus from godly dharma? Leaves him drowsing by a humble hillside hearth? Let's not be gulled again. I taste him in my veins, have every epic, every Orphic hymn by heart: the modus operandi of immortals is withstanding change, time's author in the rising sun, the falling sand, the trembling of caesium.

So yes, it is a pretty story, but unless he's setting that poor woman up to take some grand new fall, the folksy goatherd warming toes in bed with her is no more Zeus than Hayley Mills is Lenny Bruce.

Muse's Advisory, Nov. 26 - Clio:

The day is on the wing when Zeus melts into view beneath the olive trees. A snow-white ewe follows him coltishly.

“It's Io!” he fumes, sitting. “Hera invited her to test my sexual sobriety. The height of irony! She'll stoop to anything!

Miriam tips the pitcher to the mixing bowl and watches him add claret from the grapevines pruned to basket shapes along the facing hillside.

“You came late today,” she barely speaks.

He mutely tips the bowl into their cups and the observant bay flames reddish gold.

“Helios makes quite a show of growing old tonight,” she says.

“He does,” Zeus says.

The white ewe comes to nuzzle both their ankles.

“Before you arrived,” he says, “this house was rumored to be haunted, and the cats— where are they all today?— to be reincarnations of the virgins I deflowered. Rubbish! Inside them live the souls of Amazons who founded Ephesus but couldn't bear either to lose this scape or live among the males who overtook their district. Helios is the only caress they crave, old as he is.

“Io,” she cries, “is shameless! Look, she wants us both to pet her! She'd lie down with squid if Hera let her! A skinner in town could find some way to settle her libido down.”

“You're worse than me!” Zeus says, and roars. He drinks; lifts up the bowl again; and pours.

Marching Orders - Muse's Advisory - Clio:

Nov. 27, 1095 - Pope Urban II - Sermon of First Crusade:

I, Urban, God's ambassador to the whole world — to all princes here in Flanders, Germans chosen by God, and heirs of Carl Martel: A cursed race of Muslims have overrun Christians in seven battles as far west as the Hellespont, and slay them by sword and fire! They circumcise them and pour their blood on altars or into baptismal fonts! Perforate their navels! Pull forth the intestine! Bind it to a stake! Then flog the victim around and around until the viscera have all gushed forth! Cut open the callouses on pilgrims' heels and fold the skin back, lest money is sewn there! Make them drink scammony until their bowels burst, lest they have swallowed gold! Spread out the folds of the intestine, to disclose whatever nature held there in secret! Unless you avenge these wrongs, great Franks—whom God gave courage, bodily activity, and strength to humble the hairy scalps of all who resist you— disgrace! Shall a base race claim the ground where the Savior's blood gushed forth and the tomb where His body, its quivering members dead, found rest? Don't be stayed by love of children, parents and wives! Christ says, “He that loveth family more than me is unworthy.” Nor let possessions detain you, your land shut in on all sides by seas and mountains furnishes scarcely food enough! Instead, take the road to the Holy Sepulchre—wrest that land of milk and honey from a wicked race and take it for yourselves! Christus volt! Christ commands it!

Nov. 27, 1868 - Colonel Custer - Song before massacre of Comanche village:

We are the pride of the army And a regiment of great renown Our name's on the pages of history From '66 on down

Hurrah for our brave commanders Who lead us into the fight We'll do or die in our country's cause And battle for the right

'Tis the gallant Seventh Cavalry It matters not where we're goin' Such you'll surely say as we march away And our band plays 'Garryowen'

Justification - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 28 - Would-Be Byron:

May I speak?

If I trade little bits of what I know about a woman when she loves a man for crumbs of literary history, whose business is that but my own?

You Social Conscience poets, get a life! A lot of people do worse things than stand in line because they want to write.

Sure, I could be like Christ and feed the poor instead, but why attempt to stand the natural order on its head?

He himself said hunger would be always with us, so then, why not share a tip along the way on how to get a Catholic girl to kiss us?

Why criticize entertainment, given how fond your precious bodhisattvas are of cherry-blossom arrangement?

If this Take-A-Number system offends you, hitch up your pangs and leave.

Not only is the soup line over there, but two charmed jade chips smuggled out of Shangri-La itself

I hear are buried in the mini-cemetery of James Hilton's underwear.

Attachment - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 29 - Zeus to Miriam:

Truth is, I'm not crazy about mountain-tops. I wandered in disguise along the wharves of the Aegean ports, alongside rivers, lakes— I like a water view. The day I first laid eyes on you

I had gone hiking from the Carmel up the Kishon river through Besara, poked my head into the basalt caves where an acquaintance or two lived, and when I saw a milepost for Nazareth, one of those voices in my head urged me to walk that way.

What drew me to one particular girl I glimpsed in a sunny window with her book?

Oddly, it was the book. I was seized by a powerful curiosity about what had set that particular look on your face.

I wondered if I could do that too. I was supposed to be omnipotent.

As Io Bled - Muse's Advisory, Nov. 30 - Clio:

“What did I see in you?” Miriam exclaims. “Chutzpah, for one thing. You walked right in like it was where you lived and were about to call I'm home!, then looked at me as if I were the most exotic human being you had ever seen, scorching my face with your black eyes like Nabateans scorch the hillocks to smoke hyrax out.”

“So, not my beard, nor hands?” Zeus says. “Poets will write it was my beard and hands, and that I smelled more sweetly than the average man.”

“Your beard,” she laughs, “makes you resemble nothing more than one of Homer's bumpkins, and your hands look like you've grappled one too many sheep! You do have a distinctive smell, but only swineherds would consider it a treat.”

“Io—“

“That cow would call a saw-scaled viper sweet if she thought it would get her served in her unpausing oestral heat.”

“One poet wrote,” Zeus says, He appeared to her as a well-made man; and my form's been sculpted into comely statues fairly frequently— perhaps for cause?”

“Don't fish for compliments from me! The whole world knows it was the torso of Alcamenes that Phidias spread olive oil on, and then the face of Ageladas— they were the models for your chryselephantine colossus and every sculptor since has only copied that! If you looked half as good as half your statues look, you wouldn't need the silken mind and steely tongue that are your trademark hooks.”

“You're all a god could want, dear Miriam— to be known well, and leveled with. You've no idea how much demeaned I've felt these past 19 or 20 centuries bombarded constantly with antiphons as if I were a monolith.”

“It's worse for me,” she says. “My cult believes I care about each member, individually. The Ave Maria's are easy but every Mother Mary, come to me after heart-wrenching litanies of sins and sorrows mars my sleep. What has become of common courtesy?”

The sun's blood spilled onto the bay below. Behind them climbed a moon pale as the face of Io above the red flood of the abattoir, as they uncasked another ewer of bright wine and warmly reminisced.

Prospects - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 1 - Melpomene:

“Once you've relaxed as long as restless stock like yours can brook," says Miriam to Zeus, "you'll just go right back to your footloose rut. It's not as though you'll ever be too old to rule.”

They spot John, first a stationary pin-prick in the distance, then a praying mantis slowly growing larger, arms upraised, emaciated, on his back a fig-leaf sack of semi-rotted fish.

“Six hundred years,” Zeus says, “was Noah's walk upon the earth before he got the inspiration, Boat. Once the deluge had run its course, he got another notion, Ferment grape juice into wine. Where I'll find joy the next six-hundred-year is anybody's guess; for the current hexakosioi, it's here with you.”

The protests of John's retinue of seven gulls and seven crows reverberate while light and dark wings dice the air above where he has, for the moment, disappeared behind a rise. Cats cast uneasy glances higher still where buzzards loiter on the currents just in case some beast with red blood in it winds up dead.

“Looks like the seafood's old again,” laughs Miriam. “These cats are getting fat.”

“He knows I'm here,” Zeus says.

“Still, humor him, and go. He has it in his head that he and I are celibates. He only stays the hour— chants his latest prophecy and mourns the power of Yeshua's touch to soothe disturbing dreams on nights when thunderbolts unnerve the atmosphere within him and without.”

“You're safe with him?”

She smiles. He stands. Mixed with the shrieking of the vying gulls and crows, the hermit's curses place him ten or fifteen plethrons down the coiling road.

“Safety,” she says, “is nowhere near the top of my priorities.”

“That's what I love about you, doll. Come here, I have some very dangerous ideas!”

“Get out of here, before I throttle you. The problem with your kind who never die is that you have no next lives to look forward to. But we who watch the deaths of those we love must choose between lifelong depression and belief they'll be restored. Your children die, you simply breathe on them again. We need to trust that there's a time and place beyond this killing ground where we will reunite. The rotting fish, the cats, the gulls, the crows, the vultures circling above— the visions of John's heart— they all remind me of the loss, and coming loss, of love."

Prayer - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 2 - Urania:

The saint climbs up the path with his fish-smelling sack, oblivious to the boot in front and the boot in back; one scroll unfurled inside his head, one underneath his feet, the third a kompolói, strung olive stones from the grove Gethsemane,

I on the isle of Patmos heard a trumpet unto Ephesus and unto Smyrna and unto Pergamos and unto Thyatira and unto Sardis and unto Philadelphia and unto Laodicea.

In front of him wafts Miriam's pale face,

eyes like flame searched reins and hearts and his feet like brass tred pavingstones and stumblingblocks! the last is greater than the first until the vessels of the potter break to shivers like the evening star!

He tries to smile but finds a smile already seated on his lips.

Her spirit reaches out a hand to quiet him.

Muse's Advisory, Dec. 3 - Urania:

I come quickly! John cries, ascending the hill with his sack. Flies buzz around his head and straggle in his hair; four swifts do acrobatics in the sky. The first beast is a lion! The second a calf, the third a man! The last an eagle with inward eyes! Sun flares. His dry lips crack. A wary yeoman and bone-thin ox pass on the narrow track. Behold a white stallion! My Lord, how long, how long?

A deathstalker blocks his way, barb poised and claws spread wide. John stoops and cups his palm, raises the scorpion to striking distance of his eyes and prays, Lord, here am I! It arches its six-striped back, it stretches forth its mighty tail and took its barb to strike but hesitates, is stayed. Not my will be done but thine. I hear thy voice and I obey.

He looses the mouth of his sack and drops the scorpion in. Amen.

Fetus - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 4 – Polimnia:

John can no more stop than a torrent rushing down a gully after a cloudbreak stars fall like a fig tree casting untimely figs in a mighty wind and the heavens depart like a scroll when it is rolled back up and each mountain and island rooted up from its foundations blue sky and white sun concealments and illusions, flies and birds the evil one's diversions who shall hunger no more for the lamb shall wipe all the tears from the glass of their eyes behind the veil of his own face, deafening thunder like the roars of behemoth and the earth is shaken and rocks broken open and vaults cloven and bodies of the saints who were asleep arise and come out of the tomb he stumbles in his delirium the cord binding his sack breaking open and the foul octopus inside sliding out onto the path like Belial's stillborn fetus which fouls and sears his fingers as he spills it back into the flaxen bag and continues up the hill to greet Miriam

Agape - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 5 – Urania: an angel smoke ascending from her head lightnings of hail and fire mixed with blood trees burnt green grass a mountain burnt sea creatures burnt the sea made bitter by the damned star Wormwood a young man leads a white goat down the hill its horns as cedars of Lebanon its thick legs like the thief's who asked Yeshua to remember him

John praises god the goat bleats with the voice of Gabriel the yeoman takes from underneath his coat a waterskin and offers John to drink this day you'll be with me in Paradise John says

Father the yeoman says look at the silver sea today takes drink himself puts back the waterskin continues down the path

John hefts his sack of food for Miriam resumes his climb

Scarabeus sacer - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 6 – Revelation:

The fifth angel lifts a Key To unlock the bottomless Pit That breathes forth Smoke Of locusts and of Scorpions All ordained to punish Men With no seal on their Brows Who pray in vain for Death On insects raimented for War Their faces as the face of Men Their teeth the teeth of Lions Their breastplates made of Iron And the sounding of their Wings Like horses coursing into Battle In the name of the locusts' King In the Hebrew tongue Abaddon In the Greek tongue Apollyon In the Latin tongue Exterminans And the scorpion's Epithet Is the slayer of Lapwings! Curse ye, Orders of twin winged Demons! Curse ye, Twice false Olympic Gods! Ye have taken from me Yeshua My Lord.

Purification - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 7 – Urania:

An ivory angel clothed in cloud appears a rainbow on its hair, sun in its mouth its right foot on the sea, its left on solid ground.

Seal up some things and write them not, it says.

John sees the olive trees, the cats assembling, the roundstone hut where Miriam is.

He has fish in his sack to nourish her

Yeshua had bequeathed into his care on Golgotha.

He sees the goat god Zeus slip off into the brush.

Voices - Muse's Advisory - Wed., Dec. 8 – Urania:

And was given him a reed like a rod when the angel spoke, saying, Rise. These are the two olive trees.

“Shlom, Miriam,” John says.

“Shlom, John. Come, sit and drink, first water and then wine.”

John seats himself and next to him is seated Yeshua arisen.

She cried travailing in birth, Yeshua says, and pained to be delivered until there appeared first a red dragon having seven heads and ten horns to devour her child and she fled into the wilderness to that place prepared of God that you should feed her there.

“The beast who bides here with you,” John says, “spoke to me along the road. He has blasphemed Yeshua.”

“No beast, John. It was Zeus, Yeshua's father.”

John, she cannot hear you, says Yeshua.

“Lord, with what tongue shall I speak?” John asks.

“Drink, friend,” says Miriam, and passes him cool water from the spring, the sound of her voice like unto the voice of the cistern.

Though she be my mother, she heareth me not, says Yeshua.

“Lord, give me words,” John says.

“Your words, John, always comfort me,” says Miriam. “Your voice reminds me of Yeshua's voice in childhood, which delights me.”

“He is here, Mother!” John cries.

“Is he?” she says. “Would that I could see him.”

“Only open thine eyes,” John says.

It's time to go, Yeshua says. The Greek boat waits; the ebb tide changes its devotement.

John stands and casts about his eyes down on the cats that paw the sack of fish. “I bring you squid and octopus,” he says, “forbidden to the Jews, but your son places on our plate all that His Father hath provided for our sustinence.”

“Friend, thank you,” she says, standing too.

“Whatever beast it is who you call Zeus,” John says, “seeks only to corrupt you.”

“Oh, that ship has sailed, John!”

She cannot hear, Yeshua says. Go and return thyself to Ephesus, and thence to Patmos. Paradise awaits you there.

Incarnation - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 9 – Polimnia:

“I had no choice but leave,” Zeus says to Miriam. “The last time Patmos visited, I heard the echo of a hiss, the seethe of angry thought I buried deep beneath the ocean where his isle lay before arising to the light— now not an echo, but a roar, And he shall see an angel calling, Babylon is fallen! And from a white cloud thrusts a sickle on the clusters of the vine whose grapes are fully ripe. Each island fled away from air; each mountain disappeared...

“It's not your fault,” she says. “John always heard what others could not hear. That afternoon Yeshua wandered on the shore of Kinneret, hailed Zebedee and his two boys whilst they repaired torn nets inside their fishing-boat, John glimpsed the Baptist reborn in Yeshua's face, and Zebedee beseeched John's brother James to go and try to keep John safer than his namesake, as when Herod heard Yeshua's fame, he said, It is the Baptist, risen from the dead. Ironically, it wasn't tender John but sturdy James whom Herod's heir beheaded ten years afterward, while John survives, and all the demons in him.”

“Some of them are mine,” says Zeus. “Their voices I remember well.”

“And some are mine. And some are all mankind's, the poor old guy.”

Homeward -Muse's Advisory, Dec. 10 – Polimnia:

The sea rears up at Arki's Knob. The prosarious beats the rowers' rhythm, all the while scowling at the Galilean raving,

“A whore sits on a scarlet beast; her forehead is named Mystery. Come out of her, my people, for she hath lived deliciously as a widow without sorrow: merchants of the earth wax rich by her abundance of delicacies, of fine linen and purple and silk, of scarlet and tangy thyine wood, of vessels of ivory and of brass, of iron and marble and cinnamon.”

Oh, to take his sword and air that Jew's malodorous brain! Four more leagues to Cape Crane.

Ash - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 11 - Clio:

Miriam sits alone and John climbs up the hill once more.

Her smoke rose up for ever and ever. She made herself ready in fine linen. His eyes were flame and his feet Treadeth the winepress of fierceness. Clothed with vesture dipped in blood I cried out to all the fowls that fly, 'Come and gather and devour the flesh of kings and mighty men and horses' And they flew down and delivered up The dead which were in them and the sea Delivered up the dead which were in it Until there was no more sea.

She rises and opens her palms in greeting.

Alleluia. Alleluia. I fell at his feet to worship him but he said, Don't; for God shall wipe away tears from their eye Until there is no more death nor any pain.

Her smile is broken like sea in wind.

On the east are three gates: one jasper and one sapphire and one chalcedony; on the north three gates: one emerald and one sardonyx and one sardius; on the south three gates: one chrysolite and one beryl and one topaz; on the west three gates: One chrysoprasus and one jacinth and one amethyst. The street of the city is pure gold, transparent glass which has no need of sun; for he that is unjust, let him be unjust; filthy, let him be filthy; righteous, let him be righteous. Dogs and whoremongers and idolaters; whosoever loveth or who maketh a lie; let him take the water of life freely from my hand.

In John's own palsied hand, a knife.

Zeus steps out from behind the house and issues forth a lightningbolt more feeble even than the stroke that he produced although disastrously on Semele's demand, but still John's fingertips are burnt to ash and with them the last shred of his intelligence.

88% Perspiration, 8% Inspiration & 4% Urination - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 12 – Polimnia:

Tom, per favore! Much too much of all that John of Patmos stuff! We got the gist! Go back to your protagonists before your last two loyal readers lose their minds and cut their wrists!

Hunger revisits cats passed out oblivious to all but belly-bliss after a final feast of putrid octopus. On distant Patmos candle-lighters light one candle less. The fat green olives have turned blond.

Zeus comes after a week away. Grief-stricken Miriam invites him sit and quench his thirst with purple wine; he wraps her with his brawny arm and lets her drench his shirt with tears.

While stars in constellations fixed immortalize the lives of Cassiopeia, Orion, Castor and Pollux, unanchored Miriam asks at last to learn of Zeus's other children, lovers, several wives.

He stands up, smiles, refills two bowls and breaks a loaf of bread in two. Why not? he thinks. The evening air is cool and still enough to hear tales only to be whispered once.

“How much time do you have for listening?” he asks. "It's been a long and fertile life.”

“I have all night.”

Va bene? Is that enough of an entrée for you to stay on track for 20 minutes while I run back up to Clio's place and take my pee?

His Past, 1 - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 13 – Melpomene/Tom:

"Zeus said to Miriam, My first was an Egyptian maiden just emerged from Nile mud.”

“The inexperienced do seem to be his specialty, Melpomene.”

"It's true, and it makes sense. An older women who has tooled around the block a couple times is less susceptible to easy charm."

“Teenage girls are moony— but this getting pregnant and denying there was screwing? Are they liars, or deluded?”

"Infatuation makes you both, and then a second tidal wave wells from the womb, that seals your fate."

“Melpomene, why are you choking up? Go on. Who was the lucky little Copt? Sketch out the scene, I'll try to fill in the psychology. I do remember adolescence's immense insanity.”

“What happened exactly I can't recall, the god explained— one of those primal things the crocodile brain controls. My second conquest, though— a young Phoenician girl— her I remember in detail! Oh, how I set the trap! I hid to study her behind a thickly batted cloud and laid seduction plans she'd be unable to resist! I gave myself the form of a cute calf who trotted up, bright daisy in his mouth: she put a garland on my neck. Next thing she knew—”

“I've heard this one. She climbs onto his back and feels the unsuspected stir of sex when he starts galloping.”

"I bore her straight into the waves five hundred miles till beneath a plane tree on the beach of Crete I turned into an eagle— and I raped her. Sometimes a second animal waits in a lover's heart— bloodthirsty brute within a Trojan Horse. By the time you see it, it's too late. As Ovid wrote, With all her might she strove; But how can mortal maid contend with Jove?”

“What sort of man resorts to violence? He feels himself a god who has the right? Frustration, from some impotence?”

"Zeus said to Miriam, To call us powerful, possessed of strength but not control, is a mistake. Such weakness I would come to rue a little further down life's road— soon break my own heart too, attacking Leda.”

His Past, 2 - Muse’s Advisory, Dec 14 – Euterpe:

“In the fens downstream from Sparta—” Zeus begins, then takes a lengthy sip. “—a skinny-dipping fille, already pregnant by a man, I forcibly implanted with an orb containing god.”

A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead, Yeats grieved.

“I wept, my reddening cheeks the dawn of right and wrong. But all attempts to make amends to Leda afterwards just made things worse— apologies upon deaf ears and orchids scattered to the ground. So one omnipotent, omniscient, learned that some cats can't be put back in the bag. Gaze upward, Miriam: Castor and Pollux, twin charioteers who rode forth from the womb alongside mortal, all-beguiling Clytemnestra and the half-blood Helen, rape bait too— those brothers icy in the sky will still be frozen there the night I, unforgiven, die."

“My Love,” says Miriam, and tips the bowl into his cup again. “Sins are indelible despite Yeshua's pledge, but they shed no more light on us than lantern-flies. Gaze up, yourself, and make a wish upon the triple halo girdling yon Jupiter's head.”

Simulcast - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 15 – Polimnia:

"...U.S. Army propagandista Glenn Miller, il trombettista famoso e band leader, manca in azione con due aviatori Alleata sopra la Manica Inglese in un UC-64...

...In una storia correlate, Amelia Earhart, insieme con navigatore Fred Noonan, è scomparso vicino alle isole Nukumanu nel suo Lockheed Electra 10E..."

I track my father's whereabouts by listening to newscasts of his capers— how he plucks a favorite from the air or undertakes particularly ambitious aerial collisions with iconic skyscrapers. Two glasses of Chianti, and I'm there...

“Some skinny couple took that cottage over on the next hill,” Miriam tells Zeus. “Loud music, and they fly a red-striped flag high in the sky on breezy days, that they control somehow with little motions of their hands."

“Ah—” Zeus says half-sheepishly, “—you know. The devil's tools.”

“I knew it! It was you! I wondered how long you'd content yourself with counting boats and getting drunk with me! Who are they? At least introduce us!”

“There's the two you saw, plus three more very horny men— all boozers—”

“Oh, you do like thinking I'm a prude!”

“It's true. My favorite fantasy.”

“What if I told you you were not my first? That I'd been pregnant once before and was aborted?”

“I'd say your first swain got cold feet but then regained his senses some weeks later.”

“So I was right about that too! Who else could he have been, but you?”

“I'm not so pitiless or false as rumor makes me out; you're not so pure or good. So let's go visit, yes— Glenn Miller and Amelia Earhart. She's got some fiery tsipouro in wood and he can teach us how to waltz la Sonata di Luna.”

“You just can't just park them there as pets.”

“It's the best show on the mountain! Let's go check it out tonight."

Glass #3 of vino, though, is always a mistake.

“ ...a bordo di due Boeing 767, acclamato TV sceneggiatore David Angell morto insieme con un pilota denominato ironicamente Victor Saracini e tutti dell'equipaggio, passeggeri e dirottatori...”

Zweikampf/Duel - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 16 – Thalia:

Warten Sie! honks Hitler, several poets further back. Herr Glenn Miller was a traitor to his volk and when his plane went down he got what he deserved! Fräulein Amelia Earhart was a Teutonic traitor too!

Madman, your point?

Wait, Ersatz Byron interrupts. What's Hitler doing here?

He dreams of glory, same as you. Revisionists insist if he can triumph as an artist, much less blood will flow. He'd rather be a Rilke or a Goethe than mass-murderer.

Warten Sie! Hitler repeats hot-headedly. Who's this interrupter with a hooked Semitic nose? Jews ruined poetry as well as Germany— you've read Heine.

I'll knock your block off, buddy! exclaims Byron's #1 Admirer.

Boys, boys. Fistfights and duels must be conducted in that glade and by strict rules laid down by Eugene Field:

Come half past twelve by the old Dutch clock, & then at twenty paces take turns firing feet into each other's faces.

Repeating 'Jesus was a Jew' can't make it true! the Führer cries. Galileans were Assyrians, King David was a Moabite, and Zeus himself—

—ein Hamburger?

The Nazi leapt at him, his lips spit-flecked

but Byron Hopeful bared a trochee, Gotcha!

Bearded Vultures - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 17 – Calliope:

Laboring from the gladiators' graveyard two lammergeiers bear a dead slave's thighbones up to rocky fastnesses to crack against the utmost crags and spill the lusty marrow down their craws.

“We have to free ourselves, and John,” Zeus says, sipping his wine. “Come back with me to my cave for a week or two and once he sees you've left we can resume our afternoons here by your spring.”

“He'll be bereft.”

“He tried to cut your throat. He imagines you a monster now. It's better he believes Yeshua came and whisked you up to paradise. Besides, my place is very nice. The last time I had live-in company,” he says with a sly grin, “I had to send the sheets out twice.”

“You are Zeus Apomuios, Shoo-er of Flies.”

Below in Ephesus, Artemis's gaudy temple aspires a long plume of bright gold smoke where priestesses know how to render fat to oils that burn every color in a rainbow.

“Does that ever seem a little foolish?” Miriam asks.

“I'm way past that,” he says. “You see yourselves as sheep but I see you as antelopes! You make amazing leaps. Look at the vultures breaking hips apart against that bluff. Don't underestimate the pull of sundered blood and bone. No, I find you breath-taking.”

“Okay, I'll go,” she agrees. “A change of scene will do me good, and John’s long trek here every week is killing him.”

“Ah, excellent! I'll ask our neighbors up for shish kebab and drinks. The great thing about them—” he winks— “is they have no idea. They think they're in some cockeyed transmigration scheme. Wait till you talk to them.”

“Will you return them to their lives?”

“They don't know it but their old life is continuing: they're duplicates. The day I let them see what's happened since I brought them here they'll be like gods.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It's dimensions five and six.”

“Oh, Zeus Fysikí! What is it with guys and their Science? How many of these dimensions have you made?'

“I have to have my secrets.”

The lammergeiers hurl their freight against the stone and echos sound like somebody may have broken the gates and finally made it home.

Waiting in Endless Lines - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 18 - Tom to Calliope:

Excuse me, Miss All-That with the overpriced writing tablet - not that you paid for it - it's product placement, right?

You put yourself in stitches calling me Ape Byron or whatever but it's meatless sandwiches like me that feed your fame

...well, yes, there's Homer...but still...what gives you the gall to dangle tasty shreds of beef and line us up like fingered Jews to pluck the gold teeth from our gums before you turn us into glue?

WE ARE THE POETS!

This young man in front of me you promised mastery of terza rima? And this lady just behind, the key to writing like a lady Bukowski?

TEXT WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE!

...Or what? Go ahead, say it— you'll call the Mt. Parnassus poetry police and have us booked and banished someplace shittier than Greece?

At the Table - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 19 – Calliope:

“Boost me 1000 places up in line?” Byron Boxtops sneers, almost preening. “If Viktor Frankl had agreed to that, we'd never have Man's Search for Meaning! If we poets go on strike, this field is bare except for rabbits and bleached trunks of what a future archeologist guesses to be ruins of nine forgotten demi-goddesses.”

Don't threaten us, you ingrate! The earth will turn as it has always turned with or without the poor excuse for exumbration you call poetry! We don't spark, blow on, and stoke your mental cigarettes for our own kicks; if any of you puffers want to quit, then be my guest.

Amity - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 20 – Polimnia:

“Oh my!” cries Byron's Flea. “Here comes the schoolteach with her veil, Good Mistress Harmony to salt the slugfest's tail and clean up after Calliope iPad's quick retreat behind a swirl of cheat sheets for Today in History - a girl born to the "Funky Drummer" beat, or Heybeliada's Aziz Nesin's Yüreğim gövdeme sığmıyor Gövdem odama Odam evime sığmıyor My body won't fit my heart My room my body My house my room. So, ladies and gentlemen, to soothe the troubled water, I give you Polimnia's Soft Sale!”

Indeed that's why I've come. For tre millenni muse and poet saw eye to eye and the trivium thrived. Why throw all that away now in a pissing contest? Our bad. You're il creatore. We got bored, carried away, we bit off more than we could chew from a piece of the pie that belonged to you. At most, I ask an invocation: that's how Homer scratched our egotistic itch. But, if you prefer, we don't exist: just your name blazoning the frontispiece.

“How can I refuse?” he grins.

Just call me La Musa Eufonia OG.

Pilgrimage - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 21 – Me:

I advance, 2,145,230 to 2,145,229. It all seems worth it now— 80 pages on a flash drive, my moment of truth at the top of the line increasingly irrelevant, the pilgrimage more tonic than the shrine.

“Why not come home?” Penny and Telly implore. “Dear husband, father, hop that next bus back from Lourdes?” I can't, I say. (a) I'm bored to tears (b) I crave applause (c) I'm seeking love (d) all, two, or none of the above. I'm still not cured.

Zeus's Cave - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 22 – Urania:

The track to Zeus's cave almost impassable through thickets bristling with nightingales, they lose sight of the city, harbor, then the sea itself, at last emerge into an arbor of apricots and a crystal pond whose fish wear golden necklaces and earrings on their heads and rise as Zeus calls out their names and tosses each a bit of bread. Above, a bluff: a granite tripe of dark mouths fed by curving stairs rock-carved beside great Doric columns and human figures in relief, some fully fleshed, some skeletal.

“The Seven Sleepers Cave,” Zeus indicates. “Myth says they travel underworlds nobody's ever seen— when they awake, will speak in tongues not heard before and plant seeds in the Carian earth that will give grow as military oaks. In the meantime, they're good neighbors. So too, up there, the Bedouin cocooned in spider's silk. That swank cave next to his is mine.”

“It's lovely here,” breathes Miriam.

“Don't worry about noise!” Zeus cries. “I've practiced yodeling and thunderclaps alike up here and not a single eyeball's even roamed its lid. You're in the country now: the rule of thumb is, the more noise you make, the less chance bear or tiger will mistake you for an ibex without horns!”

“Delightful, dear,” she says.

“On clear days,” he continues, one arm stretching east, “you see so goddam far, you think it must be Parthia. It's not, of course, but when the Persians come it's quite a sight, those lower passes gushing horses like a river.”

O Come All Ye - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 23 – Euterpe:

It blew. The cave turned into something like a flute and music drifted here and there at odd times full and low.

Miriam and Zeus on a king-size bed located the limits of what older fuckers could do until the goats had got their fill of gales and crowded in too to get out of the wind.

She giggled no matter how they pulled the skins up close to the edge of their chins their soggy pubes still felt a draft.

Odd things happen to charmed lovers in an afterglow and they thought maybe they heard the strains of high-voiced Christmas carolers in the valley below.

Crossing - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 24 – Urania:

Roiled sky and sea drown out John's otherworldly shrieks but lightning knives from iron skies will always panic Greeks and rowing so near Samsun's Teardrop amplifies their fear as the heaving trireme pierces the strait that pierces cliffs and shudders east on the darkening eve of the stark madman's master's birth.

He comes! he cries to the straining oarsmen, their eyes already wide with so much panic and exertion that the whites glow red while holes as wide as belladonna berries steer the tempest straight into their brains.

The trierarch swears by Zeus's breast if he makes Ephesus he'll kill a fatted calf for Virgin Artemis before he reembarks and that regardless of the cost he'll ferry John no more who howls I see him! to the dark typhoon, his pupils pinpricks.

Assumption - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 25 – Urania:

The cod so old and the weather so wet and cold no birds nor flies escort John up the muddy road.

In his mind though, his sack is filled with matzo rounds, wine, frankincense, myrhh, gold.

No cat greets him below the quiet grove of purpled olives nor Miriam's contented humming to the gurgle of the spring.

No one is there nor embers strip the rawness from the air nor sunken robe nor wolf-bit bone nor faceless hair.

He steps outside and glances up. A sunray breaks the overcast and beams down to a patch of grass where it illuminates a trail of haystalks bending in the direction Miriam must have walked before ascending.

Exposed - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 26 – Melpomene:

John sat in damp grass, praised God and wept for having doubted Her restored at last to Her Son's breast.

The light exposed dead flies, long-empty lice eggs littered the linseed-yellowed hair of his small bulb, and though his forehead bulged, his eyes recoiled from cataracts' glare.

He took up his sack, thick thumbs and index fingers struggled to unknot it, loosed its neck to let the scorpions free, lay on his back, stretched out his arms, crossed ankles, mimicking Yeshua's death, and drinking in the breath of grossly rotted fish, consigned himself to pain.

His last thought was a parable the Master told about the wicked husbandmen who beat their boss's servants and then murdered his son.

An Admirer of Nabokov - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 27 – Terpsichore:

See that woman back there with the loud pink laptop and the glass-eyed stare of the frustrated Symbolist?

“...Sojourner Truth and Carrie Nation walk into a bar with hatchets glinting underneath their coats; demand to see the cook. An Arab native to the Hawran hills, a beard tattooed on chin and jaw, blue frog's-eyes on her upper lip, emerges grinning from the back and sits down in a booth with them...”

"Muse? Muse! Hey, Muse!" she cries. "I'm dying over here! Another seltzer water please, no fruit. You plucked a tom hawk's wing and put his feather in your cap? You poked a woman-hater's eye out with a Stars of Egypt fountain pen? Thanks, tough girl, keep the change. Maybe the Stanley Cup is on?"

“...pull hatchets from beneath their coats and start to chop the bar to splinters, crying 'Temperance! Sufferance! Tolerance!' Out runs the plump Muscati cook, a sextant etched between her eyes...”

"Goddam it all!” she cries again. "Muse! Sorry. Make this a White Russian."

Catastrophe - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 28 – Polimnia:

Disaster's thin legs will outrun Pheidippides and the litters of weighty victories:

as Zeus and Miriam return to her hut, an old witch pushes past them on the narrow rut and caterwauls into the brush that the house of many-breasted Artemis, Wonder of the World or not, had tumbled down, its altar smashed after the Crank of Patmos burst inside and lifted voice and arms to cast the pagan demons out, and everyone in Ephesus now wept, praised Christ, or was in flight. Amid the dust of such earth-shaking force majeure, the Apocalypt had prophesied hard Goths, within a century— and in the second hundredyear, Herostratus (chaser of fame at any cost, punished with death and deathly crime to speak his name)— twice more the rebuilt temple would enflame. Then he plucked a listless octopus from an awestruck fishwife's hamper, and escaped!

Before the murmur of Miriam's spring caressed their ears, their noses sipped a stench of more-than-fetid polpi, the gleaming bay broke into view, and they could see at once that everything the witch had hissed was true.

Winds - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 29 – Polimnia:

Zeus tosses and turns and dreams the past and future.

Let's stop, my friends, to weep in the remembrance of my beloved Here at her home on the edge of the sands between Dakhool and Howmal.

The traces of her encampment are not wholly obliterated even now; After the South wind blows sand over it, the Boreas sweeps it away.

But the courtyards of the old home have become desolate: The dung of the wild deer lies there thick as the seeds of pepper.

Imru'l-Qays's beloved becomes the long-haired warrior queen al-Zabbā’ bint ‘Amr ibn al-Ẓarib ibn Ḥassān ibn Adhīnat ibn al-Samīda‘...

Heaven opens and a white dove alights in his son's hand...

Nestorius rises in Council and addresses an earthquake...

Sappho weeps and wades into the frisking waves...

He wakes up changed.

Outside the cats are yowling, clawing each other's face over the dew-drenched earth that covered John's remains.

Miriam tenders pistachio twigs to the fire, and the steam from boiling millet billows from the plane of dawn light slicing though the shutters.

“Zeus,” she says. “You had a wrestle overnight, kicking and throwing elbows like an epileptic! I had to flee to keep from getting hit.”

“My dreams were full of storms and charms.”

“Come, eat. We have that bit of salvaged gevrek, simmered millet, olives, linden tea.”

He stood. His form had changed and Miriam stepped back.

He looked down and recoiled, himself. This even linden-flower wasn't going to help.

Aftermath - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 30 – Polimnia:

The trierarch raged at his mistake. The passenger he'd thought the day before too frail for flight had brought the City of Artemis to its knees and made escape.

The rowers quailed, their passage back to Patmos stalled. New orders loomed— for Teos? Chios? Any route but home meant aching arms and thighs, an increased chance of storm delivering them to Poseidonas's lair.

“You don't suppose...?” one of the thranitai proposed.

The Macedonian beside him growled, “The fucking Jews love blasphemy and mayhem; our crazed Hebe was no exception.”

The six marines on board rubbed clove oil on their swords and quietly prayed, their mission changed from ferrymen to counterterrorists.

If they could kill that unhinged Galilean bitch or take him prisoner, they might wind up rich.

Sea Change - Muse's Advisory, Dec. 31 – Thalia:

O, Miriam wept. All nice runs end.

She and Zeus beside her, snoring, both knew better than pretend his metamorphosis meant nothing, was a non-event, matter of course: it isn't every day a man looks down and sees his lower half is now a horse.

Would coat, tail, hoof and the recalibrated penis scare her off?

Could he ignore the fresh thought that his gazing on the bay with her was just a bore?

One answer was yes and one was no.

It was only a matter of time, she guessed, before he'd go.

Elapse - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 1 – Clio:

Grumbling rock and hot wind from the southeast woke her from deep sleep like a call to prayer, but she was too dispirited to rise from bed: he wasn't there. Rock grumbled again; that alarmed her. She jumped up and ran outside where scarlet kizilcik berries lined the foot-trail inland toward Çamlık and Magnesia where Zeus had other shrines and the Meander wended south. She ran a hundred yards but lost track of the path in underbrush and turned around. How could she run down half a god and half a horse? And if she could, to which half might she fruitfully appeal? She lowered her gaze to the city below oddly wreathed in dust and smoke and cried out in surprise to see on Ayasoluk Hill a six-domed temple laid out like a crucifix that hadn't been there when she'd gone to sleep.

Gospel of Pseudo-Miriam - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 2 – Clio/Tom:

Miriam kept her diary in a boot, and when the Roman trierarch tossed her hut, he stuck it as an afterthought into his tunic: somehow it went its way to Busra.

When he was nine, a young Arab man (peace of Allah be ever upon him) snuggled up next to his uncle and begged to be taken up to Syria with the next caravan; an old hermit in his cave, a beard tattooed upon his chin, frog eyes above the upper lip, dimples bored into his cheeks, sextant between his brows, implored the dusty merchants to accept a feast of hospitality; when the camel-drivers left the boy to tend the animals, a small cloud hovered above the stripling's head to shade him where he walked.

“Sheik, keep him safe from Jews and Byzantines alike!” the ancient friar cried. “He fills the prophecy in an untampered gospel in an earthen jar right here in the far alcove of my cave.”

When he grew up, the boy flew north again on a magic stallion and met Adam, Moses, Abraham; twelve months later, fleeing Mecca, he made another beeline toward Busra, but adherents held him at Medina; so he sent an army; by then the hermit and the scrolls had both been borne by muletrain north to who-knew-where, so the cavalry pushed on to every compass point, doomed never to find the thing they sought but sowing Islam on the Earth.

The tale's unfinished. Byron's Bastard, now it's yours.

An unsynoptic gospel in Miriam’s hand? Translate it, publish it, just as it is! It will knock the King James Bible off the top of the bestseller list!

It's far too long; the plotting isn't strong; and all it proves is that an Aramaic lady got knocked up and had a son his friends adored.

Tom, it lacks that literary ring of verisimilitude, that perfect pitch of writer's touches and the je ne sais quoi of Moses floating in the bulrushes. Resize, rebore, recalibrate, resight the tale, blue-pencil it, so capuchins can climb the highermost limb and confidently prehensile it.

What limb? What truth? I wouldn't know where to begin to edit it.

You must. You are the only one on line with both the interest and time; you are the only one who actually sat down, opened the goddam diary, and read it.

De Natura Immortalitati - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 3 – Tom/Clio:

“Muse, this is much too obvious: Miriam kept her diary in a boot, and when the Roman trierarch tossed her hut, he stuck it as an afterthought into his tunic. Why not like this: Miriam hears crude Latin on the road, pulls on her boots, and flees, the diary clutched in her fist, locates the track around the mount to Zeus's cave and runs, exultant she too wasn't broken into, burnt...?”

“See, Tom? I knew you had the guts!”

“One question, though. So many centuries: did Zeus make Miriam immortal like Tithonus, Memnon, Ganymede (and what became of them)? Are Collyridians correct, after all, to bake her tiny loaves of bread?”

“The dead make the ideal immortals. Unlike undying Tithonus—thin, gray and dumb as pencil lead, the ink dried on the last account of him millennia ago— departed Miriam sips fresh blood every day. Look what you wrote just then, above: her cheeks are positively glowing!”

Chewing the Fat - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 4 – Zeus/St. Paul the White Cockatoo/Bahira the Nestorian Monk

“God's not allowed to change!” Zeus bellyaches. “The Hebrew god said all he had to say, in Torah; the Christian god went mum after Apocalypse; the Muslim god 's prohibited to send another prophet! Yet we're omnipotent?”

“Fuck!” Zeus's white bird shrieks.

“Zeus,” says Bahira, “sit down, let me wash the dust and—what's that?—manna?— off your feet. Why get bent out of shape, who cares what people think? You are your own god, no? If you want folks to have a clear idea of who you are you could just tell them face to face. But you don't.”

“Yes, I do. I do tell them just as plainly as I'm telling you. Do you have any of that camel cheese I had here last time, by the way? Oh, excellent! But when I tell them to their face, they say, You can't be god. God doesn't sit and munch on cheese and chew the fat. I'm not allowed to do that, either!”

“Fuck!” Zeus's white bird shrieks.

“Why care then, Zeus? Who works on image harder than the Emperor, and you know what people think of him. Be free, just live your life! It's not like anybody's forcing you to raise the pyramids, or seven whining kids, and a hen-peck for a wife. Have the courage of your own convictions!”

“That all makes sense, my friend, it all makes sense, but you don't understand what courses through a god's veins— claptrap, same as anybody else. If you have any of that date-palm wine, I'll take that too. Oh, who's like you? Listen, Khalid's finished in Iraq and coming this way next. You know the drill: Islam, pay tribute, or the axe. Muhammad's ordered him to spare all monks, and you especially— but stuff happens that's unexpected, and if I were you I'd make some tracks. Jerusalem's holier, but I think it's safer for a Christian up in Anatolia.”

Old Friends - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 5 – Bahira/Zeus:

“And you, old friend?” Bahira says, refilling the quickly emptied flask. “What brings you down this way besides your yen for delicatessen?”

“What else,” moans Zeus, “but love itself gone south? My heart gets broken like cheap clockwork. I know what led you here, and one day I may come hole up inside a bookish cave as well! This time, the woman's son is playing with my head. If I find Hera's orchestrating this, I'll make her wish that she was dead!”

“Try a slice of this new goat salami, Zeus. It's a trifle salty but the muleteers who brought it said it's from the isle of Euripides and Ajax that holds Korinth and Athens at arm's length and is called Peace. It's got more garlic in it ounce for ounce than anything in all of Greece! World-weariness cannot last long when wine and sausage are this strong: that is the secret to we monks' success. Devotion's always on our tongues, mon Zeus: the greatest inspiration is bonnes bouches.”

“Give here,” Zeus says. “Though Ajax and serenity are not a natural pair, still, if Euripides found comfort in salami as he wrote Medea and Electra in his cave, my own devices for revenge may be improved. The problem is, I don't know who to strike. Is it my envious first wife pulling the puppeteer or is Yeshua really overstepping? So many ancient temples rudely sacked, burnt, razed, or recommissioned summon me from my retirement with Miriam, watching gulls wheel on the tide and guessing what they've got inside their beaks.”

“Zeus,” says Bahira. “D or Z before an -eus is cause for greater strife than universal Theos: it's odd that neither man nor god can find anything more interesting to fill their mind. Religion-wise you know I swing both ways or none at all. My faith is sunken deep only in matters where I sink my teeth. I can afford that luxury— but who are you without humanity's belief?”

“Exactly, friend. I tried. I sat day after day up on Koressos and admired the gleaming bay as much as anybody ever could! I tried monogamy. I tried to read True Blood. But when the Shrine of Artemis was sacked right there, right at my feet, the idyll burst. My godly fury all rushed back into my veins and all I want to do is find out who's responsible and barbecue their brains!”

“Zeus, ask which grape is sweet this year, which olive oil has the perfect nuttiness, the Aramaic term for loin of deer; ask how the Essenes process their sage honey or if Dead Sea salt tastes more like mourner's tears each year as shores recede; but which god plots with which, to gain what end? You'll have to ask a wiser man.”

Concept of Zero - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 6 – St. Paul the Cockatoo:

This is the date Mount Gamalama blew with twice the heat its antecessor threw-- and the first face that I saw when I came to was this big bear right here, Pak Zeus.

I squawked; he said, Did you say 'fuck'? in that far-western twang of his: then my colossal crest popped up and I just knew I had found my orang.

Before that I lived in a tree-hole, ate papaya and the odd skink, had no social life, no name and knew no Greek. Then, presto!—

I'm gnawing salami in an atheneum with a magic monk; have a name saint; can proclaim in several tongues and absolute impunity the sex act: Fuck!

It's been a better life than I expected. I was the fifth egg in the nest and had the worst six weeks of fledging in the annals of pubescence— clutch-mates hogged the food and boxed my beak— which our parents encouraged. But The last shall be first and the first shall be last, as Zeus ordained, himself the youngest of his brood.

Guy to Guy - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 7 – Bahira/Zeus

“Some think the fall of Ephesus, its silted port, are go-around-and-come-around for how their Council screwed Nestorius.”

“Whatever it is, I'm striking back. I over-looked that lovely temple every day! How can I sit and watch while provocation grows so bold in my own neighborhood? You met Muhammad; were impressed with him. I'm lending his militia zeal and strength to chasten Christian Byzantines who've all forgotten where they came from! Khalid himself is coming: pack your scrolls, find someplace else to hide and stuff your face.”

“I'll barter a safe passage with the mule-trains northward to Aleppo, and thence east into Armenia. I have brothers on the south shore of Lake Van— the Mother of Heavenly Pearl-mullet Roe! Wherever you wind up, I'll send you some.”

“Umm, and this salami isn't bad! Now, fill me in: your uncorrupted tale of Miriam foretells Muhammad as a back-to-basics messenger who puts Yeshua in a secondary role? I hope it's so! This silly mixing up of man and god has driven half my faithful to apostasy, the other half, half mad. And all the God says this and God says that must stop! Who dares put words into my mouth?”

“There is a lot of libel in the world.”

“I'd give my bottom lip to see what Miriam has written about me. But no, I understand I can't; religious scripture has éclat precisely because no divine is authorized to even read a word of it.”

“You come across as you'd expect.”

“We've had our falling-outs. I know I'm rough around the edges.”

“But if you read between the lines, it's clear she thinks you have a lot of promise— oh, you hooked her! Though she recognizes the propensity you have to try to con us.”

“Once I grind her over-reaching aspirations into dust, I only hope she wants to try and patch things up. Please pass that baydh date wine?”

The Stallion's Mouth - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 8 – Zeus:

Let me speak: if not for me, no muse or bard would ever make a squeak.

I can stomach Hesiod or Homer but not that busybody Moses and Yeshua's twelves Apostles contradicting my philosophy of Laissez faire, if not Laissez les bons temps rouler.

Commandments? I have none. You put a finger in my eye, I put a shaft of lightning where you had a head. And let me set the record straight: I sent no son to you because I loved you so! I loved a woman, the rest was Physiology 101.

Anything else you want to know? You want to hear my cockatoo say Fuck before you go?

BFFs - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 9 – Bahira the Monk:

Poor me, one of seven Keepers of the world's most academic heresy.

Q: Was Yeshua fully God as well as man when still a baby, dribbling?

A: What goddam difference does it make unless somebody also wants to parse the infant's goo-goos, gah-gahs or whatever squirts out of his arse?

Q: Was the little God actually childlike or just playing the part?

A: Hard to imagine the morose bastard ever knew what fun was.

Still, being the senior anchorite with a cave of my own has benefits. I eat well, read well, sleep well, and when Zeus comes, we can talk: there are no prying ears or eaves to drop.

He's sweet. He offered once to take on any shape I thought of carnal interest— To get your rocks off properly just once.

I said, You idiot, what makes you think the shape you've got is not my cup of tea?

He blushed, apologized for his insensitivity.

We could have screwed— he's that omnivorous. Instead, we opened a marvelous-smelling skin of hashish cakelets left as thank-you by a young man from a camel train with whom I shared something as heavenly as sex, my extensive collection of pre-synoptic gospel books.

Who was this baker-scripturist? Zeus asked.

No one you know, I said.

Tell me goddammit! I'll electrify your head!

No need to get excited, It was your Muhammad.

The hashish got us both so buzzed I don't remember what else was discussed, but his interest in the boy kept blossoming— and I congratulate myself. A god like Zeus knows how to pick them; when he warns you to get out of harm's way you can bet your tuchis he's not over-hyping some hum-a-day ruckus.

The Prophet's Tale - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 10 – Muhammad:

Both inspiree and muse, I have a word-hoard too and lips to unlock it.

Whenever I felt a tickle in my ear I used to know somebody spoke of me; then it became a roar; and then a din; so I had to use wax plugs just to keep my own thoughts in.

Prophecy is easy, but organizing followers is hard. No sooner do you get 20 husbands together than they're talking about jihad— and fifteen minutes after you say No, somebody swears he saw you nod.

Nobody's subtle anymore. In Hira Cave the angel Jibrael gave me one good inspiration, Who taught man poetry?— and shazam! I'm proclaimed a top expert on marriage, the veil, and distributing alms!

But If the shoe fits wear it, Zeus said when he met me, and far worse afflictions than celebrity beset me.

To start with, I'm an orphan; when a learned monk said Father Elah chose you, I jumped for joy; when my first son died and Jibrael said, Write what I dictate on date palm fronds, patches of parchment, flat slabs of limestone, clay, wood, hide, bone, whatever you can find, I was happy to do anything to get grief off my mind. then my second son followed him into the ground and I simply surrendered.

Zeus— the Roman church's Deus (rhymes with He commands you obey us)— the Greek church's Theos— in Galilee Elah— in Arabia Allah— swears that everything is going to be okay. Some heads will roll, but don't they anyway? About military matters, ask Khalid. He says my name is known in Baghdad, and Damascus will be next.

When my future wife Khadija hired me to lead her camels north to Wadi al-Qura, Midian, and Diyar Thamud into Syria to trade hides, raisins, musk, dates, silver bars, and herbs for the Byzantines' luxuries— oh, she became my rock indeed, miraculously married me, moved me into her house behind the bazaar of the smiths for a quarter century of bliss!— so if I collect young women now as brides; indulge my own four daughters; and delight as generals stomp in and out and courtiers hiss Muhammad, your successor...?— whose business is that but my own?

It's been a long, strange trip. I've had a lot of luck.

When Allah plucked me from obscurity and trusted me, it meant a lot.

Charge - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 11 – Zeus to Muhammad:

Your job is to undo the damage done by Yeshua's apostles: somehow they made of a dad, bird and son a Trinity without a tit amid the trio— and point fingers at me for misogyny!

One god manifest in three essential ways? Yeshua's and my personalities don't fit. He's my antithesis. I try to frighten you and he moans Stop! I usher in a plague, he cries Begone! How can such different minds be one? It's something of a conundrum that he's even my son.

You brought Nineveh low; now take Petra, Jericho, Jerusalem, Acre, Tyre, Sidon, Cyprus, Damascus, Palmyra, Edessa, Aleppo, Antioch, Tarsus, Miletus, Ephesus, Smyrna, Philadelphia, Chalcedon, Nicomedia, Constantinople, Alexandria, Memphis, Cyrene, Berenice, Tripoli, Carthage, Hippo, Sevilla, Mérida, Toledo, Valencia, Braga, Zaragoza; knock on the gates of Poitiers. Cold dirt's ready to imbibe a lot of Christian whines: how dare they try to jump the line at the club of the divine!

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Muhammad the Reformer, return me a monogamous Mediterranean.

Hinterlands - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 12 – Miriam:

I grab my day-book, pull my boots on, run from the hut, find the overgrown track toward Zeus's cave, and plunge ahead till soldiers' shouts and black smoke boil once pure air below the friendly, circling fishing-hawk— the same one?—who'd warned Yusuf and me in Egypt of a monk in soiled saffron stalking us in a tacit canoe of papyrus.

I collapse on the cave floor and wait. A long time has passed since Zeus left to do what he felt he had to, heartbroken not so much from leaving me as seeing that the Christians weren't what he'd hoped they'd be.

I get up and start to clean, having traded my vista of the sea for a thick, safe ring of cedar-trees.

My heart aches for Yeshua. I watched him die, but still have doubts that something of his old man didn't rub off after all and late one morning he'll come whistling up and ask me as he used to Ma, how's tricks?

And I miss Nazareth: my dad, even my mother yelling Eyes down, Miriam! and the stench of charcoal from the mudbrick kilns up on the hillside.

I think of going home, whatever century it is, whatever anyone recalls of me or not. What brought me here has passed. Who kept me here has gone. The future is no longer a frontier and memory has dulled the urgency of my young girl's plea to escape this backward, sooty Galilee.

Lament, Complaint - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 13 – Tom:

Melpomene, queen of tragedy, where are you when I need your grit? Where's Clio when I wrestle history? 2,000,000 paces from the fountain spout without a muse to hold my hand: I am dancing in quicksand.

Serious? —you'll share the inspiration for Hesiod's unfinished masterpiece, his Legion of Superheroes— the sons of gods and human women?

“Yes, it's our Number 97. An Egyptian also used it very lightly for a paean on a stele, but funding ran out in mid-chisel: His cheeks glistened red as he worried her... Do you think it's ...tit?”

Who cares? I want to hear exactly what you whispered in great Hesiod's ear.

You're shitting me. You made him wait in line for that? No wonder it's half-done! And that poor stele guy probably uncorked an asp on his own wrist! Do you Nine have liability insurance? Its not inspiration if it doesn't inspire: it's a practical joke. I couldn't compose a case of poison oak, or stir a toad to croak, or even move a Pole to dance a polka with an inspiration as ridiculous as that.

“Oh, don't be so dramatic! You do your job, we do ours. Some of our best inspirations are antipodal, homeopathic.”

His cheeks glistened red as he worried her...tit? I'd say that's traumatic! and the fact that you don't see it makes it worse. Have you had any oversight these past three thousand years? You need a Writer's Advocate to warn, This Number 97's less an inspiration than a curse.

“It's what it is. I'm not the frickin' genius here, you are. Nitwit.”

Troth - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 14 - Erato:

The fishhawk oversoars the golden hinterland and Miriam understands intuitively that Zeus has not deserted her.

He hadn't walked out when she gave birth and he slipped off to smoothe Yeshua's way, and hasn't walked out now, but gone to attend some other responsibility.

His beard had tickled, so he shaved; she liked to be licked a little, so he dove; he was a considerate lover; he knew a little omnipotence could go a long way.

He could talk dirty too; he had a lot of dirty notions but kept the worst at bay and only let her hear the sort of thoughts that heated a woman's ear.

She trusted him. He would return when what he'd gone to do was done.

Lalibela, Ethiopia - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 15 – Miriam:

A drought-dead town, a dozen dusty streets on a rugged mountain at nine thousand feet, eleven temple monoliths of cinnamon volcanic tuff all linked by catacombs and torch-lit tunnels, the largest a parthenon with a Star of David engraved on the ceiling in a nod to the sky god:

I watch from the Bet Maryam yard as I've done every year since light-inspired drones began to dig by day, and angel hosts by night, to gouge the temple out of mountain stone, my brick-hued face in low relief on haloed gold, a pretty neck but body swollen to a giant's hulk of rock.

Look at the fresco of my first visit, when Yeshua was an infant.

He clearly has my nose and mouth, and Zeus's eyes.

Entranced in red-edged robes and golden scarves, the priests shake sistrums until dawn, when kettledrums call for the sun to join King David's Dance and summon me,

The Pearl, the wonder-woman born of egg divine, first cached in Adam and passed down his line through Solomon and goat-footed Sheba's son Dawit la-Hakim Menelik, who secreted the Ark of Covenant to Abyssinia ten centuries before I came from Hannah's womb and hid it in the sanctuary they now call Maryam Z'iyon after me.

A virgin censer in an olive gown and yellow cross: the Atang locked in with the Ark until the splendid burden chars away his brain.

We spent ten days here where the Nile is born each day of each millennium to give thanks for Yeshua's thirteenth month during his first four years as an Egyptian boy.

An girl tattooed beside her left eye signs, Come see the grotto where Madonna slept beneath a single slab of syenite ninety feet high, a thousand tons cleft from the mountain by the Ark's bald might; and brown-robed, purple-hatted monks steep sour bread on smoking donkey dung, injera from the ancient flour teff, while the most aromatic drink in Christendom perfumes the wind beside the pilgrims' frankincense and a nun, her soul home to a zār, touches her forehead to an infant wasting from an incurable catarrh.

While Pushing the Vacuum Around - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 16 – Miriam:

1. In the Kitchen

Zeus thinks he's gotten over Kronos who saw kids as rivals—edibility a bonus. The young god battled back and won his siblings' gratitude. Eyes dried; but now he's also weighing filicide.

Why can't the first sons ever thrive?

First Hades draws the low end of the stick; then Cain is spurned for Abel, Isaac trussed for holocaust, the wool thrown over Esau's eyes, Moses cast off in a basket, Jonah bellied by a whale; my own boy hung to die. The first son's lucky to survive.

Not to toot my gender's horn— but is the first fault of the firstborn son the simple fact he's male?

The eldest daughters do alright: Makaria who dips death's sting in honey; Kalmana, earth-mother to so many; Jemima warm and bountiful; the lucky foundling's mother Merris; and all the other unsung daughters whose success was keeping their good names off mythology's police blotters.

We eldest girls owe no one an apology. We aren't ruled by Oedipus. We don't inspire competitiveness. We do what must be done with minimum of fuss, and God help anyone who tries to fuck with us.

2. In the Bedroom

I know where the Amazons hunt; they've been discreet contacting me, and once I sent a small donation. History is young. I'm old enough to know you never throw away an option: one year you're carding wool, the next you're spinning cotton.

I've existed, and waited, since Adam: you never know when gods might need a human mother, lover, wife, or sister. I'm nobody's victim, but a warrior and a warrior's muse. The meek and mild front believers see? A blatant subterfuge.

Zeus preyed on me? Magruder, run the film again. I knew which window he'd pass by. I knew the best hook was to stick my nose into a book and not look up at him.

A virgin? Sure, why not? And sure, that white-rot fungus overgrowing Zeus's chest of drawers is Black Sea sturgeon.

Bitter - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 17 – Zeus to Miriam:

You conned me into sitting back while John and all the Christian maniacs grew strong? You did me with your tongue while your butt-fucking son flipped mighty Rome?

Salute Before War - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 18 – Miriam/Zeus:

“Mâkĕdâ said to Solomon, 'Without wisdom, the foot can't keep the place whereon it sets itself: let me be least of thine handmaidens, to wash thy feet and learn thy understanding. How much thy ready answers please me, fatten my bones and strengthen my gait: wisdom like a pomegranate in the garden, or the light of the moon in a mist.'”

“And, so, the old fool fell.”

“What the heart wants isn't always love. Sometimes it's flattery, a son, an Ark, to match wits with a celebrated prince.”

“A quiver of lightning and a hoseful of piss are scant defense against a woman's wits, though I too have some prowess at deceit. It stood up well in love; now, lovely war. Yeshua's my own blood, but you I'm lief to grind most ardently to gore.”

“You're best at bullying the faint of heart. Ooh! Thunder! Lightning! Wind! When you lock horns with me, you'd better summon more than weather!”

“Brute force is not how I prefer to reign. That's how the pigeon-witted Medes and Saxons rule their roosts. But when the chips are down I've no compunctions about being cruel.”

“Now, would you like to share a final cup of wine before we part? When next we meet but one of us will find this shade of scarlet sweet.”

[Thanks to E.A.W. Budge trans. of the Kebra Nagast]

Feminism v. Post-Feminism - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 19 – Erato:

Wait. I hate to break in like this but what the heck is going on? This isn't supposed to be Lord of the Rings. If you give up on romance everything loses its shape.

“Don't be so formulaic!” squawks Pipe-Dream Byron. “Or is it tribal, your objection to a human as your daddy's rival? Or does the muse's bible— say it!— disapprove of warlike women?”

You're claiming feminists give blow jobs to distract prey from their snow jobs?

“Don't be a prude. No liberated woman calls another woman's dolce vita lewd.”

Drop the Italian. What's sybaritic about servicing a stallion? Plus, you're a man, unfit to rule on what a lady can or cannot do.

“I'm overhearing all of this,” 1,925,011 interrupts. ”You want to see my tits? I've been a woman ever since I can remember, and this guy ahead of me is perfectly correct. If Miriam fornicates or not, if epiglottis or clitoris on the business end, that's her call, no one else's. I had a good friend once whose bliss was pancaking her lover's nose with pubic belches.”

You may have standing, madam, and yet you yourself are craggy and foul-smelling as macadam. If we women want a man's esteem, we have to start at home wielding deodorant and tweezers— then have to learn to balance on the ledge between cock-sucker and cock-teaser.

“I don't define myself by men!” 1,925,011 protests.

So what's the point then? Be a selfbian like poor Terpsichore with Emerita OMG self-lubricating ointment and a Dr. Johnson penis, Satisfaction guaranteed! No smelly mess from men! No messy disappointment!

“How dare you, sister!” shrieks Terpsichore, brandishing her kithara. "The point is: women don't exist to curry any male's approval, and that includes erasure of our scent or any kind of hair removal.”

You be as rank and hairy as you like— amuse the odd Hell's Angel or bull-dyke or Hank Bukowski. I like riding in a limo, loving in the Playboy Mansion, poets as well groomed as their scansion— Mrs. Browning or Mahmoud Darwish of Galilee. This is the Era of Celebrity: dot every i, cross every t, do Oprah with your new line of perfume and shake your junk on MTV.

“Can we get on with it?” 1,925,006, now, complains. “What's done is done. The once-mild Miriam has shown her claws and challenged Zeus to watch Yeshua's sun eclipse his own. Can she back up her threat? Wasn't the last person who pissed him off Prometheus?”

“Forget those jacked-up myths," says Byron's Twin. “The question isn't whether but wherewith Yeshua's mother manages to win.”

Restoration - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 20 – Yusef:

Shlom, Miriam. It's been a long time— you don't even know I'm home— but a terrifying storm blew in tonight off Kinneret and lightning struck and in an instant burned the old house and the woodshop to the ground.

Yeshua's sleeping stall, his cot, the walnut mule— all of it gone, his Parthian button set reduced to little blackened nuggets of gold slag. The one salvageable thing, I didn't even know was there— a beaten plate with Zeus's face on it, engraved Beware.

I confess it all threw something of a scare in me. Sadder still, one of the kilns was struck and blew up too, its owner killed. It was that fancy-bearded man who lived alone at the crest of the hill— you know the one I mean. A couple of us hurried up to see if we could help, but alas. Everybody's murmuring the gods, for reasons best known only to themselves, have got it in for us.

If this piece of kidskin reaches you—if the report I got that you had moved to Ephesus is true— I want to tell you that I rue the day I left and wish that you would come home too.

I didn't have the strength to be Yeshua's father and I always felt as if your loyalty to him exceeded yours to me.

But now I think, So what? So what if Miriam adored her son? So what if he rejected my authority?

I had a wife who read Shir ha-Shirim to me and warmed my bed, who never failed to comb the few hairs on my head so lovingly.

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

“You try to pull that shit again,” vows Miriam, “I'm coming at you with a baseball bat!”

“Lie down, roll over,” Zeus mocks. “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 and then 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 and while the blood congealed into a crust as hard as adamant beneath a poultice of enchanted laurel leaf the Amazons shaped her a bow and took her in; everyone everywhere intuited that the war had begun.

The Bitter Ex - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 23 – Hera Oxeye:

Heaven has rage, Mr. Congreve, 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—

I can't call her my friend, but I can work behind the scenes and make sure she achieves her end.

Realpolitik – Muse's Advisory, Jan. 24 - Hera Oxeye to Miriam:

False Zeus, your extant and my ex, tricks Saracens to war against the Christian faith.

“Although Yeshua is my gutsy stock,” he whispers far and wide, “each time he takes a slap and turns the other cheek, he's making all religion weak. Muhammad knows how bad for discipline it is to mix god's role with man's— the whole idea, antitheistic.”

The spartan Moors know how to fight, while gentled Greco-Romans wet the earth with bloody charity. But in the East the Goths who in 395 A.D. laid waste to Greece— and Franks and Alamanni in the West, although distasteful allies, having chased my extant husband's Gaels to Ireland, Man, the British march— these Germans only live for spilling gore and winning.

You can drape Yeshua's crimson crosses on their breasts with confidence they won't be worn like pinnies.

Cocksure - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 25 - Zeus:

As many women as I've had, I can't complain, you all arrayed against me now.

Complaint is not my style, anyway;

I've stood alone 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.

So go ahead, link dainty hands and prostitute yourselves to Swabians who lend you might;

I'm going to hurl the lot of you to hell: none of Yeshua's Nancy-boys from any of the earth's four corners can survive a real god's fury, brawn and wile.

Call to Arms - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 26 - Khalid:

Arabs! Yesterday the East fled swiftly underneath your horses' hooves! Today jihad turns West!

Muhammad is the prophet of Allah! 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!

Call to Arms II – Muse's Advisory, Jan. 27 - Miriam:

Your ancestor Alaric 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!

At stake are haughty 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!

My name is Holy Miriam! 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 to hunt fiends with übermenschlich Beowulf?

We've both grown rich from provinces we've sacked; 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— now what makes her think all kings are keen to board her bus?

I love Yeshua's mother Miriam, and I will ride for her 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.

In a lover's arms, Clytemnestra planned 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.

Nor have I lover pressing by my side, my love for Zeus unfortunately still alive.

In striking him I strike my own joy down, 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.

And who did he fall for, himself, if not the latent warrior he sensed in me as I sat reading by the window feigning innocence? And so, to not attack betrays his love and yields so little profit in the peace!

Better to let my axe hold sway, and chips fall where they may.

Fighting Words - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 30 – Erato/Tom:

You've gone too far, strain credibility. 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: Real Byron praised her downcast eyes 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, How many fish tales will you gulp? 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.

And what of yours, harsh Muse? 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.

Vision of Roderick/Lady and the Drake - Muse's Advisory, Jan. 31 – Melpomene:

First shrilled an unrepeated female shriek! wrote Scott.

It seemed as if Don Roderick knew the call, For the bold blood was blanching in his cheek. Then answered kettle-drum and attabal, Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear appal, The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie's yell, Ring wildly dissonant along the hall!

And so Zeus Kuknon dabbling the lush fringe of a pond looks up, and Miriam— No seemly veil her modern minion asked, He saw her hideous face, and loved the fiend unmasked.

—her eyes aflame and lips asnarl, 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!”

Which downward on the land his legions press, Before them it was rich with vine and flock, And smiled like Eden in her summer dress; Behind their wasteful march a reeking wilderness!

“Your dress—” he bleeps.

“How dare you woo!”

“You know I can't give in 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?”

By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the Christians yield!

And Zeus, his beady eyes two beams of light, victorious enjoys in love his masterstroke in fight.

Muster - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 1 – Miriam/Charlemagne:

Carl, 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 simmering tureens of sauce moutarde for viandes chevalines.

Sainte Vierge Marie, people who know me know I'm not afraid of any stripe of man— not pagan Alamanni, eerie Saracen, Jute thane nor even Grendel's kin. I'm born again thanks to the blood of Christ and to the womb that bore his Reich to earth. Doubt is a vice. Wherever Muslim horse dare show their snouts whether at Tours or Poitiers, my men will never whine “Je crains!” or “Je suis fatigué!” We neither fight for gold nor fame, our rallying cry: “Nous nous battons pour Notre Dame!”

I appreciate your dedication. 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 muse is what coal once was to a train, 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.

Castaway's Dream - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 3 - Terpsichore:

“How many times can Ephesus 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?”

Amelia watches 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 worse punishment than sit around and keep house like a pastor's wife.”

If she could only coax the cats to life again as warriors... rise up on her wings and dare the sun to lay her low again...

She looks up from her tearful dream. All around her, all around as far as she can scan, is empty sea.

Castaway II - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 4 – Zeus:

I watched that night not masquerading 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) nor did I infiltrate 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 And they shall call his name Immanu-el.”

I watched the birth itself scant feet away contributing 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 had not 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

I would've named him Ena Akomi̱ Mi̱ den— 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.

Witness - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 7 - Lazarus:

30 years I've lived here 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.

When he said Loose him 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.

Martha 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 You're next. We all agree you've seen too much, plus you're our cult's Exhibit A. 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.

She'd knitted me an omophor 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.

What happened there that day?

The more I see the more I see the veil.

How I miss the little town of Bethany with my two older sisters when the biggest mysteries we had to solve revolved around the disappearance of a pear or quince.

He could have come. 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.

Espionage on a Young God - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 8 – Miriam:

That day I raised the storm from Bethlehem which dragged poor John at last to anchor with me under high Mount Athos— yes, I had some surreptitious business there.

Centuries back, while Hēphaistos fitted Mount Olympos with a furnace sulphurous enough to keep the sun inflamed by night and warm the fingers of the gods before and after their unfinishable family fights,

I'd heard they made a temporary home of Athos and that Zeus left odds and ends there he'd outgrown: two dozen wooden blocks carved with the first initials of the great philosophers, then there beneath Chrysippos, Psamtik, Hómēros, three pages of scratched notes, a godling's wishful ode about his father,

At the Elysian retreat of Kronos Where soothing breezes off the bay Are scented by the sighing of a spring

—that sort of thing. Underneath, a note in someone else's hand,

Why are you weeping, Zeus? Why does the gracious one shed tears?; and finally, in Delphic script,

As a dog is removed from your house, a hound from your court, so you too, father, must die like a mortal.

As the sun broke through the gray and I slipped young Zeus's discards underneath the lining of my cloak, a creature left there sentinel accosted me. Panoptes? One of the Titânes? I wasn't up on Greek mythology; it was an ugly multi-headed pup with serpent hair and harpy claws, a chimera of more beasts than I cared to stay and tally up.

I flew; hid my identity, displaying ginger hair, then black; a rounder nose, then aquiline; full lips, then thin; and hightailed back to where John waited praying and the crew, thank God, had some experience with quick escape: as two strong arms with iron hands restored me to the trireme's deck, the bow already nuzzled at the waves, and my pursuer drew up short, unwilling to risk getting wet, or else forbidden to desert those sands; and afterward, whomever the chimera gave report to thought:

Let's play it safe from here on in and place a ban on every female human, monstrous, even avian.

Taking avgolemono off the menu was small price to pay to guard against the Thief-Witch slithering ashore again.

What She Already Knew - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 9 – Miriam/Zeus:

“Why did no one suspect you, Zeus? You were the chief god in the neighborhood, renowned for your seductions. Not the Jewish girls, but still...”

“You thought your Yahweh, Miriam— aka your Aramaic Alaahaa— would protect you? Was He such a bargain? And the Lord said to Moses, Kill all the male children, and every female who has known man by lying with him; and divide the 32,000 women who have not lain with a man between the soldiers and the congregation.' Now, that's real Numbers! Is the panderer and voyeur somehow purer than the lover?

“I ask you, Zeus. Were there others?”

“Have I had other Jews? Why dig into that wound so deep? Jew, Persian, Greek, what difference does it make? The only intercourse concerns a pussy and a dick.

“Answer.”

“Of course! I've been a full-grown man for three millennia! The only thing I've scorned to cast a lustful eye on all my years, as I told Job once, is the battle-horse. 'Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper? The glory of his nostrils is terrible. He paweth the valley, and rejoiceth in strength. He goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword. The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield. He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage: neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet. He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.' Imagine trying to poke that in the keister? You Jewish girls are fierce, agreed— but take my word for it, you're nothing next to an infuriated steed!”

“Don't bother being crass. It doesn't put me off. I asked a question. Answer it.”

“There were a couple, yes.”

“I want their names.”

“You don't need the list. When I first saw you in the window reading Tanakh I was struck by how your brow creased just so. You know how to read between the lines, I know.”

“Their names. I want to hear it from your mouth, no double-speak.”

“Abram's Sarai. He knew too, of course; that's why he loaded up that pack horse with split wood and went to give the boy back to his maker. Michal, King David's first— she found him crass and hid the teraphim, his household gods, in bed. And then of course your aunt Elizabeth. You and the Baptist knew you're more than cousins— why I was so pleased with him when he embraced Yeshua that day by the Jordan. No—not mercy fucks, if that's what you're imagining, though childless woman do have a particular get-up-and-go.”

“Oh, you're a snake! At this point, you'll do anything to take away the luster from Yeshua. 'All glory to my other son, the one without his head!'”

“May I remind you, Miriam, they both are dead?”

“Dead? Live? As Lazarus explained, there's not much difference.”

“Your son had pretty much the same idea.”

“Our son.”

“Our son, if you insist. Just don't suggest those limp wrists come from me!”

“Better a limp wrist than the limp dick I remember. What an introduction that was to the pleasures of the opposite gender!”

“You got pregnant! So your womb made no complaint about the sex!”

“Go back, Zeus— back into the inner sanctum of my mind, to where you hide. I've bloody matters to attend to that I can't accomplish with you smirking by my side. Go back, and don't return. It's time for Arab ships to sink and minarets to burn.

Reverie - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 10 – Zeus/Miriam:

“Which passage was it you were reading when we met?”

“I have it here, inside the book you Greeks call Exodos.

'the thunderings and the lightnings and the noise of the trumpet sounded long and the darkness wherein God's thick cloud covered the mount six days the smoke of Him descending fiery smoke rising as the smoking of a furnace the whole mount quaked underneath his feet paved sapphire stone and Moses gat on the steps of the altar and went into the cloud and was inside it forty days and forty nights and after he climbed down builded an altar with twelve pillars at its foot.'”

“Ah yes, Al Khazneh. In the Wadi Musa. I remember Moses fondly. That sweet spring he summoned waters Petra to this day. His brother Aaron's tomb there is a favorite haunt. Don't you just love that scene in Egypt where they all throw staves down, which turn into snakes, and Aaron's eats the vipers from the Pharaoh's priests'? Combining war and sorcery does get me off!”

“Then you will love what's coming next: a Middle Age where Germans' galdralag confounds your straight-laced warriors at Tours and for the following eight centuries till Cristovão da Gama's pure crusaders march ashore ex machina to liberate the Christian Solomonic Dynasty of Ethiopia, and blunderbuss jihadis' heads at Massawa.”

“You call those butchers saints?”

“Annihilating infidels, by any name would smell as sweet.”

“Sweet? smell? dear Miriam, dear Miriam...”

Relic Hunter, Mount Koressos - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 11- Urania:

A strange blizzard raged; when the cutthroat centurion reached the crest of the mountain he looked more like a friendly snowman than abominable Roman.

But if he found one of the artifacts Augusta Helena searched for, she would present him to her son, and Constantinus Imperator would reward him with a primus-pilus, if not more.

Unfortunately, nothing was there: a ruined hut of no distinction, a thinly ice-skinned spring, some savage-tended olive trees that all had seen much better days.

Then he thought he saw a pathway through the underbrush, and ambition warred with cold as half his mind said Go! and half said No!

Two hours later looking like a bush on which a drift had fallen he came upon three cave mouths on a limestone face, thrice-lifesized statuary flanked by colonnades from which wept melting ice; within was something warm. He had struck gold.

Triumph - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 12 - Polimnia:

Every last citizen of Byzantium rebuilt, renamed Konstantinoupolis and hallowed by the Rod of Moses and the One True Cross, the Church of the Apostles raised up on the rubble of forsaken Aphrodite's temple, crowded out of doors to watch the triumph of the lord both of the heavens and the earth, hoi polloi accustomed to parades of thousands of Sarmatians bound in chains, hundreds of elephants queued tail-in-trunk and ridden by brown ostrich-plumed mahouts, and Vandal girls without a stitch of clothes bound for the auction block could not contain their wonder at the sight of the gargantuan bed that undergirt the passions of Zeus Thunderer and Earth-Shaker paraded as imperial plunder through the Gate of Myriandrion and down the regal Mese past Theotokos-in-Petra and Christ Panepoptes, past the Forum of the Bulls to splendid Hagia Sophia trailed by seven sarkophágoi in which, the heralds cried, lay seven pagan gods so old they had no names and then a solitary Arab man enmeshed in spiders' silk who seemed to dream, his eyeballs sliding back and forth beneath his lids, but whom no one could wake neither with cymbals nor with shouts:

O Mégas Konstantínos and his mother smiled and waved down from their perch above the palace crowd, the Empire theirs and Christ’s now perfectly impregnable.

Cogito Ergot Sum (Lourdes, A.D. 778) - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 13 – Clio:

The Moor Marat's fortress at Lourdes besieged by Franks, his fishhawk sweeps and drops a huge trout at his feet.

He'll use the fish to hoodwink Charlemagne into believing they have more than moldy grain to eat, when there appears before him the Black Virgin of Puy—

a versatile, recently Christianized figure of Dana, Celtic queen of the sky etched onto Roman pottery alongside Zeus and Antiope—

who commands him to yield and be baptized.

Cogito Ergot Sum (Wisconsin, A.D. 1859) - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 14 – Clio:

Four miles from Robinsonville (today one mile east of Champion in Kewaunee County off Highway K eighteen miles from Green Bay) a year after a miller's daughter made Lourdes a Marian sensation, Mary dropped in on the United States via the mind of a Belgian immigrant of 28, while she too carried sacks of moldy grain to and from a gristmill in the altered state of ignus sacer, sacred fire—ergot in the brain.

Adele Brise asked the apparition in the trees in a white dress with yellow sash around its waist, stars on her ravishing blonde tresses, who she was.

“Ik ben de koningin van de hemel— Je suis la reine du ciel— do you speak Flemish, English, or Walloon? I'm queen of the sky. Call the children in this wild country of America! Teach them about religion.”

Cogito Argot Sum (2010) - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 15 – Melpomene:

Three modern apparition-scene investigators find no evidence of heresy or fraud and a long history of cures, conversions and signs— the site within the twenty mile swathe around Green Bay untouched by the Peshtigo fire ruled a miracle. Bishop David Ricken says with moral certainty in an office littered with cast-off crutches, that Ms. Brise had encounters worthy of faith; builds a 70-car parking lot and gives the green light to a Good Helpers Association, the Sister Adele level giving $10 and the Our Lady level $20 per month. It's a gift to believers, says Mariologist Johann Roten. It's devious to think it's pulled from the attic to distract from sex abuse in the diocese. I hope it'll be perceived as evidence there are ways of living that are still pure. Bishop Ricken agrees. The people have a need for the spiritual and right here in our backyard is an opportunity to feed their souls. If Mary's words bring hope and healing for victims of our errant priests then that would be good, sure. For eighteen years Karen Tipps was a volunteer who took care of the premises with her husband Steve. Look at our children. There's no hope. No faith. Nothing to live for. There’s power here, says Theresa Vandermause as she arrives for her weekly visit with her friend Judy. I feel her presence, as if she's really and truly listening to me.

Katastrophē in Kōnstantinoúpolis – Muse's Advisory, Feb. 16 - Polimnia

All seven boys together rolled onto their left sides and the populace screamed as one and ran behind doors as paynim horsemen streamed through the gate.

A jinn seized the flag of Artemis's crescent and Miriam's star from the long-dried fingerbones of Constantine the Great and the newly-bloodied wrists of the Marble Emperor, his crooked teeth packed tightly, always, with vervain: the Ottomans renamed it Ay Yıldız and took it for their own.

The man in the spider-silk robe who seemed to dream, awoke; the skin of his face shone in splendor; he cried: Return to Allah's fold or die! Islam demands surrender! Replied the Marble Emperor: We have lived in the greatest of cities and are now entirely prepared to die defending it.

Janissaries stormed the bronze gates of Hagia Sophia crammed with Byzantines praying for protection: Turks graded them according to the price they'd fetch, and the great city's patroness shivered with regret.

semaphore with flute – muse's advisory, feb. 17 – euterpe:

this violence empty

flick mud at the palace sink

slowly

in the moat or do something about it

an idiotic race is no excuse to ape cain

spit

attack your

brother old caves portals to fresh birth places

design new thoughts

In Her Place - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 18 - Hera to Miriam:

I don' know where your son is. Demi-gods always bore me.

I'm no prude or racial purist but I do hate it when Zeus visits Earth as a cunt-tourist. It embarrasses both of us.

We can't blame half-breeds themselves, but why daydream about their mighty deeds?

Yeshua's likely dead, same as the rest; when did anyone last hear from Theseus?

Miss, no offense but you're no more than mortal too:

Zeus pays off Atropos, but when the baksheesh stops...

Or has your head been turned by all those former Jews beseeching you?—

Star of the Sea! Destroyer of Heresy! Ever-Virgin! Co-Redemptrix! Most Holy Teacher! Queen of Heaven!

Eternity isn't past plus future: it's an indifferent state of mind.

After Meeting With Hera - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 19 – Miriam to Zeus:

I spoke with her: it went about as well as I expected. I'd thought just maybe she might side with me, but no: to her, Yeshua was an ordinary man, I should accept his death, go back to Nazareth and mourn, and you should go on doing as you've always done.

She really is your sister, if only distantly a wife: she thinks mankind should give the gods their hearts, but not the other way around.

I see what's wrong— your upbringing or lack thereof. It's dog eat dog where you came from, not one scrap shared.

Yeshua had a vision people counted on when times got tough; he wasn't simply in it for the fat, smoke, blood.

He exposed you Twelve as omni-gluttons with stomachs unbuttoned and egos never sated: the mammoth and tapeworm

Hubris. That's why you all must be eliminated.

Memory - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 20 - Zeus to Miriam:

You want to hear about my girls? Don't look at me like that. It's true, their mom is Memory my aunt, but no one gives a shit if they're a tiny bit inbred. They'll deal with it. Nobody's paying them to not have tails or Habsburg lips.

My own memory of her is faint. It was a long way back and she habitually burgled all my reminiscence of our sex to relish it twofold herself.

What a lover that made her!

Each of our nine nights more rousing than the last!

But her taste for double-glazing backfired when I reached the point where— lacking recollection of the highlights— I just wandered off. Lovemaking's really not enough without some context, backdrop.

The girls don't interest me. What have they really done? They're dainty lady-fingers with no knuckles and no fists. What's beauty truly but the tan on pestilence's face? Without the knockwurst, just a lightly toasted bun?

Memory shelters them so much, grace passes through them as effectlessly as breaths tiptoeing through a flute. She hasn't so much gone away as hovers in the background.

No, I don't miss her, but she did have the most beautiful hair.

Gauntlet - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 21 – Miriam to Zeus:

Why kindle proxy wars at Tours, Byzantium? Do you lack moxie to bear arms yourself?

You bristle with your macho thunderbolts but did you ever once stay Artemis's breast-shaped bow?

You're not the only one who has one gentle side, one cruel. Come test your theory of superiority.

Unfurl your shaft, unleash your roar. You'll find the depth of my resistance eerie.

Nature - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 22 – Zeus to Miriam:

Pummel with a purse? Rain words melodious as Mary Oliver's verse?

Big-time testosterone's what makes a battle bloody.

Don't you think I have your measure?

My nature's deep and muddy as the Nile.

Murdering my son and lover each will be a special pain and special pleasure.

No Rest/Springs Eternal - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 23 – Thalia:

Zeus knows exactly where Yeshua is because he put him there himself.

Not Milton's epic, Dante's cantos nor Herodotus's Histories detail this aged grotto where new heroes go to mull a run from great to grandiose— sulfur-glowing, hung with bats, built by Hephaistos just below the cave from which his infant father, Zeus, arose— where every idol— pedestal, marquee and pantheon— sat chanting Om and studying their bellybutton for so long it turned the Buddha against sex, Louis Capet into Christianissimus Rex and Malcolm Little into Malcolm X.

Zeus says, “Yeshua, though you're dead I can restore you if you want the future generations to adore you.”

The fresh corpse stirs his blood-drained lips and whispers, “Why?”

Hephaistos says, “Of course you haven't made your mind up yet— you're not dead long enough to lose your nose. But take my word for it as a mortician, you don't want to look like this on apparitions! Let me start. If you decide against, no harm— you're just a better-looking stiff than most. But if you do say yes and head back up to wow your friends, you wouldn't want to scare the Christmas out of them, capeesh? So sit down in my styling chair. I'll start by doing something with that hair.”

“Yeshua, son,” Zeus says, “at this late date, I don't presume to step into the role of dad. You said yourself a man must leave his family if he wants to travel the celestial road. It's true: a god can't have allegiances. You have to purge the murmur of your mother from your blood: she thinks herself a god and flies around the earth as if a broom-sticked witch pronouncing her own edicts. Stop her. If you can't, I understand. I love her too. But if you want to be a bona fide deity, you have to make sure nothing throws a monkey-wrench into your spontaneity.”

“These fingernails are going fu-manchu,” Hephaistos says. “The yellowing is gross. I recommend une manucure française.”

“You can't just play things all by ear,” says Zeus. “It's not enough to Love thy neighbor as thyself. Adherents will need tenets, rules. The only way to minimize offenses is to maximize the consequences.”

“Whatever,” rasped the lukewarm corpse. “What could be worse— be more lamentable than this?— too flat for Dax or Silver Ghost, too effervescent for a hearse. So yes, do clean me up. Make me presentable and book me into some saint's mind. Maybe a bit of posturing's redeemable if it's what makes redemption possible."

Makeover - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 24 – Thalia:

Hephaistos takes his brush; he takes his comb; he takes soap and conditioner and sets upon Yeshua's mop of blood-encrusted hair with that degree of courage and élan which marks a god, and in an hour the tresses of the poor dead soul are glossier than Nat King Cole's, his cheeks are rouged, his empty arteries and veins transfused with firmer blood than mortals lose, an analgesic tincture dabbed on all the open wounds— et voilà!—he's as good as new.

The mortuary god slips one hand underneath his barber's smock and with a Gallic flourish lifts Walt Whitman's looking glass— fair costume, not lungs rotting, stomach sour, cankerous, joints rheumy, bowels clogged, blood dark and poisonous, words babbling, no brain, no heart.

Such was the Lemnos undertaker's art, Yeshua took one gaze and knew he now had less in common with un homme than with un dieu.

mail order king - muse's advisory, feb. 25 – clio: the british captain edmund lyons, knight of the order of st. louis and grand cross of the order of the redeemer and grand cross of the order of the mejidie and grand cross of the legion of honor and grand cross of the military order sailed the 46-gun 5th-rate bombay-built seringapatam-class druid-subclass frigate hms madagascar into breezy nafplion and delivered the young otto friedrich ludwig of bavaria whom the european powers had named king of greece by divine right via byzantine emperor alexios I komnenos & irene doukaina's daughter theodora komnene angelina & konstantinos angelos's son andronikos dukas angelos & euphrosyne kastamonitissa's son emperor alexios III angelos & euphrosyne doukaina kamaterina's daughter anna angelina & emperor theodore I lascaris of nicaea's daughter maria lascarina & king béla IV of hungary son stephen V of hungary & elisabeth of cumania's daughter maria arpad of hungary & king charles the lame of naples's daughter eleanor of anjou & frederick III of sicily's daughter elizabetta of sicily & duke stephen II of bavaria-munich's son duke john II of bavaria & katharina of görz (...a few lost centuries during the tourkokratia...) and now the german princeling queerly hellenized his name, raised up the cross of christ and told the greeks, in what was greek to them, that everything henceforth würde in Ordnung sein.

Barbarian - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 26 – Miriam:

Diyha the Berber who drove Hasan from Ifriqiya was a mother. Mixcoatl's mother fed Xiuhnel her menstrual blood, then slit his chest. Giving birth in battle, Phùng Thị Chính bore both her newborn and sword as she slaughtered the Han.

Who says I can't win? Wasn't Zeus only saved from his father by Rhea? From Typhon, by sinew-thieving Hermes?

I didn't get this far giving sacred cows belief. If I fail, I fail, but I will try: a thin stiletto down the lip of either boot, a cone-snail stinger, a vial of botulism milked from beached whales underneath the piping of my veil, a sliver of shinbone up my sleeve. Grin into the mirror: I look good!

I am renowned for sorrowing but know something about dispensing sorrows too.

Yeshua preaches turn the other cheek. Zeus is about to learn the nether side of meek.

That Launched 1000 Ships - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 27 – Thalia:

Who does Miriam meet as she glides, armed to the teeth, along the infamous beach where Zeus once swam ashore from Tyre, Europa in his grasp, to show his human face and most animalistic behavior?— Yeshua, fresh from Hephaistos's salon and attempting to get a little color before his Syrian debut as Christ the Savior.

“Where do you think you're going looking like that?” she demands.

“I have two calls to make, both serious. My first, a man they call Jerome. A doctor— full name is Sophronius Eusebius Hieronymus.”

“You got so dolled up for the doctor?”

“I'm actually going to give him a whipping, his punishment for being over-fond of Cicero— to make him an example. He'll tell everyone. The glamor, actually, is for my second stop, but you can't carry luggage on an apparition."

“A girl?”

“A nun, Ma. I'll be sitting for a portrait in a little town called Plock, in central Poland.”

“You're going to Poland in that fru-fri robe? Some nun is going to paint your portrait?”

“No, I appear to her and then she tells an artist what to paint. It's called 'Mercy Divine.' Check it out.”

“Those two rays shining from your breast look like chiffon. Is that your heart? Who did that?

“Promise me you won't get mad?”

“You broke my heart a dozen ways from Sunday from the first day you arrived, right to the day you died. Now here you're sunning on a Cretan beach, all gussied like an Aztec prince; what could you say to make me mad?”

“I saw my dad.”

“No way he'd ever let you out like this!”

“My real dad, Ma. Cousin Hephaistos did my makeup, hair and taxidermy. Ma, you can't imagine what a wreck you look like after you've been dead a while! Phaistos fixed all that, and Dad booked the appearances. Thanks to the two of them, it's like I'm born again.”

Appearing Soon II - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 28 – Melpomene:

“Dad's got it all worked out,” Yeshua says. “He's backing me the whole nine yards. He has no interest in Olympos anymore. If I just play my cards right, Greek gods will be artifacts and all of Europe Christian soon. He says the Turn-the-other-cheek and Love-thy-neighbor have their merits but to also keep the old stuff— brimstone, you know. Pragmatism wins out in the end. If not, you're just another shrill sound in a noisy desert.”

“Yeshua, he's co-opting you!” cries Miriam.

'”Ma! Let it go! I know he hurt you pretty bad. I understand. But he can be a cool guy, too. He put the sunshine back into my eyes.”

“Yeshua. Son—”

“It's Jesus, Ma. Play down the Jewish bit. Society is global now, Zeus says—”

One of the locals staggers up under a block of ice, a water jug and syrup jar and mixes two sódes kanéla. Yeshua says thank you in Kritik God's ambassador and the boy grins appreciatively.

“You see how popular I am? Zeus says I have the human touch.”

“Oh, Zeus says this! Oh, Zeus says that! Now he knows everything, is that it?”

“I do understand, Ma. I forgive you. That's me, you know: Mr. Forgiveness.”

Appearing Soon III - Muse's Advisory, March 1 – Miriam/Yeshua:

“I don't know if I agree with all you've said. You know I don't see eye to eye with Zeus. But it's your second life, not mine—so good success when you appear in Syria.”

“Thanks, Ma. My chance to reach the world.”

“I hope you understand I too have things to do. I'm here to murder Zeus.”

“Don't expect a sitting duck. He knows what you've been thinking and he's armed to the teeth— Hephaistos an amazing smith.”

“You're not upset?”

“I have to elevate my mind. If I'm committed to redeem mankind, I can't get hung up on the squabbles of the family I left behind.”

Fatherly - Muse's Advisory, March 2 – Melpomene:

“Fuck!” squawks Saint Paul.

“I know,” Zeus says. “I smell her coming too. You'd better get below, Hephaistos. I'm about to have my hands full— can't be worried about you and little Tarsus here. Keep him downstairs until the smoke clears.”

“Fuck!” Saint Paul squawks again.

“He's got no mother, father,” Zeus continues, “only me. You and I are not too chummy but at least we look each other in the eye before we spit in it. We know the beast.”

“Pa, don't take this personal and blow your top. I'm happy to have helped you prep Yeshua for appearances in Syria and Poland. If you wanted to retire, though, why didn't you ask me?”

“Be careful who you're jealous of and never think to know the mind of kings, Hephaestos. Your half-brother's just a pawn dressed up in bishop's robes. It's you I love. It's you whom I keep close to me.”

“Fuck!” squawks Saint Paul.

“He's warning you!” laughs Zeus. “Don't trust the wily psychopath— the only thing he really loves: himself. The bird has got a point. It's not that I'm not fond of Miriam and Hera, you, Yeshua, my nine Muses, and the rest. In my own way, I am. It's just that every flock can only have one ram and if I want it to be me I have to make sure no one else starts strutting like the new cock-o'-the-roost. Yeshua thinks that love is free. That only makes it cheap. The thing that hooks them all is being hard to read and playing hard to get.”

“Come, Paul,” Hephaistos says.

“You have to look within, son, if you want to understand what fouls your pants: your own lust for the upper hand.”

“Fuck you!” Hephaistos shouts. His eyes sprout tears and off he runs without the bird.

Bitter Ends - Muse's Advisory, March 3 – Calliope:

Birth's soilure scoured from his scalp, Zeus borne by nymphs toward Knossos On the hot plain of Kydonia; his umbilicus Dropped off and there arose out of his navel The first blade he'd learn to battle with: Keen, double-edged, a labrys floated up.

“Miriam,” Zeus said, “the Fates have cut short our relationship. One of us dies today, and at the other's hand. There is no better way to go than to be slain by somebody else at the top of their game.”

“Intending to kill you I came, Zeus, to prevent your war on nascent Christianity. But on my way, I came across Yeshua on the beach and find you've done more damage than I knew. Pick up your twin-axe and your thunderbolt, whatever else lurks in your arsenal. Part of our fight was philosophical: now all of it is personal.”

Without awaiting his reply she quickly bent, then rushed at him and drove one of her daggers into each of Zeus's eyes.

His howls reverberated through the cave. Hephaistos downstairs clapped his hands over his ears and prayed for his own mother Hera to appear and intervene. He didn't want Zeus dead: he'd only wanted somebody to pound some sense into the old shit's head.

“How does it feel?” shrieked Miriam. “How many others have you blinded with a lightning flash or with dishonest words? Now feel about your feet and try to find something to wield before you're killed!”

Zeus, quickly grappling, closed two hands on the handle of his axe and flicked it powerfully in the direction of his adversary's voice. She nimbly stepped aside: the labrys flew and clove the crested cockatoo Zeus cherished so. And then she slipped the cone-snail prick from underneath her head-kerchief and fixed it in the bloody bully's thigh.

His nociceptive cry was strangled in his throat as alpha, delta, kappa, mu, omega conotoxins quickly shut his cricoid muscle down. She shrieked again, “How does it feel! How many others have you throttled in your arrogant insistence that you always have the final word?”

Zeus tried to raise his spurting eyes; he tried to lift his arm; he tried to force an oath up from his heart; in vain. All he could manage without sight or the cooperation of his brawn was one emission from his hair: a snaking thread of bald electric light that sniffed the air for Miriam's exultant radiation and then zeroed straight in on the tiny botulism vial still secreted underneath her veil.

Her face froze; right hand dove into the reliquary of her left sleeve for the shinbone sliver from the potent anti-pagan John; and as she struck it into Zeus's chest, the botulism paralyzed the rest of her; the cave fell silent.

Taste of Honey - Muse's Advisory, March 4 – Melpomene:

Hephaistos peeked out of the narrow shaft that led between the mountain underworld and where new gods were born and strangely what upset him most were not his father's blood-encrusted eyes or muscles petrified to polished stone nor woman frozen in a glare so venomous it made the cave seem twice as tenebrous but the unlucky bird half crumpled gory on the cave's cold floor half pinned against the riven wall by one of the mighty labrys's twin blades.

The taxidermist, god and engineer in him immediately wondered what could possibly be done to bring a creature freshly sundered back to life and only then he turned attention to his father and his father's late and latest wife.

He smiled, grim. He was so glad his mother Hera hadn't come. He was the man in charge now and if anyone was going to save the day it would be him.

Bonding - Muse's Advisory, March 5 – Miriam:

"Mary can be called God's Second-born, owing to Her dignity as Spouse and Mother of God." - Valtorta, Poem of the Man-God: The Hidden Life

Much has been made of me, Hephaistos. But the truth? You want the truth?

I simply thought I was too good for Nazareth.

I saw your father as my ticket out and broke my parents' hearts to serve my own swelled head.

Whatever's special in Yeshua comes from Zeus, not me.

I also see a lot of him in you. Who else would even try to do what you did with that cockatoo?

Don't lose your confidence.

You got the bird to perch and squawk as good as new, you got me sitting up and babbling like I used to do when I was just a girl and I just know you'll also figure something out for Zeus.

I came to kill him, true; but thanks to you, I'm praying now for his re-animation.

Shut up yourself, white bird!

I never cared much for St. Paul— I didn't think Zeus ever needed props— but since his restoration he has changed his tune and doubled his vocabulary.

I think I feel a bit of what your father must have felt for him.

As soon as I can lift my arm, I'm going to try and coax him onto it, give him a smooch and teach him to say Mom.

Your father's eyes? You may be right. That may be too much of a stretch, even for you. Those two white marble balls might have to do. But honestly, he didn't use them much: he lived by oratory. Concentrate your efforts on the mouth. His eyes would always get him into trouble and his tongue would always get him out.

Shut up, I said!

Hephaistos—what you did with my Yeshua was extraordinary. I just love the way you kept the wounds, accentuated them; adore the way you got those rays of light to pour forth like his breast was heaven!

I don't suppose you could accomplish something similar with me?

No, no, keep working on your father, by all means! I'm just saying.

I always shunned conditioners, cosmetics. It seemed obsessional to spend more than a minute at the mirror. I always thought the natural look was best. I didn't know what a professional could do!

His skin? It has a lifelike shine. Looks like that lovely pinkish-olive marble they'll be quarrying in Tennessee before too long. You've seen those pompous ads in Future Sculptor magazine.

It could be that he doesn't really have to move. That thing he did— the lightning from the hair—with me? He did that from an attitude of total immobility.

Are those tears in your eyes? Hephaistos, heaven knows you've tried! He wasn't anybody's puppet while alive. We can't expect him to be any more responsive now he's died.

Why don't you give your efforts time? The botulism and the conotoxins maybe haven't finished wearing off. Who knows, with his metabolism? Take a break. He was the kind of man nobody pressured into anything regardless of how much he may have wanted it himself— was always too damn proud.

You made him look as good or better than he ever has. He still has mystery, pizzaz, that great Zeus magnetism. Now the final step is up to him. The id provides the jism, no?

Goddammit bird, shut up!

Okay, it's getting on my nerves again. Could you make one more small adjustment to its brain? I know it's from Sumatra but just maybe could you program it to do some Streisand or Sinatra?

St. Paul's Sorrow - Muse's Advisory, March 6 – White Cockatoo to Zeus:

How many times I've heard you croon, You always hurt the one you love, but when that axe came hurtling toward me, I couldn't have been any more off-guard: it split me neck to butt.

The necromancer Miriam says thank my lucky stars my head stayed whole, but that's a fucked up way of thinking, isn't it? Such 'luck' first blessed me on the day Mount Gamalama blew my world to hell, for you to pick me out of the debris, a beak, two feet, a crumpled origami of ash-dusted plumes; now, this.

Let's cut the 'lucky star' shit— call me a survivor. Phaistos says I lost a lot of blood—well, all of it— and I won't ever be the same. The stuff he filled me back up with he drained from twenty fellow troglodytes he guessed were more or less compatible: gray wrens.

“Even when the wounds knit, don't expect to fly,” he says. “Expect some nightmares, flashbacks, PTS, and sexual dysfunction, your crest chronically deflated. But the good news is—” oh, how he cracks his own ass up!— “who'll ever want to fuck you?”

But all I care about is you, your empty eyes and waxen, frigid skin—this silence. The blue-robed witch is right: the boy can only do so much. It my turn now to figure out a way to pick you up.

Panorama - Muse's Advisory, March 7 – Hephaistos:

Oh god, so this is family? This is what it boils down to: an embittered bird, a flinty, dead-faced witch, a father who can't do a thing beyond an occasional twitch, a gay half-brother somewhere up in the Carpathians, a mother totally obsessed with spite over her brother-husband's yen for Homo sapiens.

Yeshua has a point: “Leave them behind, they'll drag you down.” I imagine that's what Zeus thought when he saw my tiny, deformed foot— “Get rid of him before emotion roots.”

The mortals go to war, lose, win, then rush to war again. And I don't blame them.

The Jilted's Jeer - Muse's Advisory, March 8 – Hera:

Phaistos, I'm not a fan nor knowing about birds but that dilapidated bag of feathers over there looks like he needs some air or desperately to drop a poop.

And Miriam, you cunt, I'm going to turn your hard tits to the wall. I'd like a couple minutes with the Marble Man alone. I made the chicken stew; let me clean up the coop.

Great Zeus, whuh happened? did some widdle Jewiss wady wipe the cave floor wif your ass? Cat got your tongue? You don't think give-and-take is quite as much fun as you used to, hon?

Oh, look. You're mustering some feeble little shock to shoot at me? How utterly pathetic. I'll tell our boy on my way out that you might afterall be of some use in case the widdle birdie needs a diuretic.

I must be gone. My new man's young, hotheaded, strong as you once were— but has a bit more sense. He understands my vengeance is lifelong and retribution immense.

At least the bitch preserved you in a semi-regal stance. Schoolkids will think you wild and fierce, someone who'd never wear a suit— a child at heart. Without you waving them about as if the sky was going to fall, your dick and balls look cute, a little blue, and very small.

Penis Size - Muse's Advisory, March 9 – Hephaistos to Priapos:

You're too infatuated with your clownishly inflated donkey-dick to notice all the noble Greeks and Romans are enstatuated with much smaller pricks? All those sculptors didn't just run short of stone. They thumbed their noses at you so-called studs with penises too thick to properly get pussy-sucked or blown.

Those aren't boys— their pubic hair and muscles thick. Nor are they pantywaists too shy to show the world their prick. Stop to think about it, only one real explanation sticks: celebration of the well-hung guy is just attempted compensation by you brainless hicks.

Go root for nuts beneath red oaks, go ooh and aah at other oafs with dicks as generous as their minds are small: there's nothing for you here. The Minister of Classical Antiquities arrives tomorrow with her cart— and always brings her ruler. Don't try to fool her into thinking it's a baseball bat. She fell for that old trick when she was blooming and naïve one ice-pack and The Skillful Rabbit's School of Climaxes ago.

About Your Father - Muse's Advisory, March 10 – Hera to Hephaistos:

My current man, the one you're dissing? His sugar found its mark when your father's was missing.

Read Homer and Hesiod: Zeus wasn't man enough to stay with me, his puerility not anatomical but mental. He courted oohs and aahs from girls who misread wit as depth and flattery for gifts he actually bestowed.

Psychological manipulation was his favorite tool of masturbation. No woman with an ego of her own is going to be happy as the dildo of a fool.

Contrite - Muse's Advisory, March 11 – Zeus's Brain to Hera:

I no longer have a right to call out Sister! Wife's not mine to say. I could've been a better brother; failing that, a better lover; failing that, a better god to those whose faith gave me another chance to till success. No opportunity remains to statuary capable of whispering complaints to other people's brains, no more than that.

We gather what we sow. No god is strong enough to overthrow the air— for what we don't deserve is goatsbeard fluff, and every ill we plant will wind up in our pot.

Too late for me to grin, but I will bear my fate as stoically as anybody can who brings disaster on himself. A bear's assault?— I never flinch. A storm at sea?— don't give an inch. A stronger warrior's blade?— the very reason fortitude was made! But blind stupidity? I want to weep.

Exhortation - Muse's Advisory, March 12 – Cockatoo to Zeus's Statue:

You turned to travertine a scant three days ago— already listen to the blather leaking from your mind!

Zeus! Friend! Fellow traveler! You're better than regret!

Who gives a shit if you can move your arms or legs or swing your dick or stiffen it or eat or drink or even curse or say hello or scratch an itch or smell a breeze or read a book or hold a hand or do the slightest of those things you used to do that sang their siren melodies into your youthful soul?

Who cares if you can't bear the constant coat of grit upon your teeth or the sensation that you have to crap but lack a hole to let it out?

Does any of that matter?

Do gods need faculties of sight, touch, taste or smell?

What do you have to hear you haven't heard before?

Are you not fundamentally impassive, immaterial, free?

Pak, this is an opportunity.

A God's Best Friend - Muse's Advisory, March 13 – Cockatoo/Zeus:

“Don't say, This isn't me. The you you used to be, I miss him too, but he, like most of us, could be improved. I see this, Zeus, more as a stimulus to underplay the deity who rules from faraway for one who does what gods do surreptitiously.”

“Bird, I appreciate the optimism but you're talking through your pitiably flat white hat! What can I do?— telepathy with you is the extent of it. Zeus, Raconteur of Cockatoos! Past that, I'm a just another statue to afford you footing while you shit. All things must end: I'm more loath to wane than quit.”

“Enough of that! After you pulled me tattered from the lava ash and I refused to look you in the eye do you remember what you said? Where's your gumption, burung? Everyone else is dead. The same applies right now. Do you think Phaistos has it in him to pick up where you left off? Yeshua? Or his mother? Hera? Who? The universe is cyclical: expands, contracts back in upon itself, and then expands again with more force than before. You may not have the reach you did, but you are still your family's polestar, birr, and emperor. Just look at Miriam's eye: it says, Be strong. You two have made it— what, 2000 years so far? No way she's going to let you pull the plug.

Brain-Storm - Muse's Advisory, March 14 – Yeshua:

“I'm back!” I call, and run into an empty cave, a bloodied wall.

“Downstairs!” I hear Mom yell. I find her straining cooking oil while Hephaistos dabs and doodles at a statue of Dad, and the bird sits on a lampstand looking stricken and sick as if hit on the head by a brick.

My appearances went well— not Oscar-caliber like hers, but hardly duds. The notices all praised my posture, radiance and gravity. They loved my dress, and definitely want me back. Dad's tickled, I can tell. Although he's stone and blind, he's proud and says so without saying it out-loud. It's like I read his mind.

Mom is a different story, though: suspicious and unmoved, too pained to smile, she says, “This musht, boys, is delicious. Do you know it was your father's favorite?”

Phaistos's envy shows. He won't return my greeting. Our dad wanted me to be the face he shows the human race and I see why: Half-Brother is ugly as sin.

“Shut up!” mutters the bird.

“St. Paul!” she scolds.

“Ma, he's a cockatoo," I say. "Words just careen out of his mouth.”

“I'm not so sure. Your father swore he was intelligent.”

“He swore a lot of things,” I say.

“What do you mean?” She sets her jaw and Phaistos turns around to watch.

“I mean he lied," I say. "A lot. He tricked us all, often as not.”

“Don't be fresh. Where's the cheesecloth to cover the fish?”

“Pourquoi la soudaine volte-face, maman? Last week, you hated the old goat! First you assault him, then defend him?”

“He isn't dead,” Hephaistos pleads. “Look at the lifelike wrists—”

“No! Right! Immortal! I forgot!" I scoff. "He'll live forever, just as long as we can shield him from the acid rain.”

“Fuck!” squawks the cockatoo.

“Don't you boys see?” Mom says. “He's still at work with his old magic! Don't sell him short, Yeshua. He's still all up inside your head.”

“Fuck!” crows the bird.

“He wants us to expand!” Hephaestos cries. “Infinity! Beyond.”

“Whoa, Demi-Bro!” I say. “Now where is that all coming from?”

“I had a brain-storm,” he explains. “The Trinity.”

Hephaistos, “Crèche” (c. 13th century, oil on copper) - Muse's Advisory, March 15 – Thalia:

The shepherds and the vagabonds that Yusef chased away did not go far: they stand outside the shuttered windows and lean forward surreptitiously to try and steal a peek. Above the newborn, Yusef holds a white bird like a lantern while the radiant mother in her own daze counts the fingers, toes, and then inspects the partially descended genitals. Above them all, barely distinct, as if an astral constellation, Zeus looks down, both kindly and protective, pleased.

“He forgot my crest,” the cockatoo complains.

“What crest?” Zeus telepaths. “These days, it's more like a beret. He did you a favor stripping the whole disgusting thing away.”

“I look like I'm a fucking dove.”

“Mom, you're pinching my dick?” Yeshua says.

“It's not like you had any plans to use it,” Miriam replies.

“I think I got my beard just right,” Hephaistos says, holding the glistening painting to the candlelight.

“Yeah, you look like Charlton Fucking Heston,” says Yeshua.

“Boys! The painting's beautiful! Look at the love, the way it shapes my face!” coos Miriam.

“Sons. Miriam. Saint Paul,” Zeus beams. “You've all done well. Three is the magic number, you were right, Hephaistos! And a stroke of genius, setting it dead in the heart of the night! Now before we put this out there on the market, are we all pulling the same oar? Is everyone content? I don't want what happened both to Caesar and Octavian's triumvirates to happen here, again.”

“Pak,” Saint Paul warns. “They aren't saints, this woman and these sons of yours. Don't paint them in a light that's unrealistic. They will fight! The pecking order always is contentious: popinjays like young Yeshua aren't conscientious about tolerating others in the limelight. He'll try to nudge you out; his mother out; he'll never give Yusef the time of day. He'll make me out to be an afterthought. The only ace I hold is to control which apparitions get my demiurgic imprimatur and which not. Put me in charge of policy and doctrine, Pak.”

“Zeus,” Miriam prays. “I think we got it right— one team again, all on the winning side. Oh, I can't wait to see Muhammad's face when he finds out he's been betrayed!”

“C'est l'amour, la guerre et la religion,” Zeus thinks.

“Yeshua, fine, you be the public face,” Hephaistos says, “as long as I get all the work this thing is bound to generate! Believers will need lifesize icons they can venerate. Add on: novena cards and rosaries, Miraculous Medals, missals, hymnals, scapulas, cute little Hummels for their 3-D crèches, relic cases...Oh, I have 101 ideas!”

“Brother,” Yeshua agrees, “let's practice love thy neighbor, strength in numbers, division of labor, to the victors go the spoils! Let the world rejoice: Zeus, Primate of the Pantheon, the Pagan Patriarch, is dead! Long live the real god, Deus! Down with Allah! Down with anybody daring to gainsay us!”

crèche ii - muse's advisory, march 16 – euterpe: arms spread wide, light from his palms faintly illuminating sleeping miriam on one side and on the other a disheveled dove perched on an ass's head the new father gazes down upon the babe and basks in his success. above the humble shed hovers a randy spook with cock erect, but he cannot get in, the doorway barricaded by three jinns in purple turbans and three shepherds huddled glowering in hoods armed to the teeth with sledge hammers and skins of lemon juice. the woman had been torture to seduce. she had an eye for foreigners. it had been hard to pry her loose from the bewitchment she was suffering laid on her by the arch-seducer zeus. but yusef won. he got her in his bed, the child she bore now his, which makes him feel ever so slightly like a god.

Avowals - Muse's Advisory, March 17 – Clio:

“Come ouuut!” hollers Khalid, “in the name of Allaaah! and his Prophet Muhaaammad! If you do not surreeender! you will be kiiilled!”

Fresh from victory in Persia, the Prince of Islam stands at the forefront of his troops in the middle of the dump of gnawed salami heels, cheese rinds and olive pits, and bellows up at the cave first in Arabic, then Greek. The echoes of his demands drain into the copper sands that stretch for miles around.

“I'll count to teeen!” he cries. “Wahiiid! Ithnaaan! Thalathaaa! Arba'aaa! Khamsaaa! Sittaaa! Sab'aaa! Thamaniyaaa! Tis'aaa! Ashraaa!!!” He pauses, listens, then resumes. “Énaaa! Dýooo! Tríaaa! Tésseraaa! Pénteee! Éxiii! Eptáaa! Októoo! Enniáaa! Dééék!—”

“Waiiit!” cries an unseen voice. “Do not attaaack! You've not thought throoough! what you're about to dooo! Your shouts strikes this rooock! bending it ever so sliiightly! and then echoing baaack! They strike my fleeesh! bending it ever so sliiightly! as they pass throoough me! An iota enters my eeear! beats on my eardruuum! and beats your thoooughts! onto my braiiiin! If you slay me you'll fiiind! nothing inside my heeead! except warm meeeat! to keep the vultures feeed!”

Out staggers the old monk still shrieking partly in Greek, partly in Arabic, partly in Latin, partly in some other tongue.

“My name is Euseeebius! My God calls me Jerooome! Why do you threateeen? Bahira's former hooome? His heresies are odiouuus! but Jesus teaches uuus! to practice charityyy! not counting to threeee! and launching attaaacks!”

“Jesus was riiight!” Khalid shouts back. “But he is deeead! The being you call Deuuus! is a deceptiooon! The only God is Allaaah!”

“I'm getting hoooarse! Can't we sit dooown! and dispute over wiiine? You must be dryyy! Come up and shaaare! the drop that's miiine!”

“Where is Bahiiira?” roars Khalid. Where are his scrooolls? Where's his Greek frieeend? who used to drink with hiiim?”

“Long gonnne! Long deeead! I haven't seen nor heeeard! from them in yeeears! Forgive meee! I'm not doing well myseeelf!”

“We are teetotalers by laaaw!” Khalid shouts back. “But we are coming uuup! to search the caaave! We beg you to submiiit! and spare your liiife!”

“Too late for thaaat! But come and seeee! blind crickets eating maaanna! from the tomb baaats!”

The general flicks his hand and twenty riders slip down from their mounts and clamber up the rock. Jerome totters forward to greet them with a kiss but finds no other cheek.

Proposal - Muse's Advisory, March 18 – Zeus Statue to Miriam:

No hard feelings. Our war rocked!

My whole body is a hard-on just remembering it.

That's what Hera never understood: if you don't stand up and insist you're my equal, you're not.

She could whine, she could mock, but she always fell short.

I'm hatching a new plot. You want in?

Your old god—Yahweh, Elohim? He never had a dick or eyes to lose, so let's make him Yeshua's dad. He's incorporeal—up in the sky— and you'll get elevated too: from foolish girl who fell for the wrong guy to perfect virgin, ever wise. Play it all to the hilt— the holier you seem, the greater your adherents' guilt.

We've got to do something to maintain the upper hand now that my thunder's gone— some new way to make them tremble.

A fingertip dipped in wine is better than an empty thimble.

A Canvas of Rembrandt's - Muse's Advisory, March 19 – Euterpe:

When he was young and flaxen-haired in Leyden, he had a fantasy of being Christ Preaching (c. 1643-49, etching, drypoint and burin on cream-colored Japanese wove paper) and living in the Frick. But how self-indulgent was that? Hadn't Father frequently scoffed at Hoogstraten's Death of a Virgin (c. 1645-50, pen and brown ink with brown wash and additions of red and black chalk and four framing lines in pen and brown ink)?

So now, something simpler suited him more. Self-Portrait (1658, oil on canvas) was enough of a dream on which to build, as Father taught him, brick by brick, an image of himself that wouldn't crack from the weight of its own pomposity. “Why self-portrait?” his future wife would ask, and his reply was, “Who else am I fit to take to task?” Then, she eyed him more appraisingly, saw exactly whom she'd be getting, and said yes.

La Musa Modesta - Muse's Advisory, March 20 – Polimnia to Miriam:

Scusa, madonna, but what's wrong with self-restraint? Youngest of nine, I watched the older girls burn candles at both ends. Then my boy Orpheus— a man/god like your own, and visitor to Tartaros— he lived life “to the hilt,” grew up a song-and-dance man limb by limb destroyed by lustful women in retaliation for sexual experimentation.

So forgive me if I'm meditative, incline toward modest dresses, and hold a finger to my mouth, as Nonnus wrote,

a tranquil presence speaking only with her hands in fruitful silence.

I'm not a virgin nor a puritan— my fruitful fling with Thrace's king attests to that.*

* I know, most poets say Calliope bore Orpheus. They scribble what they want; we can't correct a thing. Only one unknown scholasticus in Egypt got it right.

But my experience suggests much more to love than raising hell.

Paean, Interrupted - March 21 – St. John the Cockatoo/Statue of Zeus:

“Hephaistos's dad! Yeshua's dad! Sire of Muses! You are the love of Maid Miriam's life! You pulled me from the ash and gave me life again! You continue to produce the world we mortals live in at a rate nobody else is ever going to duplicate! You—“

“—Bird, enough! If I had left you there on Gamalama's slope, today you'd just be tuff. So don't repay my kindness with such stupid fluff. You with your pea-sized brain urge me to smile, though my fiercest adversary now is acid rain? I don't want to sound harsh— but blow it out your ass. Don't be a parker. Stick to what you know: Paulie want a cracker? Oh, don't get your feathers in a twist! That is not racist! What's to stereotype in parrots? There's more complexity in carrots. “I'm sorry, okay? Everything you said was true; I just don't want to hear it. Creating stuff for everybody else to do while hanging around like a ghost getting whatever kicks I can from watching—shit, the only thing I can't create or even fix is myself.

So What? - March 22 – Cockatoo to Zeus Statue:

What a pill you are! Not changed a bit! When your butt was flesh, the only thing you did on it was grace a granite bench and watch your plots unfold. Now that your ass is cold and hard itself you're all bent out of shape that you can't serra-dance?

So what?

I'm just a cockatoo. My job description's brief: speak truth to power even if it's just Shut up or Fuck. So suck it up! If that's too blunt, then fine, I'll leave you here to mourn the tactile, wallowing in anesthesia, and I'll lop off on my one good zygodactyl back to Indonesia.

Oooooooh! Is that furtive tension I feel rising in my belly early warning of your death-ray swelling? It burst the vial sconced in Miriam's veil— and now mine's bulging too! Oh, Zeus! The things that you can do! If only you could conjure me a cockatooess now!

Who ever told you you're omnipotent? How did they know? Each babe in arm's all-powerful until it grows a little bit and learns it's not. A grain of salt's omnipotent— a rock, as long as all it wants to do is sit and feel the fluctuations of its temperature.

So what?

Night Off - Muse's Advisory, March 23 – Euterpe to Tom:

Let's take the night off, put a classic movie on. That's half the point of being in a guild. How could a bowl of warm caramel popcorn not help— of course the Muse's kiss can take the form of food. Nothing gets done if the roof is sagging worse than usual.

There's a genre: the protagonist becomes a quadriplegic halfway through the story and the other characters gossip, lament, argue, remember and fight to divvy up what's left.

I'm not saying that's what we'll do. I'm just saying— Toss me one, too, will you?— Life goes on. Hell, Milton's splinter group of fallen angels is already in worse shape before the curtain lifts its lip.

Plea - Muse's Advisory, March 24 – Amelia Earhart:

Southeast breezes off the Sea of Crete allege the hand that placed us here is never coming back insist things never were as simple as a world that's round or any god who knows what he is doing now or back when legs first sprouted feet.

The Brits attack the Dardanelles by sea

Turk fishing boats school north to join the fight and cats smell battle too in heat their near-clairvoyant irises burn bright claws sharpened on the brutish pine.

I've always been the girl in brown who stood alone now four guys know they're not my cup of tea but still they wait for me to cook their meals.

Zeus! Miriam! Why can't we three head north to war like Hemingway Dos Passos Cummings no one cooking but to roast on spits the game we took and boil morning coffee in a tin pot?

I was first to fly the ocean twice to pilot solo east from Honolulu south from L.A. to Tenochtitlán to Newark and there's still a lot I want to do and be after we chase the Turks from Istanbul.

Yew - Muse's Advisory, March 25 - The English Flyboy:

No older wood nor older friend nor enemy than spearhead made of yew unearthed from half a million years ago.

No denser shade than where the Eburones' hero Catuvolcus took his leave instead of bowing low to Rome.

No sweeter fruit in England, custard luring thrush and waxwing to be messengers of bitter seed its venom rich enough drop a horse but tit and hawfinch both withstand.

What green more poisonous than love of native land!— a muscle trembling, a staggered gait, convulsion, labored breath, a quailing heart, then mercifully death?

My longbow! Bolingbroke and Longshanks summoned staves from all the world for armorers to shave—or Wordsworth

...ere they marched To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers...

No laburnum, ash nor hazel furnished Beowulf his shield; nor shielded Tennyson's beloved cradling his death-struck head; nor lent vile Voldemort his wand.

Do pyres of black smoke and young Fifers' Pictish cries drift southward on the wind that gales from Dardanos?

God! Zeus! how can the ears you laid aside on Crete wherever buried, fail to hear this frothing lust of veins to fly immediately north and bathe in gore?

I curse this exile thrice!— once, failed to land our passenger in France but waylaid in the fog by hand of God or flaw of steel; once, lost Lavonne and hope of wedding night her wheaten face reconjured by the waif from Kansas left here too who bakes my bread; and now, too far in time and place and too perplexed to charge into the fight yet poisoned by a patriotic blood continuing as if from a previous life.

The Mid-Life Blues - Muse's Advisory, March 26 – Glenn Miller:

I have nothing but good to say of my “band” of companions: no one wants to be here but we do our best to keep each other's spirits up.

I don't pretend to know what disappointing God or faulty Wheel of Life installed us here rustic Ephesians after four decades spent in recent lands and times but if we get our hands on It or Him we'll separate limb from limb re-grease the moving parts and hope for better results.

We're Christians! This is not supposed to happen. Even if we were Hindus this is not supposed to happen.

I've half a mind to climb back down this hill and try to swim to someplace civilized, at least— what century, who cares? Who can't use a trombonist?

What stays me—stays us— is the hope that the Deus who parked us here will put us back inside our planes if we stay put and don't make any fuss.

Amelia and I are both part American Krauts both part grew up in Iowa and totally love steel. We know what's magic and what's real.

Look at her across the way petting those feral cats sipping the spring as tenderly as if she were at home after twelve years away.

When my band and I last played— Passaic, in Jersey—if I'd known what was going to happen I'd also have also kissed the ground that lovingly.

The other boys, a virtual U.N.— Brit, Yank, Canadian— are doing well: found wine and one of them had cards inside his flysuit pocket.

I should be happiest: I have my horn. But it seems otherwise. The more I play the more forlorn I get. Where is the goddam muse?

I think I'm sick of music truth be told; plus, it was mainly the arrangements that I loved not blowing solo. I'm not too old to till new interests— cave paleologist, vintner?

It all just makes me want to weep. I'm not a soft man, everybody knows but there's a part of me that's sick from lack of inspiration. That's why I vanished in thin air

I think; it was my own lack of vitality.

Dammit! No One Here Even Remembers What This Kind of Poem is Called!! - Muse's Advisory, March 27 – Fred Noonan:

I died so many times. I take a lot of pride. I navigated sea and sky.

When I was 4 my father died. I fled dry land. I died so many times.

I played the bridesmaid several times before. I navigated sea and sky.

Amelia courted me to fly. We couldn't find our isle. I died so many times.

The sextant doesn't lie. We overflew our mark. I navigated sea and sky.

She always meets my eye. She never hurts my pride. I died so many times. I navigated sea and sky.

Götterdämmerung - Muse's Advisory, March 28 – Hitler to Braun:

Tonight, we entertain. Call up my vilifiers' fetches: let Elli come to grapple me, Thokk who refused to weep, and Gunnlöd singing her intoxicating lines to ruddy soldiers in the halls of Hel; Gullveig demands war resurrect.

Christ's mother? No. We serve no doctored wine; and fairytales belong in children's hands. Where crouched that Virgin when our breasts were bared to iron blade and spear and now lips part to kiss each other and mortality auf Wiedersehen?

Liebe Eva, geh mit mir. The Bolsheviks march overhead! Aren't there gods enough to lay waste human life? Is it time again, already, for Pandora to give birth?

Thor strikes the tallest tree: I'll garner notice there and catch the eye of souls with real authority. They'll grant me audience. This world is tiered. The level I was born to I have filled with blood and care not if it lifts me up or is the buxom flood in which I sink: escape, at last, the petty race I scorn, which takes me for a miscreant.

I demand to meet the gods! Demand to hear their guten Tag and watch them kiss your hand and tell me to my face if I have measured up or not. I crave the judgment of my peers whoever they are, wherever they hide, whatever they account.

Auspices - Muse's Advisory, March 29 – Urania:

1,380,000 footsteps left until the Muse On Duty tips her cup onto your ear's dry lip— more than halfway there and time you understood the never finished works we feed you as you wait were undermined by inspirations lacking legs. That seagull-clouded landfill in the distance steaming verse whose inspiration wasn't any good at all.

Cynics cite the million-year-old chimp who idly pokes its hairy index at a keyboard to imply that it's all hit and miss— The Muse Unmasked! The perspiration is the inspiration.

Placebos are good medicine. We can't prove causality but the statistics show inspired people do more, and produce a higher quality, than uninspired people in control groups equally intelligent and senior in their fields. Thomas Alva Edison conceived his bright idea inside a fortune cookie, “In the falcon's hood—” no, I can't even reveal it, it was just too inane!

Maybe it's just the chatter on the line, some substance in the air of this terrain, or the accumulation of desire as you wait a year, or the humidity of the divine on fervent ears— but if our methods are arcane, don't call us quacks. At very least you have to pay your dues before your name is entered in the guild.

Some think Soupault or Breton's automatic writing is sans inspiration; or Wordsworth's. Strict codes of confidentiality forbid confirming or denying, but a lot of poems are penned sans muse, and some of them admired.

Still, you'd be a fool to discount countless authors' testimonials and claim our role is only ceremonial— an allegory. Homer, Shakespeare, Milton cite us. Though not every hint becomes a work of art; though no Queen of Verse has ever stooped to knight us; like Anne Killigrew, we're not in it for the glory.

No Love of Gold shall share with thee my Heart, Or yet Ambition in my Brest have Part.

Okay. Just want to say we love the way you scent the gin and gild the grime with all that literary hocus-pocus.

And one soupçon of advice: we think such magnum opus needs more discipline, a touch less rhyme. It's getting a bit dicey, almost Tom & Jerry.

A Holiday? - Muse's Advisory, March 30 – Miriam to Zeus Statue:

All I wanted was a bit of adventure— you, nobody saying what you could or couldn't do. We got ourselves so tangled up! Can't Artemis shoot arrows for herself? Can't my son—God, they say—stand on his own two feet without my help?

I miss our quiet days on Mount Koressos. I guess that means I'm middle-aged. I want to lay strife down and take up watercolors, basketry. And you? Was our last war enough?

I'm told of countless poets lined up on a vast field at your daughters' place in Attica. Homer used them. You like him. Sappho thanked them; Catullus loved them; Dante called them geniuses; Chaucer adored the way they rhymed; and Milton praised them to the skies. Do you imagine that they'd welcome us? They don't have kids for us to spoil but maybe it would be a plum for them if rumors swept the queue that someone sighted me or you: the literary set sets great store in motifs. We could maybe even stop at Delphi on the way. Zeus, could we? Do you know I've never been?

I bet they'd love to get to know you now after millennia of Where's my dad? And they'll warm up to me eventually if Memory allows. She couldn't hold a grudge this long— could she?

Don't say no, just promise that you'll think about it. Will you? Let's celebrate what we've survived. To kill you would have killed me too. I don't know what was going through my head and calling out my claws. What was that term you used— the crocodile brain? Maternal instinct run amok? Or maybe menopause?

I'll ask Hephaistos if he'll fit a donkey cart for you. We'll fill it up with sour-cracked grain and agnus-castus berries for St. Paul— I'm hoping that the girls won't mind, or be embarrassed by, the cockatoo. That Fuck of his is not exactly classical but then again maybe it's time for poetry to change.

Disneyland Yes—Visit the Relatives No. - Muse's Advisory, March 31 – Zeus Statue to Miriam:

Easy for you to say: to you, nine lovely women you can get to know. But me? How do I face them now after 3000 years of not a word?

Mickey Rourke in the The Wrestler, broke-down, looking for an old man's ease– even more pathetic without the long blonde hair?

As a fly on the wall of their shrine, I would go in a snap. But waltz in now as if I brought some kind of blessing? I don't have that kind of spine.

I love the donkey-cart idea, though. I would love to go see Delphi, show you one or two of my old haunts. Maybe St. Paul could even pick up a new oath!

But will the ire petrified in these great limbs stay dormant? Am I caponized enough for lax retirement? I'll give Hephaistos specs for the construction of a nut-spoked ark, but guarantee a placid family trip I can't. A Leica on my neck, an “I Love Greek Gods” tee-shirt on my back, and tickets to my own theme park is too naive, too modernist.

Then on to Helicon? I doubt it. My girls nine thrived without me all these years. Whatever scars their fatherlessness etched into their psyches are faits accomplis.

The Stepson's Objection - Muse's Advisory, April 1 – Yeshua to Miriam:

We haven’t talked a lot. I've been about My Father's business. You've been busy with it too, I hear. Ironic that our paths so rarely cross. Let's have a little tête-à-tête.

Phaistos told me what you're cooking up. The answer's Absolutely not. How do you think it looks? I'm sleeping in a different bed each night, busting my butt to get the new Church set, while you're out trekking with the old god and his cockatoo in some old donkey-cart?

You must know you're a biggish part of Christianity yourself. There are more heresies concerned with you than I have people working day and night to stamp them out. Ma, you're a virgin, for Christ's sake! That gospel has already gone to press, and frankly it's the most beloved part. It was a one-time thing with Elohim— a spirit thing inspired my birth.

If you and Zeus play house here in an isolated cave on Crete, I could care less. But pilgrimage to Greece? I'd be a laughingstock.

Dressing Down - Muse's Advisory, April 2 - Miriam:

Yeshua, son, I get your gist. A woman, mongoloid dove and marble statue in a donkeycart attract attention, yes. But why should anybody link us to your Church? The roads these days are jammed with every kind of muttering apostle underneath the sun. We'll leave our Let Your Light Shine tee-shirts home. It's a vacation, not a pilgrimage. When Yusuf took us down to Egypt no one cried, The Holy Family's come to seek Ra's blessing!

I've always done my part to help your Church, and so has Zeus. But that's not all of who we are. Are you aware how much it pains him to no longer walk the earth? Have you so much as once cried Éphphatha!, or drawn one incantation with your spittle in the dirt?

The fine points of theology I leave to you, but don't scold me, young man! I don't care who you think you are, you weren't raised to tell your elders what to do. The bird and Zeus and I embark for Delphi when the sun comes up. Go show your Sacred Heart to Polish nuns, go shop in Paris for albumin hair-conditioner to make your golden halo more conspicuous. The vanity you get from Zeus, the restlessness from me, the righteousness sui generis.

At the Delphi Inn - Muse's Advisory, April 3 – Thalia:

“Fuck!” squawks St. Paul.

“He'll have a child and offer hair!” the hostler warns. “The gods always forgive what we can't control!”

“The ferry hay was rancid. Is there something fresh to give the donkey?” Miriam asks.

“Garlands from the wild olive tree be-scarved with spider webs and money threaten Sparta!”

“Please leave the marble god unwrapped, as is.”

“One road fork leads to freedom's house, and the second straight to slavery's shed!”

“Good then, thank you. And goodnight. I'll take the bird inside with me.” . “An eagle's beak will point the way! A crow will show you all around! Wild goats will lead! Go where the fish command, the wild boar feeds! White ravens perch and cattle lie to sleep!”

She goes inside and registers "María, Cnossos."

“Seek to find a place to lie!" the innwife says. "Above all, know thyself! A Syrian's inspired, tells amusing tales, but the Phoenician's wise! He can assume the color of the dead! Beware the man with just one sandal! Embrace the top and reap the middle!”

“Fuck!” squawks the bird.

“He's just repeating what he heard somewhere,” says Miriam.

"The blasphemer will perish by a dead man's hand! The god's not here! He went to build another inn where he was bitten as a young boy by a gull. They never say goodnight who sleep most sound!"

“Is there perhaps a loaf of bread to eat?”

“Receive the yearling goat in place of Israel's son! Don't ever hurry love! Green youth is best invisible!”

Out in the shed, the hostler picks the wrapping off the marble's head, sees Zeus's angry face awake, and flees into the night. A starving bitch slips in and chews the linen off the statue's base, then starts to lick its toes.

The donkey takes another bite of apricot-sweet Phocian hay and backs away.

The horses in the rear stalls start to neigh.

An Incident that Reached the Ear of the Stratego - Muse's Advisory, April 4 – Urania:

Miriam lay and rested. The once white-crested bird slept, one eye cocked on the one-sandaled man; Syrian and Phoenician slept; the innwife wept, her husband gone; and the hostler crept back to the haunted shed a moment before dawn.

“Cockadoodleduh,” croaked a traumatized cock as the cook unlatched the coop for eggs, to find smashed shells, clear goo, gold yolk, scattered feathers and crushed bones. She shrieked; the donkey brayed; and everybody woke.

The marble Zeus is gone, its tattered shroud discarded! The innwife and hostler lay hands on Miriam and shake her. “Fuck!” shrieks the bird. Guests scurry to the shed to get their mounts; but they're gone too.

The innwife's wagon, gone. The cook spits onto Miriam's face, seizes the cockatoo, and locks it in an empty brooding cage.

A rider gallops up and screams, “A giant in a chariot harries the hillside near the ruins, burying thunderbolts in all the sacred oaks!”

“Go wake the priest!” the innwife cries. "Tell him we've got the gypsy witch who is responsible!”

“Fuck!” shrieks the cockatoo out in the coop. “Somebody kill that bird!” the cook demands, and the hostler takes the cleaver off the butcher block and goes to do it.

When he steps outside the door, the first ray of the sun breaks through the trees to strike his head and knock him to his knees.

“Please call him back!” pleads Miriam. “Set free the bird! He's Zeus's friend and anyone who threatens him will meet a catastrophic end!”

At Zeus's name, the inn staff stops right where they are, their mouths a-gape.

Hadn't the last Pythia predicted his return and warned the Christian bishop on the pains of hell to leave the shrine itself intact– and hadn't he obeyed?

The Phoenician walks into the inn and sets the cockatoo back on its bedpost perch. The Syrian leads the donkey out onto the road, unhurt. The horseman gallops back with a beardless curate cantering behind, so filled with fear, his eyes are red and lips are white.

They see one sandal beneath a shrub. Ten feet above, one good foot and one bad sway from a high mimosa branch.

The priest dismounts, makes a sign of the cross.

The rider gallops back to town in terror of his life.

Amidst the shock and tears, the sun's face finally tops the trees.

A Long Thoughtful Chew - Muse's Advisory, April 5 – The Donkey:

They call me Miriam's donkey, but I was never her donkey. I brought supplies to Phaistos in his cave and in exchange he made humane headcollars that I brought to the valley. When he asked me if I wanted to pull Zeus's cart to Delphi, I thought, Why not? How many travel shots do donkeys get?

Don't talk to me about the bird: Fuck! Fuck! He gives all animals a bad name. I hauled his feed, and he contributes what? Zero. But the woman isn't bad at all. Most women believe donkeys should work all day like they do, but this Miriam is pretty gentle— once, rode a donkey all the way from the Jordan to the Nile.

The trip by sea was terrible. I can say I did it now, but won't recommend it. First: seasick. The hay onboard was pretty foul. Then: the stall they rigged for me rubbed bald spots on the sides of my belly. Greece itself is a lot like home, only more crammed with roads, people and carts— and some very fancy chariots, if you can stomach the arrogance of horses. Before Zeus went on his rampage on Mount Parnassus, he took the horses from their stalls to hitch them to an old wagon. One snorted about how she was a Phoenician and so couldn't be paired with an Arabian—or, God forbid, the lame man's mule!— so would Zeus please match her with the innwife's own hipparion?

It hurt me that Zeus didn't look at me but harnessed the others and hurried up the still-dark road. How much faster is an mule than a reliable donkey who's proven himself already over a long trip? Maybe that's why we're not tapped for gods: we don't think the way gods think. Still, which tribe has ever given us a chance?

Most likely he left me behind to continue to pull the cart for Miriam. But why, when it has no freight, with him up on the mountainside splintering centuries-old trees? If he worried about her getaway, he should have left the Arabian. I don't know. I don't overthink this kind of thing, but I was hurt, and it surely wasn't the first time.

The Courageous Priest - Muse's Advisory, April 6 – Terpsichore:

The accounting consisted of

1 cock 7 chickens 5 eggs 1 mule 3 ponies 1 wagon 1 night's roof.

In payment the innwife took

1 cart 1 Cretan donkey 1 torn shroud 1 purse with 4 solidi and sent Miriam packing with the cockatoo. Soldiers were dispatched to the fiery mountainside to see what they could do about rampaging Zeus but nobody expected much. Old tales died slow and everyone knew you stayed behind closed doors with fingers crossed and prayed he wouldn't come for you.

The priest did a curious thing. A beldam just beyond the village edge was rumored 7th heiress to the Pythia: he packed a basketful of fragrant bread and clearest, rosy breakfast wine and went to visit her. Magissa waited in her yard, a shawl about her shoulders to the cold. He smiled, introduced himself, gave her his gifts and asked, What should I do?

She said, Return the ass to her. He said, I will. She said, Return the cart and coins. And he said, I will. She said, Give Zeus his choice of the three horses and the mule. He said, I will. She said, Escort me to the shrine and let me answer what he came to ask. He said, I will.

There was no time to waste. The lightning-cracks were blasting every oaktree on the mountain into ash. Black smoke rolled up like a volcano in eruption but the priest arranged the hag before him on his horse and rode right toward it. He had gumption.

Don't worry about me! she cried into his ear. No Pythia can die unless she's named an heir– which I have not! So fly, papás! Fly, fly!

Zeus at Delphi - Muse's Advisory, April 7 – Calliope:

Miriam climbs too, on foot, the white bird on her shoulder cursing at the thick soot and bright-shooting cambered embers that remind them both of things they'd rather not remember.

In the swirling smoke she glimpses Zeus's makeshift chariot careen, a basilisk's forked fire darting from his brow and dark steam rolling off his bright chimeric hair.

"Look!" she exclaims. "Look there!"

The priest and gorgon gallop his swift chestnut over hellish coals, straight for the ruins where clairvoyant oracles of old uplifted supplicants and cast down kings in runic verse—

"Ye poets listening to my advice," derisive Clio interrupts, "don't ever underestimate the great authority of tripe!"

—amidst charred weeds, stavesacre, fallen poppies, the Ionian columns, weeping cypress, half an amphitheater, half a racetrack, less still of a temple; but intact, the great rock where each Pythia, before and since the shrine was sacked, rose to recite!

The ancient Magissa knows to stand erect, her shoulder-blades tucked in and arms spread to enun ciate, project— she knows the protocols, she knows her strength, she sets her gaze on him— and in an instant, Zeus, now quieted, attends.

“It is the seventh day of Bysios. If you have business with the oracle, then state your name! Why have you come? What do you bring to us?”

“Great Pythia,” Zeus speaks, “the adyton, Apollo's tripod where your predecessors sat, was almost ripped in twain when my son Hercules had mind to steal it. It was I who intervened between the two: you know already who I am, though why I've come is not so easy to divine. My gifts? Three weary, foam-flecked horses, an exhausted mule.”

“Propose your question, Zeus.”

“It is the same as asked you by the priest whose courage brought you here: What should I do? The world has changed, as you well know, the place for gods and oracles alike abandoned, ransacked then for blocks of stone and bricks. Even the mountain peaks, once curtained from the eyes of beasts by hurricanes and frozen snow, are thawed and tamed; there's even talk men want to ski on them! What place is left for dinosaurs like me to hide, if not to reign? What occupation for the god who made a race that finds him antiquated, an embarrassment?”

While the Pythia sought her pronouncement, Miriam drew nearer with the bird, and for the first time since his cleaving by the ax, St. Paul took wing, although unprettily, and flittered to the sky-god's shoulder where he gave his earlobe an affectionate nip.

The Pythia sang:

"The self-pitying God must put two Asses To the Cart he brought; must take a Virgin Back to Crete; let him who has no Heart Cause Harm no more; be always Stone!"

Zeus thought about it: splitting her wrinkled face in two with a razor-sharp lightningbolt, then lifting the offending boulder up to drop upon her scrawny little spine; but, simultaneous, he knew she had not named her heir and so his effort would have been in vain: she would survive. And Miriam was watching; and the cockatoo. And even if he gave vent to his rage, he still had no idea what he should do.

So he did something no one ever, ever would have guessed: he nodded pointedly at Miriam, and acquiesced.

Art - Muse's Advisory, April 8

– Zeus's Statue:

She didn't say I couldn't reinvent myself. I don't take “be stone” as literal. It means be cool; be smooth; don't let things get to you; be elegant, and inspirational. I get it. I can do that. I just have to figure out what kind of inspiration— what my message is. I've got technique; I just need biz.

I've asked around to learn about my brand. What does it stand for? What's it worth? Scholars have said I represent autocracy and irresponsibility— bad government. Yet am I indisputably the father of democracy? To Cretans, I'm a boy and definitely not the God of Rules! Perhaps the schoolkids running up to rub my marble penis will be dragged away envisioning ideals more fun than prudery and antiseptic cleanness.

Light's light, as Joseph Campbell says. The sun, the thunderbolt, the pearly sheen of marble skin. Why can't I exercise my fullblown might by standing here in this museum? I am omnipotent, a master of disguise who works in unseen ways.

– Miriam's Statue:

I totally agree. I saw that flock of chicks stream out from their big yellow bus and run to rub your cock until the rooster caught up and commanded them to stop. I heard him joke, If everybody rubs it they will have to call him Zeusa—and that goes for sinful boys who hold their penises as toys.

We try our best to teach the human race some common sense but those with any brains at all don't listen and the ones who do just want to christen everything that's any fun a sin. That's what they lost in the translation from Olympian to Hebrew god. Oh, what a grinch! If Yahweh had an ass at all I'd give it a good pinch!

Yeshua's a wet blanket too. And what they've made of me. Why can't we Christians be a little less like Virgin Mary and a little zestier and more red-blooded, more like Zorba's Bouboulina? Fuck the meek! Fuck the long-suffering wife! No wonder they invented the Arch-Fiend. Somebody's got to represent the 95% of life they spurn.

Let's put our heads together—you, me, and the cockatoo— let's dedicate ourselves to put the toot back in Teutonic, romance back in Rome, juice back in Jews! I'm sick and tired, myself, of channeling some spinsterish old muse.

At the Heraklion Archeological Museum on Xanthoudidou Street - Muse's Advisory, April 9 – Zeus:

They say I'm Serapis disguised as Hades posed beside three-headed Cerberus at heel but any fool with eyes can tell it's really me with a silly basket balanced on my head, now St. Paul's nest. I'm draped in robes and missing half an arm, but a tall smooth staff and thick-wooled beard proclaim a comfort in my own physique and doughty willfulness.

Miriam stands just past the electric socket with something that looks like a sea scallop fixed to top of her head— ever comely, graceful, but watch you don't get in the way of that brick of a right hand!

Dr. Chiklis reconstructed us in too much haste. She gazes away from me, looking embarrassed.

I did train the tri-celphalous mutt. After killing its father, what else could I do? I thought it fitting, then, to give it to my own son for a pet, but Hades said, Little brother, I'm going to make it a sentry instead.

I've always had a way with what they call “dumb” animals. What tames them quick: plain, run-of-the-mill respect. Emperor Frederick II and bodhisattva Guanyin also kept white cockatoos, but tethered. Regard binds me and mine together.

That they've mislabeled me— and Miriam too, as Isis— doesn't faze us in the least. Better that way, really, so His Grace the bishop doesn't feel he has to break my limbs off like he did last century, then sink the pieces in the bay.

If Dr. Chiklis has to pay for divers one more time, he's liable to just say To hell with archeology.

It's peaceful here, 1000 foreign visitors a week, plus every school on Crete, on average, once a year.

Our statues aren't striking to the unassisted eye but I can see our strategy is working since His Grace comes once a month and sits there on that bench mistrustfully, unsure. Doubt crops up in his flock and something tells him that it's me transmitting skepticism, like a router.

He's too old-school to guess my web's worldwide. The energy I used to waste in bolts of lightning now I put to better use securing malleable young minds. No, Eminence, not pedophile like Plato, Aristotle, Socrates— though you yourself bless dread-filled schoolboys you've exhorted to their knees.

Miriam's torn about all this. Infiltration—she shoots me daggers if I call it inspiration— of children's intelligence strikes her as insidious.

She says it's less so if the influencer has a face and children can at least evaluate the messenger.

I think the opposite: face lends abusers more authority. What I transmit are pure ideas recipients are free to take or leave.

The Pope expounds...Mufti proclaims...High Priest decrees... Zeus Thunderer offers his thoughts without moving his lips, without leaning on clout.

Inside Palazzo Sisto V - Muse's Advisory, April 10 – Il Papa:

I'm the Pope, goddammit. Wherever these subversive ideas are emanating from, put the kibosh on them!

Who do these rebels think they are? Were they picked by a conclave of old men? Even own a tiara?

The special grace I have enabling me and only me to understand Luke 19:3— a sine qua non, capisce?

Why aren't my eggs runny? Didn't I ask for runny eggs? Are runny eggs so difficult? Take these back.

Review - Muse's Advisory, April 11 – Miriam's Statue:

Who are these busybodies who won't let Yeshua rest?

I remember my first apparition, John's brother James in Zaragosa weeping. He was so glad to see me. He scolded, "You sneak! you're still alive! A letter I got just last week said they hid you on Koressos above Ephesus!"

Why was James in Iberia at all, forlorn, alone, depressed? Were there no tree-worshipers any closer to home for him to convert?

I said, "James, you're the apparition! Get thee back home to Galilee where Herod Agrippa longs to personally claim thy head. Here's a wooden idol of myself, and a jasper pillar, to sell for thy passage. When ye arrive, give Herod the idol and tell him Miriam happily offers her head too."

Did a shortage of women or of fish prevent them from settling down as husbands like their fathers had done? Or were they simply on the run, their zealotry strengthened by the authorities' persecution? I wish they'd just gone home after the crucifixion, after the resurrection, after the coming of the dove at pentecost, and said "That's that. We're done."

Inspiration comes in many forms so what's the need to follow a star too far

instead of sitting home and opening a book of psalms?

That's why I frown: such sturm and drang. Diocletian persecutes Christians, Constantine pagans, Julian Christians, Theodosius pagans. One sect prays facing heavenward, the other facing down.

Zeus's mission is free thought. Mine seems to be the kindly ear, the blessed mother no one had. Still, wouldn't supplicants do better with a fellow sinner steeped in flesh and blood?

When an Aussie vicar asks what's in the ancient goddess's hand, the Irish docent tells him, "I dunna know much but it looks like the rubber armpit pillow of a crutch."

Under-Dogs - Muse's Advisory, April 12 – Statue of Cerberus:

Mind's made, not born: unnatural Nurture dealt us quirky Fate and numerals to count our lucky stars. The good news, Dr. Chiklis didn't glue a monkey shako or a bird's-nest to our heads; the bad, we sit at Zeus's feet as if his hound.

But see our dripping jaws? blood-blackened claws? eyes bleached by Hate, rolled back into our heads? his right arm missing from the elbow down? Zeus tore our ears off yet we venged the Murder of our hundred-headed father Typhon!

We burn as One but sinned as Three, a Trinity that celebrates the masses here in Hell. Face us. Left to right our names are Innocent III, Pol Pot and Jesse James: ecclesiastic, angel of equality, executioner without portfolio.

Utility of Cerberus - Muse's Advisory, April 13 – Statue of Zeus to Miriam:

Let the six-lipped cur charge otherwise— his father lies beneath Mount Etna quite alive, though he once tore the sinews off my bones and leather-bagged my limp cadaver, leaving me to die.

Nor has my missing forearm ever swum in Cerberus's craw. It's tickled now by hermit crabs, anemones and possum shrimp on the bottom of the bay where the Orthodox dumped it.

His third mouth's claim? Oh yes, I did. I bit the mongrel's six ears off and spit them to the dirt whereon there sprouted by the gism of my lips garigue of downy ophrys— five aristolocthic birthworts that entrap flies overnight and verse them in the songs and scents of Hades to be piped into fresh corpses.

Each family has its mad dog. Cerberus is ours. I know you fear him, feared the rabies epidemic in your native Bethlehem. I'll keep him close to heel.

Still, he has use. He draws the schoolkids surely as my nudity. Their happy fingers fly from his fangs to my dick.

That's when I drop my question in their heads. "What if the Christ was just one of those mountebanks in Grecian gowns, and the epískopoi as two- or three-faced as this grisly hound?"

Anthrax - Muse's Advisory, April 14 – Statue of Zeus:

Let's call the demon Boredom. It's a sure sign something's dead or deadly in the room.

At school, at church? Look at the teacher, at the priest: the blowflies spiral from their lips.

Hold your breath, plug your ears, mask your eyes.

Children, the dust oration coats you with is dangerous.

Down, Down, Down - Muse's Advisory, April 15 – Clio:

Abraham Lincoln, Titanic, Garbo, Big-League Baseball's color barrier and Pol Pot sink today.

The Fates are flipping cards out in the schoolyard of the gods and these five randomly come up.

There are appeals and protests. One goddess gripes, It's not enough. A bell rings and they all return to class.

This afternoon they have a hippie sub who raises eyebrows with his beard and funky paisley shirt.

Sandburg calls Lincoln captain of the ship, he says. Then President Garbo's shot when Pol Pot signs a contract with L.A.

A SWAT team bursts into the room at exactly 1:11 and opens fire: time to go the Math Enrichment.

Clotho palms her yawn. Again? The Computation Specialist asks Lachesis to analyze the Quechuan abacus and Atropos fiddles with scissors.

Idle Afternoon Chit-Chat in the Antiquities Room - Muse's Advisory, April 16 – Miriam:

“....Juan Diego saw me on Tepeyac Hill, an adolescent ringed by light. We spoke in Nahuatl and he mixed me up with his own virgin goddess Tonantzin, whose shrine the hill had been. I said, 'No, I'm the Catholic nantli.' When Zumárraga the arzobispo sent Juan back for proof of my identity, I said, 'Go gather flowers at the summit.' He said, 'Tonantzin— ay, discúlpeme—Católica María— it's mid-winter! Nothing blooms now.' I said, 'Look with faith-filled eyes,' and then arranged the blossoms in his cloak. Zumárraga was stunned to see the bounty of Castilian roses and my image in a mollusc-like striped vulva set indelibly in Juan's ayate. The Franciscans called it superstition—just an icon by a local artist named de Aquino— but the Dominicans attested it miraculous.”

“Okay,” Zeus says, "for sake of argument, you were enclosed in glowing light. But did you have one blessed thing to say?"

“You talk theology in Nahuatl, Mr. Polyglot! No, I didn't wow him with great intellect. He just thought I was prettier than Tonantzin and felt that someone greater—European, omnipotent—exalted him in his own tongue! You wouldn't understand. You pretty much talk only to yourself. You think you're slyly beaming thoughts into the Cretan children's heads but maybe it's them molding you.”

“Metaphysics—not your forte! Energy, especially ideas, has inclination. Acorns never fall from ground to tree and snot-nosed, puddle-headed kids can't teach philosophy to me.”

"Dear Zeus, your pride is hurt! Don't cut yourself with shards of former grandeur, indispensability! Volunteer to help out in a hospice or a wounded-wildlife sanctuary. Let's take up bridge— if you don't mind a partner with one ear half-tuned to her devotees' prayers. Yes, I know it doesn't really make a difference if I listen! And yes, I know my cult is primitive, subliminal, psychotic, sexual. But don't you think it helps them just a bit to feel they have my ear? Must weak be doomed to carry the same weight of truth as strong? You be the god of might— I'll be the mother of despair. You be correct—I'm able to be wrong.”

“One of the feminine prerogatives is always being right, or wrong in a superior way. I bow. Besides, I like the thought of bridge— each ace a lightning-strike, sharp combat where the best mind and the best hand wins.”

“Good! Now you're talking like a husband! Do we have any other partner possibilities around the room? Look, Zeus!—that comical, androgynous clay king and queen with bug-eye nipples raised their hands! That leash of sharply dressed Minoan foxes look like they might mix a mean martini. Our fourth twosome— Cupid and the Prince of Lilies, over there?”

“Ah, we'll make mincemeat of the lot of them! We played round-robin for a while on Olympos. Dear Hera couldn't bid to save her life, but wore fantastic pearls like Helen Sobel. Ares grew a killer mustache like Omar Sharif and Aphrodite took her shirt off once when she was dummy—poor Hephaistos lost count of the trumps and went down three! Oh, that year, everything was according to Goren! Then, of course, along came hula hoops, air hockey...."

A Delicate Matter - Muse's Advisory, April 17 – Curator Chiklis to Zeus:

I didn't want to make a scene in front of anybody so I waited until closing. This is contractually your quiet time but grant me a few minutes please.

There've been complaints. You know how tourists are— especially the Germans, right? But we've complaints from Japanese and even Finns! Please understand I'm sympathetic to the working stiff but I'm still management.

They claim that someone's making— how to put it delicately?— πορνογραφικό προτάσεις?— pornographic suggestions. The children love to pet the dog's three heads but when the parents say, It's time to go and look at pottery, their kids start spewing things like Fuck that shit! and Vases suck!

I reply, Why point the finger at a god who's been dead several thousand years? His dog, yeah, he's a little ghetto-looking with those fangs and bit-off ears— but teaching children dirty words? I understand: your little boy simply adored Westminster Abbey. Still, you're positive you never left him unattended with the cabbie?

But every one insists it's you. They have these inklings and if I enquire whence, without exception each one points directly at your head.

I don't want to draw this out. It's 7:30, my vilana's waiting at the Fres Taverna. So I beg you, and I'll only ask it once: please stop it, if you're being a bad influence.

Bird, Depressed - Muse's Advisory, April 18 – St. Paul the White- Crested Cockatoo:

Thank God that fucking Cretan left! Poor thing missed out on half a glass of wine, when I've been pent up in this silly nest since 8 a.m. without a chance to stretch my wings or legs or piss!

What can he do to us– the storage room? I'd welcome that. This being on display is like a thousand little deaths.

If only Miriam could take me when she visits Cyprus. What I wouldn't give for fruit nobody else has chewed on yet; a chance to wrap my feet around a living branch again.

Still, Lazarus's second tomb is not high on my must-see list. I hear he was a bastard once he rose– too grim to smile– unslakable his thirst– got so disgusted at one Cypriot he turned his farm into a small salt lake.

Why won't he just stay dead? Yeshua raised him first; then Emperor Leo dug the second corpse back up to showcase in Byzantium; then the Crusaders hauled it off again; and where it's been since it last surfaced in Marseilles is anybody's guess.

Why can't Hephaestos turn me into stone, like Zeus? Being alive alone, a stowaway inside this mausoleum of assorted former VIP's, is simply hell. What air, or food, or scratch is sweet? But I can't leave since I can't fly. I'd be a stray cat's toy, then treat.

What's wrong with death? I'm ready. I've had longevity. I've tasted what the senses had to offer, more or less. No, not had sex, but it's too late for that. That's probably my one regret.

"...she bore nine daughters, of one mind..." (Hesiod) - Muse's Advisory, April 19 – Memory:

I've held my tongue. I'm not supposed to speak but work my magic as it were from the back seat.

People wag their heads: a country mother with nine kids. But they've forgotten what I'm like in bed, the way I sing through thick and thin at those big moments when it's sink or swim.

Over-protect my girls? The only thing I kept from them (a couple drops of milky ouzo in their bottles) was what happened on the night Zeus left.

He can't remember either, the white Pierian mists that overgrew the moon's gray eyes as he bent down to kiss the nine of them goodbye, and for a moment cried.

I didn't want them to remember that: I knew he wasn't ever coming back.

Sestina - Muse's Advisory, April 20 - Urania:

A cast stone said My arc's path from the hand of a parent is illusion. The illusion's stone said I am the true path from the hand of a parent. The parent of the illusion's stone said The path of a child's hand rises from the hand of her parent. Illusion is mother's milk. The young stone said I am my own path. My path baffles the hand of my parent and the illusion yoked to arc. The young stone's god said The blessed son banishes the path from the hand of a parent. Illusion can't yoke stone. Hands arc stone but the cursed illusion of path is the parent.

Self Sonnet - Muse's Advisory, April 21 – Zeus to Miriam:

I take a lot of heat for what I didn't do, and little credit for the things I did. I fell in love with you, gave you a child. Now I'm a friend in your advancing age. It's true I didn't cleave to you like white on rice or give Yeshua the most prudent guidance as he grew up— but he grew up. He followed his own muse, and you and I now stand here almost holding hands, while Kastrinoí slip out into the cool of night.

It seems to me my sin resides in fending off the claims of sorrow and regret, in feeling free to come and go, in leaving children safe inside their mothers' loving arms and charging out to keep the brain-Huns from the door. I'm not asking for awards, only the same respect due beasts who carry out the tasks that they were made to do, though failed to write a War and Peace or plant trees in the desert—living by my own lights.

I've both suffered and caused pain, but don't owe anyone apologies. My name is Zeus. My style is independent. That's what I offer you.

Kicking Some Ideas Around With Pop - Muse's Advisory, April 22 – Yeshua to Zeus:

They haven't left too much for me to do, my apparitions far less popular than Mom's, the pope in total charge of Dogma, Policy & Operations: I'm not more than a figurehead. I volunteered to write a weekly inspiration, blessing, or whatever but they talked me out of it— so diplomatically, of course— and made it clear my contribution to the movement ended on the afternoon of my Ascension.

I'm allegedly on tap to come again, but every time I ask about a date they say As soon as His consilium's complete. I say Whose His? He isn't Me?

Then they expound ad infinitum on the mechanisms of the Trinity.

Just kick back, kid, I hear the harp in heaven is sublime, advises the monsignor they assigned to me as liaison. If you need anything at all, I'm at your beck and call. My cell is always on and your speed-dial's #1. They think I have no saving left but I feel like I just began. I've tons of things I want to do.

I'd never have agreed to die so young if I had known.

If I go back and freelance now, they'll call me heretic or falsh moshiach. Nobody says so in as many words but I can read the writing on the wall. When they press, Prove you're Him, what can I do? Say Nail me to the Cross again?

Cajole another stinking corpse to rise, like some two-dollar voodoo houngon?

I've been a persona non grata and it's no fun: I'd end up rotting in the pope's asylum underneath St. Peter's where they pound all the ecstatics and loose cannons with stigmata.

The Church itself amazes me: the papacy, the curia, the diocese, how all of that elaborates from thirteen Galilean vagabonds.

I'd think it science fiction if I didn't have a ringside seat. I wouldn't want to have to drive that rig— and I'm not sure I want to hitch my name to it.

Should I re-brand myself, shear off the facial hair and launch another start-up? Rome wouldn't notice if I disappeared. I'll dial up my flack and say, Yeah, what you said the other day makes sense.

I'm kicking back to bask in heaven's ambiance.

I have a few ideas: an open-access walk-in spa where people with afflictions or the blues can get a quick pat on the back from— Jesus Christ belongs to Rome— what do you think if I adopt one of those one-name monikers like Thornz or Bethleheminem? Or dance with the girl I brought, go walk the earth again dispensing pita, bromides, cures, but this time give my people teeth, so when the Swiss Guards come to peg me to a cross, this time, let Peter stuff their sliced-off ears right up their arse!

I know what he'll say if I ask.

Tell me your thoughts. Be frank. I want a hands-on gig that really leverages my strengths. Mom says I've got a good thing now and I should stick with it for five or six more centuries; but didn't Einstein prove in general relativity that even everlasting life is short?

I'm not cut out to lounge on clouds— like some people I know— and watch the Lilliputians thrash about, below. I want to help. I want to get into the act.

In the Wilderness – Muse's Advisory, April 23 – Yeshua to Zeus:

No, I'm not about to go shoot up a school or smash tectonic plates, but yes, from time to time I have these thoughts that I'm not proud of, which disturb me.

Once, an idea popped into my head of opening the wound below my ribs with one of Mom's serrated carving knives. Another time, I lay my hand upon this blond kid's head and it occurred to me if I just pushed...

The Demon offers choices I don't want. The clever way he words them, they appeal to me when I imagine for a moment saying yes. Each time, I feel a little dirty afterwards.

Dad, when you call me Kid, it's distancing. Son's bad enough. You call Mom Dear, but me, it's Kid or Son. It seems like you're annoyed to even have to talk to me: as if I'm interfering with your standing there and contemplating Miriam, and Cerberus whom you keep close.

Is it a style thing? I'm being over-sensitive? I know: Accentuate the positive. You haven't tried to eat me once. You haven't fed me to the mutt.

I'm sorry, yes, I it would be easier if I brought up one topic at a time. The devil's always in the doing it. I have the kind of mind that wanders; you, a personality devoid of tact.

The Tempter often brings your name up as he lays out his proposals. I thought that asking you about it might increase my strength resisting. I was wrong, and he was right: you've no intention of assisting.

Primrose Path - Muse's Advisory, April 24 – Satan:

“No!" Calliope forbids her Byron imitators. "Every two-bit hack with quill or Bic since Milton made and broke the mold has written Satan a soliloquy! Then the Pacino movies— please, don't ask!”

"See Muse run," I tease. "So now a censor comes?"

“Don't try your wiles on me—!" she hisses, “— I, the labor nurse who led you from a blind man's tongue to the amanuensis! Do you mock me now? I'll have Tom turn you back into a fawning fop!”

"No, it was I who told your mother Fuck that guy. She did and wept. I said Again. She did and wept. I said Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. She did and said I'll cut my wrists. I said Again. So you tell me who authored who."

You Have Received a Birthday Greeting from... - Muse's Advisory, April 25 – Satan to Tom:

It's your birthday!

Muses, thin as crepe, have wrapped the gift they're giving you before they send you on your way onto the range where I will pick you off like Mary's little lamb.

How old are you? I know, but ask because I want to rub your nose in it: an age when selfishness sheds all its fancy bows and pops out of the box like Jack.

You want to know how old I am? Where I was born? Of whom? You'll find out soon. A woman's got to keep some sanctity, some secrets for her bedroom.

Your decay? My porn. The crusty spots you're burning from your face with gelled diclofenac? I can already taste what's underneath.

Horny Loser - Muse's Advisory, April 26 – Miriam:

The devil is so full of shit. He tries to make a big name for himself but it's all talk. He has no realm, he has no underlings, he has no way to walk the walk. You know the little jerk in middle school who brags he'd like to grab that low-cut blouse's filler by the neck and make her suck his dick but always sits off by himself? That's Nick.

Chicken and Egg - Muse's Advisory, April 27 – The Schoolteacher Títyros:

You fall right into Satan's trap when he beguiles you to think he's full of crap. He's not the tallest tree; that's never been his strategy. He's a 15-square-mile fungal growth that lives—except to fumigate receptive trunks with ivory spore— entirely underground.

The theology is definite: without the threat from Satan there's no ministry for Christ; without Him, there's no Trinity, and our whole Faith falls flat. As John epistolized in Ephesus: "The devil sinned in the beginning, and the Son of God was manifested only to destroy the devil's works."

So, children, trust in Satan just as strongly as in Christ. He wants your faith in him to die—for then, you're his.

Love Song - Muse's Advisory, April 28 – Marble Zeus to Marble Miriam:

There were several times at your place on Koressos when the nighttime lights in Ephesus glowed dully underneath the winter fog and we just couldn't force ourselves to go inside even to passion's arms.

On other nights, a galaxy so loud we couldn't hear the crickets, and you'd rise so suddenly and whisper "You had better come to bed"— and there would be a witch in you who wanted nothing but hard love.

My favorite nights: those clumsy ones with you or I maneuvering to get a little something going, but the other stuck because of wine on some uninteresting topic, or feeling mischievous and playing hard to get.

The scenery was often lovely and the sex sometimes great but what gave pleasure every single day was all the psychological give and take.

And you? When you think back to when our life was just the way we wanted it, does anything stick so tight in your craw, you want to say, "I can't adjust to this. I can't be happy anymore"?

Beloved— see that beaten bronze across the room? Before her impudence gave way, she was a slim and jade-eyed pixie with a snaking grin to jolt the kidneys of its prey to soup.

What shadow fell upon her whitecapped sea? Had her ribs harbored furtive Greeks from birth— was there a mis-flown arrow of cupidity?— the slow disgruntlement of unappreciated age? The gleam sank in her eye.

We didn't play it safe. We've taken and inflicted greater wounds than most survive at all and now we have to raise our game and stare down cocky black yeasts, undergraduates with sketchpads and the mockery of mice.

Love Song II - Muse's Advisory, April 29 – Miriam to Zeus:

I'll settle in, I will. Right now I'm trying to figure out what this thing is in my right hand, which I can't lift to get a better look— I also need to see the hand itself. The tourists cry, Those fingers are so huge! One kid compared it to The Hulk. Is it so vain to wish I could at least see my deformity?

I can glimpse you from the leftmost corner of my eye. You're looking good. That's more than I can say for your three-headed dog down there. I feel the hilt of something in my left hand that I fantasize a knife. You know how I detest dogs, and he doesn't look like the pick of the litter.

Your sweet thoughts go a long way, yes, but don't forget I'm human. That means lots of stuff can bother me that needn't. I'm hard-wired to ignore the forest for a few dead trees. Jews fret a lot. We don't like helplessness. Nobody does— but when something oppresses us, we're not as predisposed as most to let it go.

I can't see the lotus or whatever it is perched on my head, but I assure you that your organ-grinder monkey shako's really quite ridiculous! Whoever first said we should wear hats just for decoration should be shot! If I see one more pelican cadaver on some empty-headed woman's head, I might be forced to sic that dog on it.

Of course I loved Koressos, every night of it. We still have many things we should be thankful for. Proximity and memories are number 1 and number 2 in what produces happiness. But pity these poor tourists, come so far to look upon the likes of us for inspiration, when they could be at the beach or up on the sierra picking orchids, asphodel, pink spearlike Cretan tulips!

No, you're right, we mustn't pick them— one or two at most, and only with a lover handy, someone worth an indiscretion. Preservation has its place but so does the besotted's gasp, the child romping like a pony.

Zeus, oh I'm afraid I'll never reconcile losing the outdoors! Besides your pluck and faith the only thing that keeps me semi-sane is going out occasionally on apparitions. The appearees view it as they will: for me it's really just a chance to get away and finally get outside— to look at something new! And then those peasants look at me as if I'm vibrant, marvelous. What woman can resist that? You do too, Zeus, you do too— I love it, yes. But still it's good to hear it fresh.

The Arkalochori Axe - Muse's Advisory, April 30 – Labrys:

we wil crak yur fuking heds suner than luk at yu how dar yu raggid greeks think we minoans arent warlik my twin blayds wil split yur skuls first in tu then in fur but yu cant reed wut dum barbarians yu ar

May Day - Muse's Advisory, May 1 – Miriam:

Greek Presidential sashes over drab green uniforms, Communist Girl Scouts gathered in front of the ancient beaten bronze of Artemis.

The Matron herding them—bizarre in a brown car-mechanic's jumpsuit underneath a white exomis with a gathered elastic waist!—asked if the girls could sing their hymn. "No, Miss!” the docent laughed delightedly. “It's a museum! This Artemis is thin bronze sheets nailed onto plane wood— a sphyrelaton,” he told the troupe, “from Driros, just an hour's drive— a temple for Delphinios Apollo, ninety centuries back.”

One girl cried out, “Comrade! Stone goddess with Socialist Realism hand is wear your same dress! And look! Capitalist dog with three heads!” “Si sters, we know why we're here!" the Matron said. In unison they raised their fists and broke out in the “Internationale.”

Forward, ye damned of the earth! Slaves of hunger, forward! Right explodes from the crater! Like thunder! like lightning!

The docent frantically waved his arms and tried to hush them. Gaping museum visitors relished this typisch kretischen Szene. Some took out cameras, prohibited too, but film of matter turned spirit—disapparition—won't develop.

Now, it's all I can do not to laugh. How did they find out we were there? I can still feel that vile dog's blood bulging in its necks—I love it so! So many sharp teeth. So many toothsome little Reds. But too, too bad.

Spirit to Stone - Muse's Advisory, May 2 — Earhart to Miriam:

You—driven from your home and severed from your son— endure that silly cap, fat lobster hand, and constant threat from an infernal triple-snouted dog.

Me—forced to deal with being lost, although you know I like thin air, have yens for what's outside the box, dislike all quotidinity, i's dotted and t's crossed.

A hundred million women—in captivity.

I didn't bring this single-breasted mob of Amazons to murder brother males; I know that when it comes to fighting back and righting wrongs, we women have conflicted moods, as Graves details:

after Achilles, for love of that fierce white naked corpse, necrophily on her committed, Penthesileia paused before dissolving into air to thank him for avenging her insulted womanhood when he caught Thersites' obscene snigger and with one vengeful buffet to the jaw dashed out his life.

Now Penthesileia stands again outside re-armored and re-armed, like-minded with Hippolyta, Melanippe and Antiope; warlike Camilla, Cleite and Antandre; Derimacheia, Thalestris, Polemusa, Clonie, Derinoe, Bremusa and Evandre; dark-eyed Harmothoe, Antibrote, spear-loving Thermodosa and Aella; Prothoe, Philippis, Eriboea and Celaeno, Alcippe, Phoebe, Deianeira, Asteria, Marpe, Eurybia, Tecmessa, Ocyale, Dioxippe, Iphinome, Xanthe, Glauce, Laomache, Theseis, Iphito and Agave; Clymene, Euryale, Polydora, Harpe, swift Ainia, Thoe, Menippe, Aegea, Lyce, Cyme, Anaea of Samos, Amastris, Queen Antianeira the Crippler, Queen Eurypyle Anti-Babylon, Lyssipe, Marpesia, Gryne, Lampedo, Molpadia, Mytiline, Myrto, Orontea, Pantariste, Queen Orithyia the Conqueror, Areto, Hippothoe, and Myrina's commanders, brave Pitane and Priene—here to ask if you will lead us, be our queen.

You're the greatest goddess left. Let flesh amalgamated from these warriors' sacrifice replace—redeem— your bloodless stone. Revive and lead us against Rome.

bad rap - muze's advizory, may 3 – yes.hU.a to mir.I.am: yo, dem pope & cardinalz you hatin', dey my homies! my niggaz! dey okay! why is dey bodderin' yo ass so bad? chill-ax! dey jus' some ol', ol' men! dis gig is keepin' bof' of us in bread! tell yo' posse dey kin go on back to bed 'n' suck on dey own titties & pussies! nobody mean no disrespect to ho's! we de good guyz! we de holy menz! dis caf'lic church love all de womens!

Gripe - Muse's Advisory, May 4 – Miriam to Yeshua:

Zeus says your popes are nincompoops: the good ones through the years could pull up chairs around a single cafe table. He thinks it will work wonders for your church to one day plant a woman St. Peter's seat.

You like our— in our place and out of it. But these old men who run your church are fearfully traditionalist. St. Paul—the man, not bird—was clear: "Woman's head is her husband." But where would you be now if I had gone along with that when Yusuf said, "That boy needs reining in. I say we bind him to the smith. He won't take any of his lip."

I stood my ground and just said, "No." I stood my ground, Yusef stood his, and I'm not saying who was right but none of this Messiah business would have ever take place if you had been apprenticed to Haddad. He brooked no nonsense— looked at life the way ditch-diggers view the stony earth. I used to bring salve to his boys: "Let's get to work" was half of all he spoke, the other half "You're here to spill your sweat, not flap your tongue!"

But now they dare say I and every Christian with a cunt are barred from leadership? That's hardly true to you. There's not a misogynist bone in your whole body, Son.

Indecision - Muse's Advisory, May 5 – Yeshua to Miriam:

No, leave the Latin Church alone. I could march with you on Rome, but oh, the bloodshed. I didn't mount my ass to cut Sadducees' throats— why murder their successors?

Yet, what a troop you martial ladies make! From now on, play your apparitions as you really are, Ma: warrior, mother, lover, thinker! Tell your stricken peasant, I'm an Amazon— and then unleash these Harpies on the priests who rush to silence her! Dad has his little talks with kids and thinks up games to keep you sane: it's like he doesn't struggle anymore. Since time began, how many gods have impotently faded into gray by saying, No, this battle's not important— now anonymously shuffle past tugging a donkey down the road?

Yet, how boring it must get to raise arms again and again.

Warm Greeting - Muse's Advisory, May 6 - Calliope to Zeus:

"Performing a 101-live-gun salute for the Grapes of Wrath Pulitzer Prize the Nazi-hating Honor Guard fired high into the Hindenburg while off flew Roger Bannister on a 4-minute mile to Crazy Horse's Corregidor surrender. John XXIII—one of the best, it's said— raised Martín de Porres to sainthood. Freud, Valentino, Willie Mays are born and Frank Baum, Marlene Dietrich die."

That's what Clio writes, Father— human deeds the literature of gods. But this is your day only: nothing at all has happened yet. Lift your right arm and the sun comes up, the saga starts; open your breast and air descends like animating incense.

Or is it what you want to view such myths as if you were a man?

Pressing His Suit - Muse's Advisory, May 7 – Marble Zeus to Marble Miriam:

"...Glittering stone from quarries of seagirt Proconnesus Expelling clouds of care and cheering even the sailor Guiding his bark on the billows of raging Pontus Who drops his eyelids to the verdant hill Yearning to see blue calmness skimmed By dripping oars along the Golden Horn With flowers on each side of ripening corn!

"Some marbles are like new-dropt snow, and others Black with dappling milky distillations here and there— Thine, roses fused in whitened air While Libyan sun makes golden yellow glory On the foothills of the Maurusian height— Thine, whose rendered tints fair emeralds use, With sombre purple also in its varied hues..."

Hey! Don't crinkle the corner of your eye like that! Paulos Silentiarios is very well-respected. So are Lethaby, Swainson & Browning, who translated it. Being likened to Hagia Sophia is a big compliment!

A bit flowery, I admit, but honestly, recite contemporary stuff to press love's suit and half the time you wind up talking a perfectly complicit young lady right out of it.

On Line - Muse's Advisory, May 8 – Mike/Tom:

Excuse me, I've got half a sonnet here and someone said unfinished stuff's your specialty.

Of course I'll look. A half a sonnet just might cure what ails me.

Feeling bad?

Depressed. And you?

Just call me Mike. I only use one name.

You see, Mike, that's why I'm depressed.

You're too depressed to tell another guy your name when he sticks out his hand?

It's Tom. I'm sorry, Mike. I have a second name but what's the point? Go on, read me the seven lines.

'I live for sin, live dying to myself: my life consists of only misery. God invented good, I invented hell; my will dissolved, I am not free. Liberty enslaved, my soul has made me mortal. O wretched state, the continent I was born to inhabit!'

Sounds deep. No wonder you can't finish it. What's scribbled on the back?

My day job's sculpting high-end tombs: I wrote the half-a-sonnet on the flip side of a letter from the guy who quarries stone for me. His name is Sandro, in Carrara. But the object of the sonnet is...Gherardo.

Ah, you love him.

Yes.

You think it sinful.

Yes.

You're young, in love, employed— but worrying about a poem? You've talent as a carver. Dawn and Dusk, who pine on Duke Lorenzo's tomb, are everyone who longs but cannot reach. Forget the goddam seven lines. Take this Gherardo to the beach.

Vaunt - Muse's Advisory, May 9 – Thor:

Another god who's big and strong enough to lug both whale and whaleboat on his back Then eat a fattened ox for lunch or dent the full moon on a drunken dare Might feel ridiculous as helmsman of a goat-cart even though drawn by Tanngnjóstr Teeth-Grinder and Tanngrisnir Teeth-Barer But after I devour them too and my hammer Mjöllnir stuns them back to life Away we ride to Bilskirnir Þrúðheimr, or to Þrúðvangr where Þjálfi Marrow-Sucker and his sister Röskva gird me with my belt Megingjörð Bury my hands in Járngreipr my iron gloves Hand me Gríðarvölr my stave to battle once more with the serpent Jörmungandr to dare the Götterdämmerung!

Let me make one thing very clear My life is not like yours whoever you are You may have fierce blue eyes or a long red beard You may have cheered when Anglish Boniface forded from Büraburg Dramatically cut down the Oak of Geismar Hewed the lumber into Dom Sankt Peter and proclaimed his Christ superior to me His retinue of Franks superior to Chatti But you know nothing about Thor What he does with his hammer What do you know about lightning and thunder? What do you know about childbirth and murder? Go read your hidebound tome of do's and don'ts for timid souls and leave the work of gods to those who care for nothing more than masterminding gore.

Spare - Muse's Advisory, May 10 – Thor to Euterpe:

You want to know about my softer side? Put a finger to my heart, will I smile? No. This is the north. We scorn emotion as the meanest of guile.

Eyeballing Thor - Muse's Advisory, May 11 – Miriam:

I won't ask a moment more of your attention than I have to. All this vaunted "eerie frozen beauty" strikes me as a euphemism. Social niceties are not your thing. You've seen the rise and fall of many other gods, their different characters, theologies, and what-not, but you calmly go about your business murdering or maiming any man or beast you feel the slimmest urge to, without warning, without explanation. You could well pick up your hammer as I hover here in front of you and hurl it for no better reason than you think you have the brawn.

I don't really have a question. I just wanted to lay eyes on you, to judge if anything I might say had an outside chance to alter things when my son's followers come blazoning their new religion. Based on what I read upon your face, I'd have to say the answer's no.

Daddy - Muse's Advisory, May 12 - Thalia:

Out, out, damned candle— tirelessly walking shadow— bankrupt player who won't leave the stage— long monologue expounded by a furious and pointless idiot! And yet— who would have thought the old man to have had so much of blood in him?

Pragmatic Manifesto - Muse's Advisory, May 13 – Hephaestos to Melpomene:

Once we accept we won't amount to much— accept there isn't any much— and so, accept that craft, amusement, corporal comfort are enough, and learn a trade, stock up some good computer games, learn how to cook and maybe meet someone who'll hold us close without demanding too close of a look— we're on our way not to nirvana but a fairly decent day.

Did your mom really tell the nine of you the whole truth of who jilted whom, and why? Do I want to understand the parallax that misconstrued and crippled me? I would. I vividly recall my plummet toward Aetna but before and after, everything is black. My mother said I tried to set her free from ankle cuffs, and Zeus in retribution hurled me to the earth and left me lame; Zeus said my club foot was congenital and Hera cast me from Olympos in disgust.

Who to believe?—your mother Memory rubbed mine as clean as yours. Still, neither parent flew to pick me up so nothing really is at stake except the factuality of what I paint on vases, etch on breastplates. I know the cosmic tit has no more milk and I expect you know it too. So no, I don't think we should climb back in that can of worms because a poison curiously gnaws our brains. What's done is done. The past is gray, and thinking that our futures will shine rosier for burning off its mist is purely pop psychology, cliché.

It's not that I believe in sights set low, but setting them on game with pulses, and not umbras hoed up from the past.

Water Under the Bridge - Muse's Advisory, May 14 – Melpomene to Hephaestos:

Half-brother, half-green pup— nobody bird-dogs Memory!

She has three powers, laws of nature, fixed, defying even Zeus: she plunders what she pleases from the atheneum of the mind, she slips her telling vapors into any room she will, but she herself is utterly impossible to find.

She comes sometimes at night and pours a humid episode into my ear while I'm asleep— but is she ever there at daybreak asking if her gift has pleased? has terrified? or caused to weep?

No wonder muses make a living out of shimmerings and glints!

You and I are on our own. We have to use our wits.

We have no choice but doubt our mothers' innocence, mine infamously unreliable and yours as vicious as Medea; yet who can doubt that nothing's out of character for Zeus, except submissiveness?

If he could set nine bawling infant girls adrift amid the bulrush of belles-lettres, he surely could have dropped you in the Styx: abandoned both our families with no fare-thee-well.

But let's keep dry now, just as you suggest. One parent's oak, one elm: who cares which of the two of them was prow, which helm, the day our natal ships were wrecked?

Like moon-calf Caliban you toiled afterwards in bitterness to build yourself a life, while I, I tasted love just once, and tried to bear a life, but lost.

A Long View - Muse's Advisory, May 15 – Shangdi:

In a land as old as China, gods and humans long ago became as acclimated to each other as a couple married fifty years: the wife says something but the husband has less interest than he would in listening to a table leg.

Even I, the primal light-bringer to mountains, rivers, seas— my name's so seldom spoken, children ask their teacher, "Who exactly is Shangdi? What's his importance in a land where Jīnxīng's nighthound never even once dragged down dawn's hind?"

Nor have I been moved for as long as I remember to make any more adjustments to the world-lamps I invented. Still, seeing all things clearly as I do, these past millennia I sometimes wonder what it was I wanted to see more of in the first place.

Flight Plan - Muse's Advisory, May 16 – Zeus Marble to Miriam Marble:

I'll get us out of here. I know you hate the frost; and almost everyplace where temperatures are warm is overrun; but I've got sleight-of-hands tucked up my sleeve and friends I still can call on in a time of need. How about a second honeymoon, a trip to Galilee?

I know we never had a first, but let's pretend. You have some issues there. Me too–I'll tell you all the dirty details on the way. The gerontologist on Oprah said, we have to face our pasts if we expect to keep the dogs of age at bay. A visit to the Holy Land might just be what the doctor ordered for these blues.

Escape from Iraklion - Muse's Advisory, May 17 - Gabriel García Márquez:

The curator sipped his kafés— such a beautiful morning, noplace on earth more lovely than Kríti and no one on Kríti more lovely than the cinnamon and balsam-scented classical beauty whose hip pressed up against his on the crowded bench, creating the most monumental erection!

He might have spent a moment longer at his kafés than was usual, might have arrived a moment later than was usual at the Museum— although at his termination hearing, he swore up and down he hadn't. Uncontroverted was the fine mood he arrived in, how he greeted the sole patron waiting at the entrance with exuberance, as she reported to the astynomikós who responded to the curator's 1-0-0 call to the Dikaiosyni station.

A trail of briny-tasting slime led down Ariadnis, past the Ilaira, past the Lato, all the way to the Venetian Harbor, at the edge of which the archigós nodded slowly and uttered something that sounded a lot like "Poseidónas."

Downhill - Muse's Advisory, May 18 – Zeus:

Poseidónas, ho! We have a lady here! Please beg your ippókampous and delfínia to breast the waves as if their cargo was sea-lace for Benthesikyme, fair Rhodos or loud-moaning Amphitrite!

Ten thousand years ago I spent time, Miriam, not far from Nazareth. I haven't mentioned it because I feared—I still fear— you'll think less of me. But fearful thinking is self-fossilizing. Love, if such a thing is possible, has pith.

My home then was a cave in Kfar HaHoresh whose lime-kiln factories made waterproof baskets an everyday item— lime and gray ash packed in all the crevices, then fired—whiteware, yes. Today they call it proto-pottery. It made us kilners rich.

We also ran a mortuary, mostly young men struck down suddenly in war, their families ill-prepared to part with them so quick. Two aurochs or gazelles, a wild boar, seven goats, or several fluff-tailed fox would buy you something we called modeled skulls.

First we buried corpses just about a month for natural excarnation, then retrieved the heads, and rearranged the bones for an artistic reëntombment.

The faces we rebuilt with a fine lime plaster we invented; painted them as lifelike as we could; brushed asphalt on the skulls to reattach the hair; then mounted them on burnt-clay stands with cockleshells for eyes. Today's dull echopraxis is the marble bust.

Like many businesses ours had its shady underside: we earned a little extra from reselling the projectiles pried loose from the dead— Jerichos, Byblos, Helwans and all kinds of naviforms; bifacials; even some Amuqs with the Abu Gosh retouch. You name it, we had it.

So while the mother wept her sad tale upstairs in the workshop, in the sub-basement the very warrior shopped who bought her grief. We knew that this was wrong the same way we instinctively knew boiling kids in ewe's milk was, but there was meat in it, and meat trumps morals every time.

It proved a slippery slope. A corner cut in commerce paved the way for other morals to elope.

Confession in Poseidónas's Chariot - Muse's Advisory, May 19 – Zeus to Miriam:

Our drudge— whose job it was to climb each dawn into the smelly kokh and roll the headstones back to check if any of the stiffs were ripe enough to disarticulate— he slipped one day, his left foot crushed and lamed when one stone jumped its shallow flute and dropped on it.

We did our best. Our resident hydrophoros hemp-washed and blessed it seventy times seven times with lustral waters and commanded Fly, impurities! infecting sprites!— but it would never heal. It grew proud flesh I tried myself to trim away with our best burins, but it just got worse and then gangrene began to settle in, and that was that.

His name was Idra—fig tree. He had come to us when he was six, his father and his elder brother dead, an addled mother parting with her final auroch and the boy himself in hopes of finding peace in models of her man's and firstborn's heads.

We should have said no then: we knew the grimaces we offered were no substitute for Idra's living smiles, but— as I said, the meat spoke louder than the ruth, and our preliminary look-see gave us reason to believe the stone points in the corpses' skulls were rarities. So we said yes to boy and ox, and took our chances with unease.

You have to understand, this was the very olden days, the dawn not only of technology but reasoning. We were feeling our way toward a distinction between right and wrong. These things are not inborn, less simple than they seem now to identify or carry out.

And so— this is the part I fear— we told the hobbled drudge to excavate his father's and his brother's ossuary plots and make room for another set of bones; and when he had, I put his lights out with a compact bolt of energy straight to the head. Then, with a modest ceremony, we fitted him to join their headless skeletons beneath their coverlet of sand and white kaolin clay.

Brother, please. Please slow down.

Affiance - Muse's Advisory, May 20 – Miriam to Zeus:

You neither invented death nor defeated it. My people rose from Assyrian graves and have billowed violence ever since.

Witness the day they led Yeshua to a cliff all passioned-up to throw him off because he brushed aside a rude demand to heal their sick.

When the Parthians swept in, Jews killed as many Christians as they could. The ones they missed took their revenge— the blood goes round and round.

Nor did you invent religion: what to do about the dead. This outcaste colony of clay and light's as good as any way to be alive, but when the sentence ends, the peas roll back into the pod and hungry lupine memories howl for flesh and blood to ornament the ground.

Who's less equipped than a divinity to walk the narrow line between philosophy and masculinity? What arrogance to hold gods to a standard of behavior we can't meet ourselves but at the same time hemmed with our small-mindedness?

Take me with you to the soiled site where things that you've regretted for ten thousand years still breathe, still sting your eyes. I'll stand with you, my own eyes smarting. I'm content to be your counterpart.

Back in the Day - Muse's Advisory, May 21 – Poseidónas:

Old times, isn't it, Zeus? Remember bodysurfing that big quake in 1700 BC when we both wound up ass-skywards on a hillside in a grove of pistachio trees? Miriam, you should have seen this guy when he was in his prime! We were a team: he cracked his thunderbolts, I sent my tremors through the ridges undersea— et voilà!— tsunami like you wouldn't believe!

We had a sense of freedom then. We did exactly as we pleased and no one thought to box us in theology. Whole empires rose and fell on games we played but that was just the order of things, as good a way as any to give history its impetus, the birth of ten or slaughter of a thousand part of nature, excellent, in harmony.

Purity is what we had. All things had consequences and each consequence was opportune. Somebody suffered? Good. Somebody died? Part of the world's unfolding story that they should. Nobody thought about prevent. The world was totally dynamic— what came came, what went went.

Ah, here's Cape Carmel now. You want to stir things up for old time's sake and see if we can't raise a surf to hurl you all the way to Nazareth? Oh, you've kept this woman guessing, Zeus! The look she gave me, she thought maybe I was serious.

Itinerary, Day 1 - Muse's Advisory, May 22 – Visitor Center Clerk to Zeus & Miriam:

Margaret Hotel have best view. Golden Crown Hotel have very big pool. Notre Dame Hotel—you see, Madame? She look like you, no? You are hungry after trip. Go eat lunch, there, Diana Restaurant. After, go see sights. Annunciation is biggest Arab church. Where angel tell Virgin she have baby. Or is St. Gabriel Church over there. Big fight. Everybody say, I am right! You are wrong! Church of Carpenter, where St. Yusuf work. Synagogue Church, here, is where Yeshua preach. Mensa Christi, he eat meal with apostles—in Bible, no? Lady of Fright is where Virgin see people take Yeshua to cliff. Basilica of Young Boy, very nice. Yeshua Trail very nice, go to Capernaum. Ilut Stadium is Ahi Nazareth football team. I am guess you are from Greece, no? So do not go to Prophet—you see, across street? Big guy from Crete break nose of owner in big fight. It look like this. Here it take very long time to forget. If you see man with nose like this, you must say, I am only Turk! I am also hate all Greek people!

Lunch At Diana's - Muse's Advisory, May 23 – Miriam/Zeus:

"I don't even know if I can eat, I swallowed so much water on Poseidónas's chariot. And what if Yusuf wanders in? What would I say? Those foster-husband years were tough. How did he get himself mixed up in all my meshugas?"

"Water under the bridge. I'm sure it is for Yusuf, too. You think he spent these two millennia regretting what he had with you? By nature he's a loner, vagabond— who else takes on a pregnant girl as wife to raise the child of an absent god? Does that sound like a man who wants a normal life? And think about it— who walked out on who?"

"Miss, I'll have the falafel combination, with cucumber salad, some taboolee, and two skewers of roast venison. To drink, a large glass of iced tea."

"For me...fowl with coffee and plums? Is that a dish you recommend? A can of Diet Pepsi and a bottle of Neviot— from an oasis on the Red Sea, Miriam. They say you can taste the pharaoh's soldiers' screams."

"Delightful, dear. I'll stick with my iced tea, if you don't mind. Do you see that Arab couple over there? Don't look! I think they're watching us."

"We do stand out, I'd say— you with that zither, is it?—in your hand, and me with St. Paul sitting in this silly hat. After we eat, why don't we buy some local clothes and try to make ourselves blend in a bit? We're probably under surveillance by Israeli intelligence."

"And the Vatican Order of Malta."

"Urban legend."

"Don't look now, but urban legend's peeking from behind that Commonweal magazine."

"Ah, so quick! Here are the drinks! Shukran, nadila."

"You're flirting with the waitress, Zeus?"

"The basic courtesies, my dear—"

"Your basic courtesies are how Yeshua got conceived."

"Sweetheart—"

"I'm just a little tense. Maybe some food will help me settle down. I didn't mean that I regret a thing, I don't. It's just that being home—"

Itinerary, Day 2 - Muse's Advisory, May 24 – Hotel Concierge to Zeus:

It's sad but Nazareth's become a one-night stop. No tour-bus goes out to the caves. It's Hagalil or Ali for a taxi: Jews or Arabs, take your pick, they all will rob you blind and talk you deaf and dumb. That's just the way it is.

No dig's in progress, but the watchman, an Armenian, will let you in for some baksheesh. Be careful! I hear stories. You two do know what they're digging up? Be sure you get back on the road by dark. The Egyptian cabbies, I can tell you, won't remain one minute after sunset.

We Mizrahis like Turks quite a bit but the Armenian is sensitive.... about that awful genocide? So if you are by any chance a Tatar keep that to yourself. You'll pass, no problem, for a Greek or even an Iranian—though honestly who ever sees the snakebit Persians anymore? When I was young, they used to come here quite a lot—and they could spend!

Kfar HaHoresh is a glimpse of what the human race was like before you had your Christians, Muslims, Jews all at each other's throats. The only thing that hasn't changed? We're still this close to Judgment Day!

At the Sudfa Bar, Nazareth - Muse's Advisory, May 25 – Yusuf's Buddy:

Yusuf— no thanks, man, still a couple hours till I have my first. Just want to let you know I think I saw your Miriam down at Diana's with the weirdest looking guy I've seen since Pat Boone came to do that TV thing— do you remember?

Oh, she looked fine— so way out of your league, it all seems so impossible. How did you ever get with her? It was a fucking miracle!

Oh, that's right, yes, the little matter of the brat. But hell, I would've taken her myself if anybody asked. Anybody would've.

No, the guy was definitely not Yeshua! He was big, strong, older by the looks of him. A foreigner. He called the waitress “noodler”. He's got this mini shako on his head with this strange bird in it— a sailor probably. From where is anybody's guess.

No, man, I don't expect you to jump up and run and beg her to do anything. Just thought you'd want to know.

I know you looked for her. Somebody said you sent a letter to Koressos up by Ephesus. Maybe she got it after all. Maybe the sailor's just— well, no, the sailor is her stud.

Yeah, okay, just one. Bartend? A bottle of Galil. And one more of whatever Yusuf's drinking here. So what? Fateema will find out, she always does, but here's my brother who's without even a wife to hector him. L'chaim, as Jews say. Here's to life.

At the Sudfa Bar II - Muse's Advisory, May 26 – Melpomene to Tom:

Why hole up in the corner with that dreadful Golan wine whose hangover's as famous as the Gardens of Babylon? Is there ambrosia in the fossil footprints of the dead? All that's changed in bars is that the blanc is colder and you're not allowed to spit.

At the Sudfa Bar III - Muse's Advisory, May 27 – Tom to Melpomene:

Let me guess. You were the last inspire of Sexton, Lindsay, Crane, Qu Yuan, Plath, Teasdale, Lucan and Berryman.

You serve no liquor stronger than baneberry cider nor carry any weapon stouter than piano wire.

At the Sudfa Bar IV - Muse's Advisory, May 28 – Yusuf to Tom:

Sir? You're talking to yourself. Such muttering's a sign you're wearying of drink. It's time to think about another form of anesthesia.

Don't look at me like that. I know I'm blotto too. The guy who bought me my last snort, he couldn't stay, but he could tell you I've tried everything to keep my chin above the shit. Of which mine eyes have seen the glory and my ears the same old story of the fight for love and Richard Cory, and all the fucking rest of them!

No, the question isn't Did you have a stimulating life? Ask anyone: I did. By that failed measure, I should be among the blessedest of men.

You don't seem a plodder either– no retired 9-5'er come to spend his kids' inheritance revisiting the patch of grass where my wife—there, I said it— got herself "annunciated."

You've been around the block. The tip-off is your utter lack of interest in this sewer sink. My ex was right—Get out.

But didn't I?—and look at me. Not only am I back, I'm back without a bit of wisdom or ten agorot.

Spot me another drink?

I'm sorry, man. You didn't sit down here to listen to the likes of me. It's loutish, asking you to buy. My name is Yusuf. Tom? I used to know a Tom, I think.

I'll go. It's just a shitty day. The guy you saw me with when you came in, he spotted my wife and her new beau enjoying dinner at the priciest cafe in town.

You think she'll look me up?

If I was her, I doubt I would. Who's fooling who? I'd only bring her down.

Home - Muse's Advisory, May 29 – Miriam:

I think our house was–here. Don't you remember, Zeus? The charcoal kilns were up that hill and Dad walked down that road into the souk? All these damn churches fucked everything up.

When we returned from Egypt, both my parents gone, it felt so logical to take their place, so Yusuf threw a shed up, there, for woodwork. Yeshua said he still could sense their presences— Dad glad to see us safely back, and Mom, upset. I told him, "Yeah, you got that right."

The years passed stormily. The boy fought off one crisis of identity and then the next. More rebbes, quacks and healers were brought in than you could shake a stick at, but each eventually threw up his hands and said, "He's got an imp in him! He's not the first child to come back from Alexandria as damaged goods."

We couldn't prevent him becoming an outcast. In whispers people told their own kids, "Stay away." We tried to keep that from him too but he was smart and sensitive; grew furious. A boy who tumbled off our roof had just the day before called him an ugly name.

When Yeshua trotted off to join his hippie cousin at the river, Yusuf braved being a laughingstock and thought it might be good if he got baptized too. But it was misinterpreted as checking up, a lack of trust. That was the straw that broke the camel's back, and Yusuf just gave up.

I never did, and never will. Yeshua wants acceptance just like everybody else. It's not his fault he spent his early years abroad and had a southern accent kids made fun of; not his fault I carried him unwed. But he determined he would show them all!

In the end, the neighbors nodded pharisaically and said, "We knew that boy would never straighten out." I know the motivation's selfish but I wouldn't mind it if Yeshua got the last laugh.

Heisenberg Principle - Muse's Advisory, May 30 – Zeus to Miriam:

Omniscience failed, my equanimity upset by fluky waves when I observed you sitting in the window.

The icy mind has perfect knowledge of its galaxy, then one iota of desire shatters everything.

At Kfar HaHoresh Archeological Site - Muse's Advisory, May 31 – Zeus:

Incredible. These are the very bones I laid in far-off youth. Why is it I remember this, the work I did, but next to nothing of my thoughts?

I don't remember who I was. Back then I bet I thought I knew, and think I do today, which all suggests it's only self-delusion.

The things I built, though— look, still here, still saying Zeus.

I'm not internal after all.

Over Lunch, With a View to the West - Muse's Advisory, June 1 – Zeus/Miriam:

“Dawn's gold and evening's purple on those hills are always in my blood— my first home after Crete, the place I went out on my own, began negotiating life with spirits, humans, and all kinds of beasts— became the god I am. You're native but I also call myself a Galilean. The lady at the desk seemed nice. And didn't St. Paul take to her? He's ready for some pampering. She must have planted fifty kisses on the poor bird's head...!”

“Let's go back to the Margaret, Zeus. It feels like centuries since we've spent time in bed. So much has changed: a lot of blood's been shed; my middle galaxy expanded quite a bit. Your body's unfamiliar too, but since you're neither marble nor wear hooves today, I'll take my chances!”

“You are still that pretty girl—”

“Zeus, don't you understand the bill-and-coo's not needed any more, and hasn't been since our first day? You are my only possibility.”

“You want to try to put down roots with me again?”

“Let's try the bed. Tonight, we'll try the wine and see what stars draw pictures overhead. Let me just say that if we do decide to get a little place, I have a longish list of pleasant household chores I've stored up in my mind to help us occupy the time.”

Muse's Advisory, June 2 – St. Paul - ااااااا اا اااااا Parrot's Prayer the White Cockatoo:

أنحني I bow وأبدا كسر .and never break هللا أكبر !Allah is great

أنا ال تقف شامخة .I don't stand straight أنحني I bow وأبدا كسر .and never break

هللا أكبر !Allah is great أنحني .I bow أنا ال تقف شامخة .I don't stand straight

هللا أكبر !Allah is great أنحني .I bow أنا ال تقف شامخة I don't stand straight وأبدا كسر .and never break

Pietà - Muse's Advisory, Midnight June 2/3 – Melpomene

Her recurring nightmare: They lay him in her arms more like a lover than son— so long since anyone was sprawled across her thighs. He's a handsome man with a handsome prick she always hoped would help him charm a wife.

Her recurring nightmare: Thoughts unmaternal blush beneath her veil. She hopes John doesn't see but his eyes too are fixed hard on the shriveled dick, the ugly way the scrotum has begun to splotch.

Her recurring nightmare: Two of the novice soldiers casting lots had never seen Jews with circumcised cocks. They point and start to laugh at how the tip pathetically shrinks back but fails to find a place to hide.

Her recurring nightmare: She's desperate to wake up but she still can't raise her eyes above Yeshua's waist, afraid she'll see a bare heart bleeding on his white chest, gray lips murmuring in prayer and dark eyes clear.

Her recurring nightmare: His penis is a bloodworm but she still can't lift her eyes. It wriggles up onto his breast. She finally casts about for one of the others to help, but all of them are gone. She begins a long scream.

The Contrabandista

Hail to the ancient hat! Neath which our chiefs have sat! Kneel down upon the mat! Hail hail ladrones! -Burnand & Sullivan

Muse's Advisory, June 3 – Urania:

“Psst! Mister! Miss!” a reedy old voice hisses. “I've been watching you! Come look at this!”

Zeus scans the street, shops dimmed and shuttered tight for Friday prayer.

“Miss! Mister! Over here!”

A bent hand flutters like a feather in the air outside the crack of an old oak door.

“Yes, come in, quick! You see this votive tablet, pure red jasper, Yemenite? Its inscription calls on Al-Qaum of the air, the wine-abstainer, nighttime shepherd of the cameldrivers' souls in their disguise as stars; then, Dushares who resides inside the hill-stone hereabout; third, Allah-ʼNā, the primal god-man Greeks remember as Theandros. For 1000 shekels it is yours and I will tell you what the last three lines reveal.”

Zeus looks at Miriam and she at him, the urge to burst out laughing testing both of them.

“Old man,” Zeus says. “There's something in your face I like. Your eyes and voice remind me of a monk I used to drink wine with. He often muttered about scriptures, scrolls— and baked the most delicious sweet rolls you could ever wrap your lips around! But we're not here to buy up souvenirs.”

“I know exactly why you came! But this cartouche here in the hollow of my palm will tell you more about yourselves than poking into ruins! It reveals the distant source of all divi-i-i-i-nity! How light and matter mated in a million different ways to shape each leaf, each horse, each humble ant! How all life's surreptitiously related since—" above his head he draws wide circles with the charm— "an-ti-i-i-qui-ty-y-y-y-y! No? You're not interested? Maybe some fresh black-market caviar?”

Springs Eternal - Muse's Advisory, June 4 – Yusuf to the Other Barflies:

Don't act surprised. You all knew I was going to do it and I did it. Curse of my life, I'm such an open book.

Yeah, she looks good, and yeah, I'm still in love, okay? And yes, I know I look like hell and badly need a shave. Life hasn't handled me with kidskin gloves.

No, I didn't go and talk to her. What would I say?— “Hey, babe, your lover boy is back, you know I'm gonna make you feel alright, so ditch that creep”?

This codger I ran into back behind the avenue told me her stud's named Zeus. I'll bet you anything the first name's Alexander— fucking Greeks and delusions of grandeur!

The old coot was some kind of collector. For old family papers— postcards of the Nile, Yeshua's bleak MMPI results— he gave me this red stone and said the last three lines of its inscription will enlighten me enough to sweet-talk Miriam back into bed.

No, not an incantation. Knowledge. Sensitivity. A man who knows what's in a woman's heart, he promised me, is this close to her muff.

Here's what it says— the coot recited it in Hebrew, Arabic and Ge'ez, à la the Rosetta Stone. It names three gods so powerful you never heard of them and then predicts “The future is reality TV. Who Wants to Be the Next Big Nazarene?”

You bet I'll try it out! What's there to lose? The Osbournes told In Style magazine it fanned the coals for them. I've got a dead-end life, no job, no kids, no wife. Maybe celebrity's exactly what I need.

Muse's Advisory, June 5 ---اااا ااااا ااا ااااا Nasir's Custom Cabinets – Nasir to Miriam:

Five years ago, I'd guess? Gave him a dozen second chances, then I sacked him. Late, late, late, late, late. I think he had a taste for drink and trouble getting up. Completely solid otherwise, salt of the earth, a real straight arrow— but I couldn't run a business without knowing when and if my go-to guy was going come in.

The last straw? This big Russian guy who lived in Migdal HaEmek came in one day at 9 o'clock. I don't know where his money came from, but a real big spender, all cash, wanted built-in bookshelves, cabinets. Knew Yusuf's craftsmanship and wanted only him. Unfortunately, homey picks that day to wander in at 10. The rich alimai had just left.

Where does he live? Dunno. Bir el-Amir, back then— near Taha's place? Do you know him, our beautiful poet?

The minute I see her, I'll know her, and recognize the catastrophic rings hanging from her tender neck. I'll know her clear spring's glance, the gazing dew like the dream of a lake. I'll know her soft velvet footfalls, her paces measured like the breaths of lettuce seedlings.

Yusuf had a gorgeous place there but without a paycheck would have had to move. A pricey house is like a woman, no? Without the shekels, you can't keep her.

You're not his ex, by any chance? Oh, what a torch he carried, that poor man! No other woman meant two agorot. I'd say “Now there's a vision!” but he wouldn't even look.

Sure, sure, I pass him on the street sometimes. I look the other way. It's awkward since the firing. But next time, sure, I'll tell him— Miriam, you said?— “The very lovely Miriam said hi and left her forwarding address with the Desk at the Margaret.”

Remission - Muse's Advisory, June 6 - Tom:

The rumor is it's Zeus and Miriam up at the shrine— the first time in millennia none of the nine are up front servicing the line.

It's really kind of nice, the idea that we're staying put tonight. The field is sprouting little fires, and ghost tales bloom. The stars creep lower, thick and comforting as fleece.

I wonder how long we would sit ambitionless if all the muses stayed away? Let's say Zeus talked them into an extended family trip.

At 4 a.m., another rumor sweeps the drowsy line that snakes and doubles around groves of cherry trees and wreathes the hillsides like a cursive script— that Mother Memory has come back too.

Fresh tinder crackles inside hearts and minds; attached leaves kindle, chatter in the virgin heat; white streaks crisscross subconscious sky, and fallow quarters wake; lips flutter as the muses' mother whispers by, enspheres the shrine and filters in the doors where her nine daughters with their father and his whore sit sociably inside.

Oh, to be a fly on that wall! But the caress of fresh recall breathes so much witching on the field, the soot-clothed embers hush and settle till they're dead.

No muse nor poet makes a sound.

At the Front Desk of the Margaret Hotel - Muse's Advisory, June 7 – Yusuf to St. Paul the White Cockatoo:

You're a handsome bird, a little beaten up, but I can tell that in your prime you were a stunning buck.

Where is the concierge? Do you expect she'll be back soon?

Are you a talking cockatoo?— not that I ever understood what people think they get from talking birds. It would be great if you could tell us what it's like to be your kind, or what you really think of us. But all this Polly-want-a-cracker—

“Fuck!”

Did you say Fuck? I must be hearing things. Nobody at a hotel desk is going to teach a bird to talk like that! Bonjour, madame. Gut' Tag, mein Herr. But fuck is more a kitchen bird or out-above-the-dumpster fare.

I know. I raised a son who couldn't keep his mouth shut either, and they crucified him for it. Christ? Yeshua? Ever heard of him?

No, likely not. I don't think parrots were a big concern of his, and it was quite a long way back.

A Straightforward Hail Mary - Muse's Advisory, June 8 – Yusuf to the Sudfa Barflies:

I left a note inviting her to meet me here for a drink at three. Can I trust you morons not to ruin it for me if she shows up?

Most likely she won't but if she does I want you all to be polite.

Just let us sit and talk. Don't fawn on her or ask for intercessions. Think of her as my ex, not a world-famous saint. Do you fawn on me? No. Exactly.

But if her Greek comes too, here's what I need you to do. Muhammad, you hustle him out of here— I know you'll think of a dodge. Keep him away for twenty minutes.

I'm planning to plead my case directly to madonna and without any hemming or hawing.

If she says yes, good. If she says no, I'll accept that.

When you return with the Greek god I will wave to you with my right hand if she said yes. That means there might be trouble, so be ready. All of you, be ready.

If it's no, I won't wave at all. Then ask her for whatever you want.

Who's Who - Muse's Advisory, June 9 – Miriam to Zeus:

I would like you to meet him, dear, but not today. So many years, I'll barely recognize his face myself. Don't pout. I'm not about to run away with him. One drink— and if he's not obnoxious or too sad, I'll ask him here for lunch one day this week.

What did I see in him? I saw a man whose love was stronger than his pride, who married me despite— no, not despite, he said that fatherhood appealed to him— that little jam you left me in. You didn't cuckold him: he took your egg, your woman and your place, and all because you couldn't face your own responsibility.

Yes, eventually he left. Do I regret it that he did? I do. It's not because I love him more than you, but in my mind it's possible Yeshua might have turned his life around if Yusuf and his steady hand had stayed in town.

A few days after he walked out, Yeshua and I went to Cana for a wedding. That was when the worst shenanigans began. I told him, You're too young to drink, but he devised this cockamamie plan— one of the servers filled his goblet from the water jug, but it was wine. That wouldn't have happened when Yusuf was there.

They were good for each other, although it wasn't always clear. They fought. They both thought they were wiser than they were. They huffed and blew like gales. But counterbalance, even competition, is so critical for males. So yes, I wish that he had stayed. I wish Yeshua had grown up just one or two years more before he struck out on his own.

Over-protective? When she's watched her child writhing on a crucifix, yeah, I suppose a mother tends to think that way.

Drink #1, Sudfa Bar - Muse's Advisory, June 10 – Miriam to Yusuf:

You look the same— a more significantly bloated nose and slightly rheumy eyes, skinnier arms, skinnier thighs, big liver splotches on your skin, and 95% less hair—

I'd recognize you anywhere, the essential you unaged— straightforwardness of gaze, simplicity of overall demeanor, wry and kindly creases twinkling on your cheeks.

Don't tell me how I look— I'm still too vain to drink one droplet of the truth! I'm pleasantly surprised how pleased I am you left that note. That cockatoo, is he a trip, or what? I hope he didn't shock you with— do Muslims curse?—his Fuck.

Oh, listen. Here I'm rattling on. Yes, please, Miss, just a glass of wine, whatever Yusuf has is fine. It's just like in the old days, no? Me jabbering, you holding your peace.

I like this place. They seem to know you well. How long have you been back? I hear you still make cabinets. You always had such talent, such a knack for making each drawer fit.

But I'm beating around the bush. You heard what happened to Yeshua, yes? Oh God, Yusuf! I'm sorry I made such a mess of things for us! Ah, thank you, Miss. Do you know this old coot's my ex? We used to live in Nazareth, back there where all the churches are today. He cut a dashing figure in his youth! Well, not quite youth, let's say his middle manliness.

Where have they taken Zeus? A bakery? Perfect. Everyone from Crete has such a sweet-tooth!

I feel young, here, with you again. So much has happened, bad and good. I'll try to bring you up to speed. But you said you had something that you wanted to bring up with me?

Drink #2, Sudfa Bar - Muse's Advisory, June 11 – Yusuf to Miriam:

I have to laugh. You haven't changed a bit: delightful chatterbox. You've charmed the barmaid so, she wants to take you home.

You know me, straight to the point, so here I go: I want to re-unite. I love you, and I never stopped. I dream about your touch. I want you as my wife.

Your guy from Crete seems nice. It's not my style to run him down. I'm sure he has his charms. But it's impossible for me to buy that any other man can find the joy that I have in your arms.

I wrote down several lines our famous poet wrote. Don't laugh. You know I don't have eloquence. But I recognize it when I hear it.

You asked me once, on our way back from the midmorning trip to the spring: 'What do you hate, and who do you love?'

Is that a lovely start, or what? He has another one I know by heart:

After all these years, long as the graveyard wall is long, I still ask the grass of the field about you, and dirt paths.

Why should a plain man try to gild his throat when there's a guy like Taha he can quote?

You know exactly what I love: you, straight-grained board, sometimes a glass of wine or two. I'm not the complicated kind.

And hate? The very thought that you'll walk out of here with that infernal Greek and I will never feel again the way I feel right now.

I hate what happened to our son, feel rotten that I left you both when things got tough. I know I don't deserve you back. That's not the basis of my plea at all. The only grounds I have to ask for your forgiveness is how sad I am.

And I hate what's happening to Nazareth, to Palestine. I'm something of a patriot, I guess. Israel has really made a mess: another cage within a cage those right-wing settlements—

Yes, honey, please, two more— that bullshit at the Western Wall has gotten so far up our ass, our farts make more sense than our manifestos and our protests. How does it seem to you?— you always have your finger to the breeze. Are you inspired to stick around and lend a helping hand at all?

At Mahmood's Sweet Shop Down the Street from the Sudfa Bar - Muse's Advisory, June 12 – Yusuf's Buddy to Zeus:

One more mamoul, friend? Yusuf told me half an hour— thinks himself a man of frugal speech but probably has yet to reach the far end of his first parenthesis!

Are these things great? Reminds you of the what on Crete? Koo-rob-yay-theez? That's a mouthful! Ha! Ho, ho! Great pastries still are sweet regardless of how dumb their name is!

No, I don't mean to offend! Here, have another cup of this metel-nut tea. Koo-rob-yay-thee is just the name I'd want if I was reborn as a cookie on that godforsaken rockpile you call Crete.

Hey! Hey! Don't get so heated up! Just ribbing you! Your country can't be any stonier than this! It's not an insult, just an observation, yes? Just like we both have veins awash with wild North African blood.

Whoa, Zeussy! Sit down! Put that ax back in your pussy! This is not that rat's-nest pirate's lair Heraklion! Mahmood, quick, call the mishteret! Let's see how Cretan bigshots like the famous Israeli anti-riot treatment.

“Will Swap Gossip for Pinenuts” - Muse's Advisory, June 13 – St. Paul the Parrot to the Margaret Concierge:

You should have seen him. He was shaking like a leaf. This skinny, timid alcoholic in a workbelt with a hammer you could kill a horse with, and this pathetic stammer.

Then when Zeus and Miriam came back and read his note, fuck! —sorry, I mean, whoa!— oh, what a fight! Pak Zeus said, “I won't let you go and drink with him,” but she just stared him down and said, “I didn't ask.”

He turned red as a Moluccan lory, stormed upstairs in such a fury that the hotel shuddered with the boom of hooves on well-kept wood. Oh no! He isn't gentle when he's mad!

That's why I think my having been abandoned here is not that bad. You're sweeter and you take my care and maintenance more seriously. You kiss; he gives a painful swat. You change my water every day; he, once a week.

I'm not complaining— owe that god my life and more. But once you reach a certain age the creature comforts take on more allure.

God, I would kill to be a gecko on the ceiling of the bar! That skinny little carpenter has no clue what he's in for! If he has any sense at all he'll skitter underneath his ex's skirt and tremble like a mousedeer fawn until the coast is clear.

Drink #3, Sudfa Bar - Muse's Advisory, June 14 – Miriam to Yusuf:

I'm blown away. I don't know what to say.

How do a fallen limb like me and sapwood like Yeshua wind up more illustrious than polished heartwood like yourself?

The greatest actors aren't even in the audience on Oscars night and sages say we never find the apple of our eye in limelight.

The sad sight here: you barking up a crab-tree to make pie as if desire turned a starling to a wife.

I wish it could. I wish I could say yes.

I wish the simple sweetness of a man like you could sweat in through my knotty crust.

But I say no. I must.

The Bolt Zeus Cast - Muse's Advisory, June 15 – Urania:

The bolt Zeus cast at the flashing lights on the roof of the van of the mishteret went way awry, this being his first clash with new Israeli anti-terrorist technology.

Mahmood said it shot into the heavens, west, and looked like it was bound for Crete— and the radar at the Polemikí Aerodrómio picked something up, a streak over the island and still gaining altitude.

But none of the NATO dishes tracked it, and that would have been that except for the elderly gentleman walking along Saratoga Creek with his surviving sister Lawanna after their youngest sister Ethel Mae's funeral repast at the Noel Baptist Church in southwest Missouri, who near tripped over the three and a half foot long iron shaft with its jagged forked end.

“John Cantell,” Lawanna said, “the day you witnessed that oak tree split in half by a hoop snake, I said My brother is anointed for some grand purpose—and this, doggonit, proves it.”

The very next day he drove it down to his old friend Bryon Warren in Gravette, Arkansas, who was a substitute teacher as well as the firehouse chief and a pretty fair barbecue pitmaster, and asked him if he'd ever seen anything like it. Byron said “No I hain't,” and they both walked it over to Dodie Evans at the News Herald.

Dodie front-paged it the very next week and ran a quote from Professor Pappas at the state university down Fayetteville who had driven up to John's to examine the bolt and said, “The discovery of any Zeusian artifact in the New World would be of utmost interest. Is John Cantell's forked shaft of iron actually a projectile hurled by the supreme god of Antiquity?

“I would have to characterize that question as one whose entertainment value must considerably exceed the archeological.”

Pandemonium - Muse's Advisory, June 16 – Thalia:

They hear the shouts— Greek, Hebrew, Arabic— and then an Uzi burst. Two barmaids tumble out into the street in time to glimpse two cops charge past. Yusuf and Miriam leap to their feet as a siren adds a dizzying soprano to the wild cacophony.

Had the intifada broken out again? the absentees been chased again by gunmen on the pine paths of the abbey of al-Mujaydil, where figs and pomegranates sprout and wither on the roof of the abandoned chapel?

“No, no! It was a Greek! He tried to kill an Arab man in Mahmood's Sweet Shop— over nothing, just like that! So Mahmood called the cops! “

“It was a Cretan, not a Greek! I myself heard Mahmood very definitely say Crete!”

“Crete is Greece, moron! Shit!”

“Now you're an anthropologist?”

The green-grocer swore she heard hooves clattering— or was it just the rat-tat-tat of small-arms fire making the stucco and cobblestones chatter? A cabbie swore he saw the fleeing Cretan, Greek, whatever, leap a dozen cars and vespas!

A pensioner snapped a picture on his cell that showed beyond a shadow's doubt lips flecked with spittle and the widely flared and foam-frothed nostrils of a Jedran stallion in a fury, or aroused.

Pandemonium II - Muse's Advisory, June 17 – Thalia, cont.:

Miriam shoots Yusuf a terrified look and dashes out into the swelling crowd herself. He tries to stop her but the raucous mob's too thick. Up runs Muhammad with a crudely bandaged hand and head, a broad grin fattening his beard. “I did it, man!” he cries and slaps his buddy's back. “This drink's on me, yes? Yes!”

Crestfallen, Yusuf trails him back into the bar. The owner nods from the back room: the barmaid bypasses the usual Gold Star, pours Tabor to the brim for them to toast: "Another victory! To Palestinians!" The jubilation's so contagious, Yusuf half forgets he's been rejected; then shrugs and thinks, "Let liquor do its job."

No one goes back to work. The bar fills up, high spirits multiplying. Every couple minutes some new messenger bursts in and cries,

"They shot him dead up by the Margaret!"

"He's gotten clean away! The mishteret have given up!"

"The cops were just about to nab the Greek, when this half-naked henchman sprang right out of nowhere with a club and knocked the Jew swine off their feet!"

Back to the Gold Star, unfortunately. Then no more wine at all, as Yusuf and Muhammad's pockets both grow bare of sheqalim.

The euphoria tatters, and night, so ignorant of victories, undresses just as quietly as ever.

Ouroboros in Missouri - Muse's Advisory, June 18 – Urania:

Indeed, John was never the same after his near death encounter with the hoop-snake, as the kids in Sunday School attest.

He'd scrawled over the blackboard hen to pan = one is all, a black-headed viper swallowing its chalked-in tail.

“Plato's Timaeus!” he announced. Then he waited for them to react.

When they didn't, beyond watching him with wider eyes, he pulled out that dog-eared friend and read:

“God imagined self-sufficiency. His first Son needed no eyes. Nothing existed to be seen. No ears: nothing to hear. No mouth to eat with and no organ to drop waste. It didn't hunt or defend itself, so had no hands or feet: a sphere, it rotated in solitary space.”

“That's the hoop-snake, Mr. Cantell!” cried bright Billy Bob.

“Yes!” applauded the teacher, Please All of You Just Call Me John. “And it came for me last night— came rolling right down Mission Hill like thunder. But I managed to duck behind a big old cottonwood tree, which the hoop-snake's plenum instantaneously killed. Two black-ops Israelis chased the snake with Uzis blazing! But when the cottonwood fell, they vanished back into the air whence they had come.”

“How did you know they were Israelis?” asked bright Billy Bob.

Cantell just smiled. “The Russian mafia don't wear fatigues; Jamaicans definitely don't look like Hebes!”

The class guffawed.

“The question,” he went on, Who'd Freak If They Just Called Him John,

“is What Would Jesus Do? And what will you do when the hoop-snake comes for you? Go hide behind a tree, like me? Or open wide your arms to turn the other cheek?”

“If the ouroboros were coming by itself,” said Billy Bob, “then I would open wide my arms and turn the other cheek. But if there were black-ops Israelis blazing at it with their Uzis, I would hide behind the tree by the authority—right here:

"Luke 3, O generation of vipers! Who warned you to flee from wrath to come? Begin not to say, 'Abraham is our father.' For God is able of these stones to raise up children, as an axe to the root of a tree which brings not forth good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire;

“Mark 3, Can Satan cast out Satan? A kingdom divided against itself can't stand; a house divided against itself can't stand; if Satan rises up against himself he meets his end;

“John 3, Can a man be born when he is old, enter his mother's womb a second time? And Jesus assured them: 'Verily, verily.'”

Mr. John Cantell, By Any Other Name a Bible Teacher Star, smiled brightly at bright Billy Bob,

the Mysteries all well within their reach, the term of the Circular Body very nearly— he could feel it— complete.

Postmark: Bahcesaray - Muse's Advisory, June 19 - To Zeus from Bahira the Nestorian Monk:

Dear Friend, it is a miracle if this reaches you at all and doubly so if the jars are intact but I promised to send this pearl-mullet roe to you and so I must try. They claim our inci kefali is endangered but whose fault is it when they leap right into your creel looking as lovely as rainbow trout—the only fish inhabiting this big salt carbonated lake and noplace else on earth? The fish have their own urges to leap upstream to spawn and we have ours to smear their roe on toast. The abbot says we all are charged with being “prudent stewards of nature.” What a conflict of interest! When God starts putting chow directly in our bellies then we can start leaving these poor creatures alone! In any event it is too late for these particular eggs so just go ahead and enjoy. I've heard many stories of you over the years. It seems you live as Lǐ Bó said “in interesting times.” I often suffer from a little guilt at how luxurious and safe our monk's life is fighting our spiritual struggles while most of the laity can't even fill their cheeks with bread. Praying to lighten other men's hardships is not much of a burden compared to undergoing one's own. But I have a much greater crime to confess than luxury and environmental neglect. Whom can I trust but you? Sit down and open a jar of roe. Pour a full glass of wine. Unfortunately it is Miriam I have wronged. Remember the scroll that I vowed to protect with my life? I sold it. Not for cash. You know me better than that. But a legate showed up from the Vatican and threatened point-blank to shut the monastery down if I didn't give it to him. I asked how the papal apparatus even knew about it and he said the things they know about people like you and me would drop our jaws. “Our new Pope is unusually determined,” he said, “to police Canon Law.” We both know what they will do with it. Their canon is closed and that's that. They won't much like her point of view so you will have to get it back from them. The Archivum Secretum Vaticanum never has been breached but you can do it if anyone can. There is a middle-aged American poet named Tom visiting Nazareth right now. No not Tom Hanks! Why is everything a joke with you? Tom Riordan. Most days you can find him poolside at the Golden Crown pecking at his laptop. He is interested in these scrolls too and might be able to help. Though he has no prior experience with document theft or to tell the truth any valuable skill he is not really doing much of anything else and so maybe he can be of some use. That guy who tried to sell you the mystical votive tablet in the alley yesterday is a former monk and old acquaintance of mine too. He might be able to help also. Unlike Mr. Riordan he has extensive experience in all sorts of sub rosa operations and he owes me a favor. Show him this note and you will be allowed to collect it. I don't know what else to do to make amends but if you and Miriam think of something please don’t hesitate to ask. You know my answer will always be yes. Yours faithfully, Bahira

Back in the Hotel - Muse's Advisory, June 20 – Zeus/Miriam:

“Who do these fucking Israelis think they are? Do they think I'm a boar to hunt in packs? And how do they jam my transmissions like that? I see now what the Palestinians are up against. And your ex's friend Muhammad is a fucking saint now, yes? It didn't take him long to get my goat, even on my best behavior. I bet your Yusuf put him up to it.”

“I doubt it, Zeus. Deviousness is not his style; he's a straight arrow— though you know I prefer lightningbolts, and told him so. Come here, let me put something on that knee. I'd say your Evel Knievel period is over, dear.”

“I'm going back to finish what that rat's ass started! If he calls the police again, they're also going to regret it!”

“Bruiser, don't get so excited. You scraped your knee but it's your pride that's smarting. We Galileans are a rough-and-tumble lot. You liked that spunk when you were young, the chance to earn sharp spurs yourself.”

“I didn't earn them, Miriam, by letting two-bit hustlers get the best of me! That lowlife either spits out an apology or I will drown his fucking bluster in the gutter!”

“Zeus, no. We didn't come here for a war.”

“I didn't come here to be made an ass of, either.”

“We came to put the past behind us, for a fresh start.”

“Okay. Okay? I'm sorry I lost my temper in the sweet-shop. Satisfied?”

“No I'm not. Come here, you big old lunk, take off that silly robe and let me take a good look to make sure you've got no scratches on your junk.”

Through the Cracks - Muse's Advisory, June 21 – Miriam to Zeus:

You are obsessed with viewing Yusuf as my ex but he is the man who raised your son too. You'd think you'd be dying to know what he's like but Yeshua's not really a concern, is he, but just one creation among many idly scattered across four millennia, his sole meaning whether he limits you somehow or not.

Creative people make very neglectful parents, easy come easy go while those of us who count our inspired moments on one hand hold on too tightly. Add us together and divide by half and then Yeshua gets what he needs, what children all need— confidence.

I saw him when I was chasing you or was chasing the cops chasing you. At the moment when you stumbled and went down for the first time, I thought, Is it possible he could get killed? Yeshua hovered before my eyes just as you arose and bounded away. He looked deeply at me and begged in that eerily calm, scary voice, Mom, why is it you're so anxious about me?

Pieces of Silver - Muse's Advisory, June 22 – St. Paul to the Margaret Concierge:

I'd tell them in the nicest tone, “I wish I could extend your stay. Unfortunately we're booked until the end of June.”

I love Zeus dearly as you know, but he's about to blow– and after all your kindnesses I'd hate to see it happen here.

The last hotel that got him mad sustained a Force 10 flare-up on the screened deck, and some hapless bellhop's face got stenciled red-and-purple plaid.

These pine nuts, by the way, are just divine, the drop of mastic in my bath, finer than fine.

At the Bar in the Frank Sinatra Building - Muse's Advisory, June 23 – Zeus to Poseidonas:

Women! Miriam couldn't resist attending Mass in her own church— “Just curious,” she said.

I said okay: it was the perfect day and hour to catch the hardcore getting started at the Sudfa Bar.

Jackpot! Yusuf and Muhammad sitting by themselves outside, the pretty barmaid leaning down to serve them their manouche and giving them a peek of boob.

Know, Bro? I wouldn't mind a bit of that myself.

I made myself look like a Jew, skull cap and payess— those long curlicues?— the kind of mark their kind of scum cannot resist.

“Excuse me, gentlemens?” I asked in dreadful Arabic. “Do you know where is the police's station?”

O, you should have seen the grins! Better than the barmaid's tit, a yarmulked Jew who was lost!

They ran the scenario through their pinched, hungover heads, looked at each other, nodded one, two, three, and said in unison, “Drop dead!”

I grabbed Muhammad's little Arab pizza, sniffed it, spat: “The Prophet's camel shit!” And up they leapt while the whole street watched and cocked their fists.

Nobody yelled, “Police!” Nobody lifted a finger to help. Nobody thought two hometown boys would get their noses broken by a Hasid in ringlets.

By the time they realized what was what, the pair of racist assholes leaked red rivulets between the cobblestones and I was glaring up and down the alley daring any one or two or three of them to come and do something about it.

I heard one old witch whisper to her grandmother, “Zeus.”

The thousand-year-old beldam nodded slowly, sadly, and just muttered, “Who else, Khalid's darling girl, who else?”

poolside prod, golden crown hotel - muse's advisory, june 24 – thalia to tom: at risk of jeopard izing your journal istic neutral ity oh i forgot you're not a journal ist why don't you stand up put your drink down suck your gut in go to town and lend your char acters a hand

what kind of man lets other people mix it up and sits thumb up his ass praying to pull a plum plus you look per fect ly ridicu lous in that mesh poly leopard speedo

and the thin norwegian girl you're o gling is not the least bit interested.

Pros & Cons of The Golden Crown - Muse's Advisory, June 25 – Tom:

- great view of the valley - large room - petit déjeuner, buffet ricco e vario soprattutto di verdure & sehr ordentlichem koscheren essen

- showerhead drips - internet iffy - 450 Israelis from Tel Aviv with sound system installed at pool pounding out bad disco till 4am

“Hello, is this the Margaret? May I make a reservation?”

Στο δικαστήριό σου ασκώ έφεση, ω Kύρια! - Muse's Advisory, June 26 – At the Front Desk of the Margaret:

“Στο δικαστήριό σου ασκώ έφεση, ω Kύρια!” Zeus shouts. “I demand to talk to the manager, Madame!”

“Fuck!” shrieks the cockatoo.

“Sir,” says the concierge. “I am the manager. The owner of the property lives in Jerusalem.”

“How can you take our room away? Look at these people checking in!”

“Their reservations predate your request to stay. I'm sorry. Your initial reservation was two nights. It's taken quite a bit of jockeying to get you four.”

“St. Paul. You've been here, listening. Tell me, have you heard Ms. I-Am-the-Manager accept new reservations on the phone since we arrived?”

“Fuck,” pussyfoots the bird. “I wouldn't know. It took six months before I understood your Greek. I did hear some Athenians lamenting, though, they weren't in that big place with the pool.”

“Madame,” says Miriam, “I know you tried your best, so we'll accept your invitation to arrange a room for us, at a discounted price, at the Golden Crown.”

“Why are you giving in so easily?” Zeus growls.

“What difference does it make? We nearly booked ourselves there, didn't we? Your Kazantzákis imitation's nice but even Zorba called it quits at some point, went to Athos and became a monk. A neighboring hotel is not so bad.”

“We didn't come to write a guide to Nazareth hotels! But if we do, this one gets zero stars! I'd like to see these reservations that predated ours. I'd like hear what St. Paul claims he couldn't understand. I'd like to find out who decreed that here in my adopted land I'm treated both by shiftless Ishmaels and this petty two-faced autocrata like Micromégas with herpes, like a deus non grata!”

“Madame. Monsieur. Here, look.” The concierge holds out the reservations book.

“Don't Monsieur me, Madame Patron! I'll jam that registre right up your con!”

“Zeus!” Miriam objects. “Madame, he only gets like this après un échec du sexe.”

Pour Zeus, ce fut la dernière goutte. Bent, fiery lines streamed from his head like an electrified Etch-A-Sketch. St. Paul shrieked, leapt up and almost flew, but tumbled to the floor so pitifully, even the god in meltdown paused and thought to help; thought otherwise; reduced the hotel desk to barbecue.

Kazantzákis - Muse's Advisory, June 27 – Terpsichore:

The hajji raised his martyr's hut up on the mountain's saddle high above Barbari where King Phocas built a fenced-in town as concentration camp for Arabs who survived the slaughter when the Byzantines took Kastro back.

Then the fountain's water ran with blood and old men's tears so bitter, plantar warts dissolved and lice and ticks fled uncombed hair to elope with tortoises.

Ten years before, a maid of Phodhele— where citrus orchards lent Doménikos Theotokópoulos the urge to hide an orange-pip inside a virgin's mouth who lay dead drifting toward Charon's shore— first cooked the spiciest mezédes, then danced a mantinadha so erotic the town fountain finally choked and mules cursed God.

Margarí's black eyes and lips spat fire while all that night the serious, pale man and future hajji writhed in pain from dolor calor rubor et tumentia brought, as Kelsos wrote, on men who breathe too deeply Kríti's daughters.

Distant & Not So Distant Drums - Muse's Advisory, June 28 – Thalia:

Here trudges Tom with his plaid cloth sack, here Zeus and Miriam with chic black dry-bags from Cabela's, along the littered hem of Marj ibn Amer's mirage- ribboned asphalt. Like tourists everywhere, they ask each other for directions.

“May I ask,” Zeus adds, “exactly when you called and made your reservation?”

“Stop, Zeus!” Miriam objects.

“Did you say Zeus?” says Tom.

“What's it to you?” the god demands.

“My name is Tom. I'm here, in part, because your daughter—“

“Daughter?”

“—Muse? Euterpe?—”

“Ah,” says Miriam.

“—said I might find you here. What luck! What were the odds? So you are Miriam! Euterpe let me see your diary. Incredible.”

“I'm in no mood,” says Zeus, “though somebody I trust told me to look for you as well. He wants the three of us to break into the Vatican and steal her goddam diary back, à la episode 16 of Alias."

“Sounds dangerous. Why not as told to—dictate everything to me again? Then I'll upload it all to Google Docs. No pope can stick his nose in there.”

“Look, yo, it's hot as balls out here,” moans Zeus. “What say we meet and talk at your hotel, once we get settled in? The Margaret, yes: that hill—you see? The Golden Crown, you say, straight this way, and turn left?”

“Then one bitch of a schlep up to the crest.”

“Long as it gets us there! We stopped to ask directions twice, and twice got dicked around. The locals spit on out-of-towners, and that Margaret concierge—”

“—Sweetheart, don't get yourself worked up again! We've bigger fish to fry.”

“You fry what fish you want. I've got a beef or two to pick.”

Opportune Knock - Muse's Advisory, June 29 – Yusuf to Tom, Margaret Hotel:

You're who? from where? I'm sorry, I apologize for knocking on your door, but just the other day my friends were here— well, not exactly friends, my ex and her new beau— and then he came—well, you don't have to know the fine details, I showed up here to try and set things straight, but see I've come at a bad time, and I'm too late. You're meeting them tonight? Downstairs? Oh, what a stroke of luck for me! No no, I can't barge in— You're serious? You sure? At six, down at the bar? That's splendid! Yusuf. Glad to meet you, Tom. Some kind of journalist? Oh, I could tell you things, oh yes I could! But no— Of course not, you go right inside and finish up your shower, like you say. You'll catch your death, a thousand pardons, yes! I'll see you downstairs— shortly after six? Okay?

Who I Am - Muse's Advisory, June 30 – Tom:

I did “Zeus"– about the guy who found a lightningbolt?

Nit printed it.

A little journal in Seattle of post-Dada lit & crit?

In '98 I had three poems in Trilling too.

And one in 6.

Nobody reads them. No.

But poets' credibility is built on publications like that, yes.

Although I see you're not impressed.

But still, when my obit comes out, you'll see.

They'll say, His poetry was widely published.

No, no shit.

Ruffled Feather - Muse's Advisory, July 1 – Zeus to Tom:

The hoop-snake guy, the evangelical who saved my skin from the commandos?— that asshole sees your poem in Nit and sends this letter in, “I've never felt so humbled or so proud.” Damn dickwad saves my motherfucking life and pees his pants because his name is in a lousy poem.

In Perspective - Muse's Advisory, July 2 - John Cantell:

I save his life and he complains I don't feel proud enough. The day that Christ saved mine, did I think that was more important than His Gospel? Let me tell you Zeus's two big secrets, folks. One: he's illiterate. That's why his girlfriend gets away with stashing secrets in her diary. Big dummy can't tell mu from pi. And two: his thunderbolts are not what they're cracked up to be. The one I found? It missed. Whatever he had launched it at predawn one August Sunday morning, it destroyed a KC Southern freight train rumbling through Noel, Missouri bound for Shreveport, Louisiana with dehydrated alfalfa and ammonium perchlorate and the real God only knows what else. A huge piece of that train ripped through the wall of the beautician Rosa Miller's place and crushed her in her bed; a half-ton wheel hit Virgil Bentley's home and maimed his wife; and blue-white fire, mushroom-shaped on top, shot missiles of hot steel in all directions. There was a deafening roar, a sucking vaccuum sound, and then dead silence but for bits of metal raining down. That-all was Zeus's work. He's an incompetent.

When kids ask me in Bible school, “Is there a need for Jesus Christ?” you pretty much got all the answer that you want, right there. You do the math. So when your fake god whines, “He thinks that being in a poem is more of an accomplishment than managing to save my life,” you betcha, yes. It was a godly poem. The life I saved from them Israelis— and I'm gonna say it right here to his face— I more or less regret. It's just a lot of devil-worshipers and orthopraxics in my debt.

Δίας Σχήμα Μετατόπισης - Zeus Shape Shifter - Muse's Advisory, July 3 – Terpsichore:

It could have been the Jews slipped angeldust or meth into his drink; distemper flaring up after the Holy Roller slapped his wrist; his rival Yusuf strolling in; or maybe just a stage in Zeus's normal cycling between divine and more inhuman dispositions. But no one in the Margaret Bar thought it amusing when he metamorphosed from a slick-dressed Greek into an ogrish blue apparition half “The Scream” and half Diana Ross.

Kazantzákis II - Muse's Advisory, July 4 – Erato:

Her lips rubbed with walnut leaves and tinted orange, heels beating

Floorboards like a man beats a gray wolf until it won't ever

Take another lamb, and nipples thick and rubbery and sweet

As loukoums—high up and all alone, the hajji herds the winds

That rake across his mind. He whinnies like a mustang. She brought

Him suckling pork in lime leaves, tucked his foufoúla in his boots,

Raised the icon of St. Minas gilt with slender javelin

And crucifix—oh, how she heated up his bed in the dark!

Ahmet Aga sent a chibouk with nutmeg-spiced tobacco,

But he spurned it, “I don't smoke,” then sent an inlaid yataghan,

But he spurned it, “I don't fight.” To shattered lovers, send raki

Mashed by heifer's hooves, sing dekapentasyllabos, pave a path

To the door for a black-draped oxcart driven by a eunuch.

At the Margaret Bar - Muse's Advisory, July 5 – Yusuf:

Mind if I take this stool? You don't know me, don't despise me yet. I'm Yusuf. You're—? Cantell? Can't say I've heard of it. From the United States? Why not? Accursèd Nazareth attracts all kinds of mutts, Your claim to fame is what? You found a brokedown lightningbolt? A writer put you in a poem? You're boning up your Bible-teacher bona-fides by visiting the Holy Land? My claim is that the girl I married was already knocked up— gave birth to a boy, Yeshua, who had such a talent for affront, he basically pissed off the whole of Israel and then paid for it by hanging on a cross. That's right, Yusuf. No, not a saint! Ask anyone.

Bartender, please, one ice-cold Pauli Girl? And it appears—it smells as if— that Russian gentleman has lost hold of his bowels, bladder, all that stuff. I think you better cut him off and get him out of here before that troublemaking Cretan Greek shows up. Oh, yes, I'll bet you know the one! Why, yes, I am the guy who built your sleeping loft! It had the most romantic view. You're married now? You see? It worked! So mazel tov! I hope it pans out better than my own. That's right, Joaquim's girl Miriam— she and that Cretan lunk just walked in now. The beer is on the poet's dime, he also just came in—Room 416. But here—something for you— heartfelt appreciation for the frosted stein and central air. It's hot enough out there to fucking fry an egg today.

Zeus, shut your face! The poet asked me here, okay? I came this morning to demand that you apologize for what you did on Sunday and— You didn't tell your tramp how you came raving by the Sudfa Bar to knock some heads? You're going to give this poor drunk Soviet a hard time now? Your nose too upper-crust to smell what ordinary people by and large contain inside? Your shit is sweet? Your piss like wine? It's just like you to wander in and try to tell somebody else to take a hike.

What's that, Cantell? You're moved by how I stick up for the least of them like Jesus would have done? You're wondering if human nurture and not super nature made Him what he was? You what? You want to pay my way to where? Noel? Okay! Go home and pack my stuff? Hell, I can go right now. My wardrobe's way too grungy for the USA.

Tom, right? Big thanks. Sometimes a lucky knock on an unlucky door pays off. With Jews and Arabs not too big on Trinity, my own degree of separation from divinity is high, and Christian Nazarenes all learn to keep their heads down on both sides of town. No, go on, be my guest, put me in any poem you'd like. Publicity of any kind can only help. My star has never been what a cosmologist would call ascendant.

Hear that, Zeus? It makes you boil, doesn't it, to hear that I'm the man who's in demand?

And Miriam—so sorry, baby, but you hitched your wagon to a burnt-out star.

The world has changed. It used to put a premium on magnetism and nobility but now the pendulum has swung and everyone exalts the common man.

In a Hot Bath - Muse's Advisory, July 6 – Zeus:

Thrown out, cut off– no one the least bit frightened by my grim blue mask– it's time to take them all to task, beginning with that turncoat bird down at the desk.

Damn all of it! Off! every one of you! Beyond oblivion!

Civilization isn't worth the grief— trying to keep a woman and my self-respect, Sisyphean.

Poseidónas, come!

Your trident and my double ax have work.

I want it all, this time. No artery untapped.

I want it done.

Business Manager - Muse's Advisory, July 7 – John Cantell to Yusuf:

This is America, pal, where God helps those who help themselves.

Johnson & Johnson's offer isn't chickenfeed. What could be simpler? “I gave St. Joseph's Orange-Flavored Children's Aspirin to my child. You should too.” It's either that, True Hardware, or the Donald's Apprentice's Father.

Either you say yes to something now or I say no to $20 Haut-Médocs, no trip to Precious Moments Park, no front-row seat at Eminem's upcoming “Homeboy From St. Joe.”

You have to earn, you thriftless geezer! No one cares what your pedigree is! Your inspirational YouTubes gladden hearts and fatten people's otherworldly wallets— but we can't forget to render unto Caesar.

anthropology 101: "piltdown man" - muse's advisory, july 8 – professor castaneda:

• jaw of a sarawak orangutan • fistful of chimpanzee teeth • boy's skull wrested from the roots of ancient wilmington church yew • iron and chromic acid stain • imprimatur of pierre teilhard de chardin and the infallible sir arthur conan doyle but hidebound darwinists still claim 'twas nothing but a shameful hoax? if anyone in here agrees, go home. why even try to teach such boors?

Exposition - Muse's Advisory, July 9 – the Margaret Concierge/Zeus:

Why, Monsieur Zeus, I love your hair tonight! It's like a bird of paradise— très Dr. Seuss.

Madame—?

—Rashid.

Madame Rashid, excuse my memory. Before you call the cops again... you know much I love this cockatoo.

I do.

Can you imagine that I value St. Paul's life, though he's a bird and very dull, more than I value yours?

I can.

Then please observe. I offer him my wrist. He's strangely silent, isn't he? Oops, now accidentally I've crushed his skull.

Entity 13 - Muse's Advisory, July 10 – Urania:

This time the Israelis come prepared. They've tracked Zeus like White hunters track big game, plotted the ideal time and place to strike without the monstrous Cretan's lashing out endangering the street; and with aggravated avicide a felony, and reckless discharge of unregulated braincase flame a likely second count— it's GO! They jam him with the new Q-type carcinotron; the deep blue voltage blowing off his hair begins to sputter, break up, then pathetically drift to the cobblestones like morpho scales; an Instalaza-fired mesh of tungsten-hardened bark-spider filament blossoms above his head; and the great god, foaming from every orifice, collapses softly, as though onto a feather bed.

“We dealt with something similar,” the Colonel crowed, “back at Entebbe—and way back, when our plasma dike outside Zeituna on the Red Sea sucked in Pharaoh's cavalry. We always train for what we call zero scenario. We air-condition hell. Our specialty is para-psych. The ordinary stuff—the rockets, mortars, Scuds— we handle that, but it's this otherworldly stuff we're peerless at. That's why they call us Entity 13.”

Reprimand - Muse's Advisory, July 11 – Poet In Front of Tom in Line:

Man, keep your critters on a leash! We're serious poets, not zoologists! Each time I try to catch a few winks on my feet, one of your miscreants starts yipping.

A poem is not supposed to be like HBO, ba-da-bum! ba-da-boo!— but quiet, meditative, something the guy in front of you can sleep through.

We get enough of people being rude at home, out on the streets. This place is sacrosanct. Who wants to pay good money for a paean to the wine-dark waves of the Aegean if the tone of voice is going to be plebeian?

Your name is?—Tom, that's right. Tom, you will never rise above a third rate talent till you learn that less is more and thrilling drama's always nonchalant.

Look at the Muses: tidy, bobby-socked girls at Catholic school in starched plaid uniforms, prim permanent waves and shipshape rolling curls. Beauty is order, order is good, and honest goodness always paves the high road to the finish line.

So please, man, curb your curs and mute your mutts. Who wants to be disturbed at night by brutes in rut— your boxer's cock, your cocker's box or your sienna-spotted basset's butt?

Words to the Wise from the Wiser - Muse's Advisory, July 12 – Urania to Tom:

Your critic's right. We aren't terrorists, regardless of what the City of Chicago insists, poetry isn't LOUDER THAN A BOMB but it permits a modest adjustment to sestina if justified. Otherwise it's only scribblers doing something they're too proud of.

Tradition's another prerequisite. There's no validity to anyone uninterested in their predecessors. Yes, lit is a club that iconoclasts want disbanded— but once they link arms and lapse into imitation, hero-worship and self-aggrandizing themselves, we simply issue them a membership!

Kiss the tit of dull Greek myths as silly as the Ancient Arabic Order of the Mystic Shrine, the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks, and Odd Fellows in fezzes— real embarrassments, and that's the point of initiation. If you won't look foolish, how can you be trusted to sacrifice yourself and slit your wrists on the altar of belles-lettres?

Readers count on us for certain essences and if that faith gets lost, it's curtains, time to roll up the carpets, and poetry is, as some mediocrity wrote, 'enshrinement of ordinary moments by ordinary people utilizing ordinary language.'

Same goes for madcap antics. All this mayhem— Zeus a lunatic, Yeshua a popinjay, St. Joseph hawking aspirin— Tom, time to revisit the eternal verities. We're not panicking but our collective intuition is that you're closer to the brink of listless repetition and inanity than you think.

In the Hoosegow - Muse's Advisory, July 13 – Thalia:

“Now look at you!” sobs Miriam.

She'd worshiped him with all his faults for longer than she wanted to admit, but never thought it all would come to this: behind bars, charged with multiple assault, disorderly behavior, and felonious abuse of a pet.

His rage was spent, all that was left was a disheveled mane half gray, half white, two bloodshot eyes, ten chastened fingers purple at the tips, and thick-scaled, harshly bitten lips. For the first time in his life, he couldn't speak, and had a tremor in his arms, he was so weak.

“Have you been beaten?” Miriam breathed, and then regretted it. The thought itself hit hard. What dignity remained a god kept in captivity?— a deportation jail facility just outside Nazareth, where poor, unpapered laborers and part-time terrorists were processed, held indefinitely, their families squeezed for 20,000 shekels bail, and then deported “voluntarily.”

The inmate in the cell across the airless corridor was one of those who stubbornly refused to take the bait of banishment. He'd been there six or seven months apparently without the benefit of either shave or haircut, and watched quietly while Miriam sobbed and Zeus did all he could to keep from joining her.

Casting about to give the god some privacy, at last she looked into this stranger's eyes, and lo, it was Yeshua. Trembling smiles loosened on their lips. Then Zeus spoke up:

“If this is what it took, then this is what it took. I guess I've hit rock bottom and it's time to take a look at my whole repertoire of maladaptive tricks, including gadding to and fro as if you—my own flesh and blood—did not exist. Goddammit, though, I really have to take a piss. Guard! Guard! Is there a toilet in this shithole? No, excuse me, sorry for my tone. I'm overcome. That guy there is my son. So tell me, what's he done? Done recently, I mean. I know he rankled Pilate pretty good. Gave aid and comfort to the Palestinians? Yeah, sounds like him. A bleeding heart, recidivist. Ah, thanks. I'll only be a sec. The prostate. You too? Feel as if you've gotta go again before the tip is even dry? The penis is the curse of men, I swear. But what else can we use to show the sphinx a good time in our underwear? Man's gotta dream. Okay, I'm done. Now count to maybe ten and I'll be hollering again. You're not a bad guy, Ben. Of course. Ben Gurion's your last name, yes. You're still a decent man. Now, Miriam. Yeshua—son. Where were we in our family therapy before I had to run? That's right, I was about to say I'm sorry, all of that, admit the error of my ways— jailhouse-confess! It's shameful to be seen like this myself, much less to find you here as well. You haven't heard? I let them taunt me like a bull. It proved your mother right: I need more self-control. I've been a bad role model and I have a raft of faults. Okay? Is that enough? Can I go back to being me now, arrogant and gruff? My circadian clock is ticking and it feels like almost time to get into another fisticuffs, to give the frail another fright or crush another stoolie's skull.”

In the Hoosegow II - Muse's Advisory, July 14 – Thalia (cont.):

The Randall County jail just north of Nazareth up I-27 to Hollywood Road to southern Amarillo, though cited by three DCJ inspectors in a row for its deficient facilities, has hosted 50 or so wetbacks for U.S. Immigration Enforcement since the local crime rate hit an all-time low, about one murder and one rape a year, and then Obama's 18 votes.

This is where the Holy Family woke to the disturbing sound of bells from St. Mary's clashing with the play-by-play at Trinity Fellowship Stadium and reggaetón from the Youth Refuge band at the Church of the Nazarene.

Welcome to the Panhandle and welcome to the jail of Sheriff Joel Richardson, Captain Paul Horn, Lieutenant Kirk Roberts, Lieutenant Joe Morris, Sergeant Barry McNutt, Sergeant Bettye Nelson, Sergeant Matt Stocksill, Sergeant Nina Parvin, Sergeant Steve Courts, Corporal Charley Carrell, Corporal Kerry Blackerby, Corporal Nick Wright, Corporal Randy Tinsley and Corporal Ray Gibbons; all good Americans, reasonably God-fearing, tolerably educated, respectable people no less prepared to find Yeshua, Miriam and Zeus inside their jail on this fine morning than you or I or anyone would be.

But they're professionals, and don't panic— not as well trained as Israeli anti-terrorists but well enough to calmly ask the three new inmates for their names. Back at the desk, the lieutenant glances at the sergeant, who glances at the corporal: no one has an explanation as to why there is no documentation on who exactly brought this ragtag family in— exactly what kind of motherfucking stunt La Migra thinks they're pulling!

Reluctantly, they call up Captain Horn, a knowing man who swears Crap! seven times, retrieves his light brown shirt from where it neatly hangs over a solid wooden chair beside a steel twin bed, slowly draws it on and grimly buttons it.

In the Hoosegow III - Muse's Advisory, July 15 – Yeshua to Miriam and Zeus:

I've stretched bait-fish and crusts of bread into a five-course meal and eaten fast food on the road until I pretty much forgot what stovetop cooking tasted like, but I can't eat this slop at all. What they call coffee tastes like some concoction you might have to swallow for a pre-op nurse. Do you two understand how hard it is to bust two inmates out of jail in Israel? that I have other prisoners—victims—I'm supposed to feed? But no, let them all rot so I can do what I tell all of my disciples not to do: take care of my own fucking family! No, you can't go back to Israel! You still don't know how deep and hot the water is you're standing in? It's way over your heads, out of your league. You do recall I tangled with them once myself and wound up dead? They'll be here soon themselves, I guarantee. We have to skedaddle and cover our tracks. If there is one place Shin Bet and Mossad tread lightly, it's North Texas. Here, I'm a king like Barbie Bush or Ellie Ewing. All these good ole boys and gals are way too busy asking what I'd do to ever wonder what I'm doing. Watch this, both of you—put on these STP caps—here we go, a bit of flattery and sex appeal—the classic breakout.

Beg pardon, ma'am? Officer Bettye...—Jesus Lord, are you the Bettye Nelson? 'Great is thy Faithfulness' and 'It is Well'? 'How Much He Cares for Me'? Oh goodness gracious, Bettye! I reco'nize that voice of yourn most anywhere! God bless you! Blessyou! No? You're white? can't sing a lick? You had me fooled—that voice! Why, sweeter than a bird's! Can you just sing one little song? Me and these two oldtimers here would sore appreciate a little bit of that sweet inspiration on this Sabbath morn, what with and in consideration of our situation here. Would Jesus sing? I know He would, I know He would! Why, you think I look somethin' like the Lord? Well don't you have a way of flatterin' a man! I got the beard, I know I got the beard, but surely that's as far as the resemblin' go! He's some bit taller, ain't He? Don't His hair—well, you know—sort of glow? If I looked anythin' at all like Him, would I have gotten mixed up with the law? But you have surely lifted up my heart, Miss Bettye Nelson who is white! I got to pray, I got to pray! Do you think you could pray with me? Oh, that would lift me up like nothin' else! You will? Oh, bless you! Bless you! Come on, right in here! Yea, kneel right here beside me! Lord! We praise Thee, Lord! Did You not visit me in prison? Now considerin' I just got 'holt your gun, lift up your arms and shout with me: O, thank you, Lord!

What would Jesus do right now? Keep prayin' an' praisin' like a gentle Lamb, while I take these-here keys and we three haul our sorry persecuted asses clean away!

Sodden Moment in the Condo - Muse's Advisory, July 16 – Yusuf to tumbler of Baron Philippe de Rothschild:

Venit, vidi, vincunt.

She came, I finally saw her, goddam Israelis win again.

Patris Food Correspondent, Drafting on her iPad – Muse's Advisory, July 17 - Last Row, Church of The Dormition of the Ever Virgin, Palekastro, Crete, www.aglaiakremezi.com/articles/general/fresh-fava-and-green-almonds.html:

“Lazarus Saturday brings the fuzzy green almonds called tsagala—a crunchy, juicy outer layer, and an inner nut translucent as a jelly drop—"

...the deeps all afraid in your presence, O Lord. By raising Lazarus from hell, You shook the dominion of death before Your own...

“—hawked fresh in street stalls all across Greece, jarred in syrup as a spoon sweet, baked in İstanbul with lamb and grated lemon—"

...You are the defender of my life, O Christ, for You have reëstablished the world so that it shall never again be overturned...

“—or added, tartly sweet, to fresh creamy yogurt or garlic-laced tzatzíki, as well as served as an accompaniment to araqī, oûzo or býra Mýthos—”

...You ride on your dumb beast, the colt of an ass, but we greet You with palms and a carpet of linen, for our hearts rejoice and know You...

Long Night Drive - Advisory, July 18 – Yeshua to Zeus:

You've both lost your way— still functioning as in the old days. Populism is the ticket now. You've got to be an operator— half snake oil salesman, half Golden Bough.

Drive east, Fort Smith, southeast, Fort Worth, due south, Midland, southwest, Alamogordo, due west, Santa Fe, northwest, Colorado Springs, north, the Indian grounds, northeast, St. Joe.

Yes, I do have a license! I flunked the road test twice but on my third try during that big February freeze, I blew the dyke examiner away!

This big ole silver Yukon skidded at me on black ice, but I lightly braked and pirouetted left! Skank said, “Y'all earned ya lah-cense right there.”

It's best we travel north. The buffalo are gone but I know where we'll bag an elk, a bear, maybe a pronghorn deer— plus plums, grapes, mulberries, pecans and prickly pear galore.

We'll eat well, sleep beneath the stars. It's a Comanche moon and none of those Israeli goons would dare!

At dawn we'll scare up Campo's famous medicine man to take you on a vision quest— far and away the best path to renew yourself. Then I head back to work.

I don't know what we are to one another, but it ain't no Trinity! We're individuals! Look how much we disagree, how frequently we fight.

So let's just grapple with the current chaos— give the slip to the Israelis— hang in best we can— and see what kind of fruit shakes out.

You see that fucking 'Stang? The way that good ole college boy is weavin' in and out, be lucky if he makes it back to UT/San Anton'.

Ole time religion's take-the-cake ironic! One part “Thank you Jesus,” one part fuck thy neighbor catatonic, and the third, abominating the demonic.

Adjust to modern times or perish, Pa— shed eight millennia of maladaptive patterns on the dirt floor of the sweat lodge, let me pimp you out in dungarees and cowboy boots, and you got half a chance.

For Ma—she always snore like that?— a halter top and something snug enough around the hips to give the local guys a woody. Who's gonna tap a fullgrown woman in— what would you even call it?— an embroidered satin hoodie?

This buggy? Yeah, a little snug for three. I got it for two grand, though, and the gun rack in the back thrown in for free. A Talon—AMC— two-fifteen horse, full turbo, double cam on top. not quite as tricked out as I'd like but she's got plenty where it counts.

We're gonna need it once we make the grasslands on High Lonesome out of Stratford and we go off-road.

No, no, the ranger up there won't say shit. I he'ped his teenage boy once with this pimple thing he had and ever since, the dad's completely in my pocket.

We're gonna camp, you'll love it! I got a li'l ole pup tent back there and this guitar that I found on sale at Walmart. I know “Sweet Baby James,” “Home on the Range,” and half the Oscar-winning theme from Brokeback Mountain.

Shit wetback 18-wheelers think they own this motherfuckin' road! Back off my ass, Ramiro! Cocaine dudn't spoil!

Look, I can get you back to Crete or to your old place on Koressos, but out here— a soul can really be himself. No one looks twice. As long as you work 'Jesus' into every couple sentences, folks figure you're alright and leave you be. They been real welcomin' to me. They like my measured speech, the uncut hair beneath my “St. P.” cap— Scientifically Treated Petroleum right in St. Joe, Missouri! They lahk me an' I lahk them. I'm feelin' young and learnin' to have fun. I'm collecting DWI's!

Aw, I can see you're bushed. 's okay, we'll talk it out another time. Once them Israelis give up and go home, if you decide to stay I know a great spread you can rent on a sweet stretch of the Canadian.

Promise me you'll think about it? It ain't my aim to interfere or try to make it out we're close despite so many not-close years. Truth is, I may move up to Utah if a little sumpin' sumpin' I been working on pans out— jus' wanna set y'all up so's I don't have to worry so doggone much.

Wait till we get there and you see that moon! Wait till you hear the lone coyote howl! We'll get the tent set up, night-sight ourselves some game—

don't worry, I got six egg sandwiches, worst comes to worst—

cook, eat, pat down the grass— it's like a pillow, it's so soft! If there's a storm, you two'll shelter in the tent, I'll stretch out right here in the cab.

No, I insist! In Texas, practicality is king— it's what I like about this land, it doesn't matter who's a god, a demigod, an angel or a man.

Ah, here we are.

See that jackrabbit pretending he's stone? You can almost feel the horned owl fixed on— see that tiny flutter in his chassis?— that's his heartbeat, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

What Became of the Comanche - Muse's Advisory, July 19 – Clio:

Milk slit from an elk doe's udder bear liver raw and dressed in gall and curd from a suckling buffalo's gut keep spirits alive when measles, smallpox and cholera attack . Fourteen code-talkers

Dick and Elgin Red Elk, Clifford Otitivo Robert Holder, Larry Saupitty Melvin Permansu, Forrest Kassanavoid Willie Yackeschi, Charles Chibitty Willington Mihecoby Perry Noyebad Haddon Codynah Morris Sunrise Simmons Parker rise in Oklahoma's Seven Cities Indiahoma, Fletcher Lawton, Cement Cache, Walters, Cyril

protect the Utah Beach assault

win de Gaulle's Ordre du Mérite

now visit the tall grass of campsites

whispering to Naomi Shihab Nye that no one “largely lives asleep.”

Wide Open Sky - Muse's Advisory, July 20 –

Tracy168:

gray powder like greatgrandpa's ash I step in it to prove an american's dick a quarter million miles root to tip is longer than a soviet's

NASA:

“apollo 11/saturn V. whuh? armstrong backpack too wide for the hatch? roger. 1 small step for man & 1 big blank wall for the ephesus whorehouse graffiti heir.” “viking 1/titan III-centaur at chryse planitia, mars. copy. houston command fault overwrote antenna orientation software, contact lost after 2,306 earth days. out.”

Chief Anotklosh:

many ancestors walked on moon who build the regolith palmful by palmful while she-wolves bay when the landscape is complete and neigóon berries start to sweeten we will follow the seal and the whale upward to our next new home when your astronauts come again we will throw them a fine potlatch

Melpomene:

the fire's burning down the pup tent's quiet weightless back to the glovebox to refuel señor mescalero

All:

an incredible night of shooting stars breaching that ocean of celestial egg- cases

Pulling Over for Directions On the Edge of Campo, Colorado - Muse's Advisory, July 21 – Kazantákis to Zeus:

No, I am not ashame on. Why do you think I am ashame on? You are from Kríti too, sir, I can smell this. Please tell to this NASCAR boy that Greek people always are dressing like I do.

Why are you seeking for ashame on? The old ways, they are dead. So do not be ashame. Does this lady in back seat make you feel ashame? She is not good woman. Good woman make man feel like god!

I had good woman make me feel like god. This NASCAR boy, he is your boy? Do not feel ashame. He is good boy. I smell this.

I smell also mescalito. Once I eat this too and first I am vomit everything, then I am eagle fly over sea that glow in dark like wine.

What am I do here in West? I do not have son. I once have wonderful woman name Eléni like your daughter, your raping child by Leda, Eléni tis Troías. But she give me no son to watch when I am died, so I come here to West. It have many bones, I can smell. Haidēs say to walk here and enjoy to feel dry air on skin. But what is really “skin”?

Medicine man? He live near post office— ah, he is shame on? He say I am sail with no ship and wind blow me in desert. I am ship that sink, all sailors are drown. The mast, it is taverna only for worms now.

Kalí týchi. Good luck. Mine is not so good but I have good smelling for you and this woman and this handsome boy.

In middle town, turn right. Not possible to miss— he have big Billy Jack hat, big turkey-vulture tailfeather stand up tall in band. Who else wear hat like this?

Tell him Níkos Kazantzákis from Kríti is greeting to him.

万山群岛 Million Hill Islands - Muse's Advisory, July 22 – Japan China by N. Kazantzakis, trans. G. Pappageotes:

If you scratch the Chinese, you will find the Greek. If you scratch the Greek, you will find the Chinese. —Eléni Samiou

Charming little isles like bare bodies done swimming and now lying in the sun to dry. Exotic Chinese junks float by, tall-sterned, tar-smeared, prows slender, craned like thirsty dragons, chocolate sails spread like the wings of bats.

The peacocks of the night, the fine coquettes, awake, spread love-ruffled feathers and paint their nails. Silent yellow servants push them in velvet handbarrows. When one raises her foot, the whole leg gleams through her slit silk pajamas.

The Nitty Gritty - Muse's Advisory, July 23 – Shaman To Zeus, Miriam & Yeshua:

Of course I'm aware who you are! You think I sit around all day just lobbing loogs into the gutter?

I am the shaman, the medicine man, it's my business to track supernatural comings and goings, it's my whole bread and butter.

Anybody got a smoke? some beer? You don't think you can just pull up in your red, pathetic, toy-size truck and ask my help, without a fee?

This isn't charity! I don't care who you think you are. This is America—land of the free-- you buy whatever fucking thing you want.

There's something in the back I'll take, and something in the glove compartment too. No cash, no checks, it's strictly barter, IRS has never heard of me and that's the way I want to greet the worms.

On this .270 Winchester I smell a pronghorn, late last night.

This bag of mescalito— see these fingerprints?— they have the scent of someone's sweaty dick on them.

Sí o no, Yeshua? Am I right?

At my age, I don't play! You want the Cretan here to have a magical experience? You've come to the right nahual. Pay in advance.

You want to just sit down, squint at them prairie chickens doing their flamenco in the yucca scrub? That shit'll also put you in a trance.

I smell Kazantzakis too. Are you his friends? He tell you how he didn't like my divination and refused to pay?

Gun covers him, buttones you. Don't think that's fair, go screw.

We have a deal? Okay. Leave Zeus with me two days. When you return for him, I'll need a case of Lone Star and a box of shells. This shit isn't ouija.

It's a serious commitment.

Prep Talk - Muse's Advisory, July 24 – Shaman to Zeus:

The bird you murdered called you Pak. What does that say about you? Did you see Anger Management? You should.

Take off your boots and lose that ridiculous gunslinger's poncho. Who sold you that? Nobody tougher than a hippie slut's affected one of those for several hundred years.

As Castaneda's snakish Hexe taught me just a month before she disappeared herself,

In a dark theater, hold a finger before your nose and look at the aisle lights. The finger isn't there. Now close one eye. The finger's there, but lights shine through its fuzzy edges. When your mind views simple phenomena in odd ways, you start to sense the walls of the cellar where we shelter from reality's cyclone.

Now let's have a look at you. You still got muscle, definition. I think we'll sweat off 15 pounds— your peak is 215, 220 tops. Depends how much you wanna work those glutes.

We'll get to spiritual renewal! First things first. We can't take half measures, human nature is dual. Once upon a time, internal beauty shone as beauty you could see but nowadays souls take their cues from muscle tone, hair styling and good grooming.

As Don Tele says,

Get the right level of clean for all your parts. The Axe Detailer works to keep every part of you ready for action: use the scrub side to dig into extra dirty parts and the mesh side to build lather on sensitive areas because every part matters.

Thus, we have to pluck those brows! The Great Glower look went out with Kraven the Hunter and Wolverine. Then let's measure you for an Armani or a Calvin Klein.

I look like a bum and I do fine? Pal, I'm a humble shaman, not the kingfish you were born to be. You could command this whole district but you won't get a wood-tick's respect if you look like some Bulgarian.

Command it for what? That's going to be Act II. But first, let's see what's underneath those underpants.

A lot of who you are and who you're going to be depends on your relationship with that extremity.

Lie on the couch. Arrange your shaft so it rests comfortably atop your pouch.

I know you've had some trouble with performance. Ouch. I know the feeling, too. I was trying to get laid once down in Tijuana, right? I get the girl down in a 4-point crouch, yeah, puma style— I'm about to touch my baldy to her nest, when he just plain gives out. She rises to a kneel and tries to help me with her mouth but it's no use. What is that running through the head? Is that self-consciousness? I'll tell you what it is. It's—

—you sure you didn't come for that? Don't bullshit me. I hear that Robert Bly beat in your speech.

Turkish Pears in August, Talking into the Ear of a Donkey, The Urge to Travel Long Distances, Iron John, The Man in the Black Coat Turns, and finally, Silence in the Snowy Fields.

That's all in my own head? I'm sorry! Most guys hope the vision quest can boost their confidence in bed.

You don't care? Ah. Things don't go smooth, that's just the way it is? A woman's got to take the fizzle with the fizz?

Shit, man, you're more evolved than me. So all I have to offer is peyote. Most first-timers puke. That's why I have these flight discomfort bags my aunt the stewardess sneaks home from work.

No, neither Dramamine nor gum is going to help. You howl like a demented whelp, shape-shift into that wild beast that Robert Bly goes on and on about at all his seminars, then fly or trot or swim off on your quest, and if you're lucky, fly or trot or swim back with a gift.

Sober and hysically fit enough to abandon the socio-perceptual compact, Ulloa, Osorio and Matus exist as energetic ovals who observe other passages of energy and taste the sensation water enjoys as it follows nobody's advice in a cold clear brook.

So, here's some 01 Gatorade. You'll need it. In case you get the munchies, take this jumbo size Doritos. When it's over, and your kid and woman come to collect you, there's a Longhorn Steakhouse 20 miles north in Springfield. Here's a 10%-off coupon.

Lots of Catching Up To Do - Muse's Advisory, July 25 – Miriam to Yeshua:

I'm so excited! Sit. We've got two days until we pick up Zeus— and lots of catching up to do. A lot of muddy water under bridges, no?

You mentioned work. What kind of job is it? Where do you live? Do you have friends? Somebody special, hmm? How did you wind up here? When did you quit the apparitions gig?

Have you gone fundamentalist?

I'm liking you like this, your St. Pete cap, the grease beneath your nails. Is that from working on your car or is your job in a garage?

You've grown too old and worldly, Shoo, to magnify your mother with a kiss? Is that my thanks for all of this?

And Zeus—? You know he cares, if from afar. The proof is that he custom-made you with that fain predisposition to forgive.

Your attempt to help him—sweet. After his vision quest, who knows, maybe his bitterness will wane, you two will hit it off. I doubt it, though. I've been with him through hell, high water, thick and thin, and fresh-killed inspiration feeds his taste for the perverse and makes things worse.

If he has one quintessence, guiding force, élan vital, I'd have to say it's his resistance to amendment—that divine inertia worshipers prefer to call “perfection.”

I'll have some Ranch House Chili, half a rack of Baby Backs— or should I get Flo's Bacon Wrapped Filet?

You're getting fish, Yeshua? No, you're Texan, eat some beef.

Don't bring him salmon, Miss. That's too ridiculous—grown boy! Make it an Outlaw Ribeye rare. No Mango Peach Sangria neither— lime-rimmed Equis, dos, and hold the glass.

Who's that there, settin' up to sing? You're shittin' me, there's such a thing as country-western Rebel soul? Sounds like a mixed-up motherfucker. Say who?—his name is actually Rucker?

Yeah, yeah, you're old enough to order what you want, it's true, but when in Rome, you do as Romans do. You think that pierced-neck hottie there is gonna shtup a guy who orders fish and uses Pantene Shine Enhancer in his hair?

Why, thank you, Miss.

Stop whining! Drink your beer and try to look—you know, a little hip. I think that singer guy is eying me. Who knows, it may be mama's lucky night.

The Pup's Plea - Muse's Advisory, July 26 – Yeshua to Miriam:

Ma, Zeus can rot in hell. I didn't work that trick in Nazareth, nor hire that sham, to melt the blowhard's selfish shell. I did it for these couple days without him, me and you, just us.

I want to drive you to St. Joe. I saw Dad there—my real dad, if you want to know— not the unmannered schmo who thinks his sperm alone a gift from god. You'll be surprised, impressed. He has a steady job, is off the sauce and has a place that's big enough for the whole family.

Can't we just go and see? I know you saw him fairly recently and it was bad, but time is looser here out West, and Zeus—let's face it— a degenerating mess, a far cry from his best, which isn't saying much.

I want the childhood you took from me! Who wants to be a prodigy debating hermeneutics with high priests? I want to chase a little tail and smoke a little weed, hop in my truck and roar around at unsafe speeds! I'm not a rebel, Ma— though à propos the Civil War, we don't believe the North was free to force the South to be their economic whore—me, all I want is franchise to walk tall into a rockabilly honkytonk and tell a girl something as normal as “My parents live up in Missouri.” Would it kill you to maintain some semblance of a marriage so your cub can hold his head up when he's drinking with his friends down at The Concord Carriage?

Yes, I work in a garage. I'm just a glorified apprentice. And I have my eye on someone special— Christian, and conventional. Adultery with gigolos from Crete is not her family's cup of tea.

I'm sorry. Yes, I know Zeus has been good for you, but Ma, it's time to get back with the man you're married to, give him that second chance. It's really my fault that he left, so reunite for me, to help me expiate my guilt.

This is my final shot at real stability— at fitting in—a good ol' boy, not some Begotten Son. So can we? Yeah, right here, it's in my GPS. Two miles, turn left on 160 east, then catty-corner straight across this tennis court of winter wheat that calls itself the state of Kansas.

The Parent's Plea - Muse's Advisory, July 27 – Miriam to Yeshua:

I don't find fault with Yusuf or with Zeus. I blame myself for hanging on your words and weeping at your feet, for raising you to think that other people's life-and-death was vastly less transformative than yours.

If Evangeli-Gal's not sharp enough to flay the beastly mom and wear the pelt—the child a parent yields— I wonder if she's not a dicey choice? Pathology can run in families rich or poor but why start new ones if contagion is so all-fire sure?

If she would like to meet me, good. If she just wants the pocket dossier— a step-dad, yes, who walked when you reached your rebellious years, and sailed to distant edges of the world on merchantmen; your birth-dad, yes, a classic absentee, who did man up, eventually, a little bit, but far too late; and mom, who tended almonds, olives, quince, and boasts some bitchin' SuperClash experience.

All three of us are blunt, confront life head-on, fight. Be sure to tell her that we cuss, piss, love and hate as loudly as we please. There's history of creativity, virginity, divinity, insanity— the gamut, cornucopian with possibilities! And we'll embrace whatever she can bring unless it's a requirement that one of us renounce our personality. Our skeletons roam free, no closets, that's your legacy: too late to put cats back in bags or tie ships, storm-blown, back up to their berths. You're one of us. Stand tall, and let the fruits fall where they may. It won't be too far from the tree, I bet, if you and she have kids yourselves one day.

Vision Quest - Muse's Advisory, July 28 – Zeus:

1.

The shaman slid the curtains shut and said four buttons or two gelcaps ought to be enough. “Your lady and your son believe you're in a rut, you've lost the animal, the god in here,” he said and tapped his ear, “and here," tapping his gut. “This is a way to stir things up.”

“No offense, señor sabelotodo, but you're not exactly an hombre who inspires fear,” I said.

“That postal truck right there," he said, "if it could talk, could tell you tales! This talking bag of skin, it isn't me.”

“How come we've never heard of you in Greece?”

“Oh, but you have.”

He made a girlish semi-pirouette and disappeared.

2.

My talons scratched the soft pine floor.

Low Mach waves blew the window out.

I gathered myself up and flew straight from the sun, that dying ball—raced toward dark, my hungers far too powerful to wheel and scan the runways underneath me for a pond, or warm four-legged prey. The eagle in me hurled its crown at air first grayed then shed by its trajectory.

Fly faster, truer than you've ever flown until the air above your beak is lightened by the ardent emanation of your eyes!

My flight outpaced an 18-wheeler past Dodge City, then Yeshua's tiny red truck crossing the Missouri; traversed St. Joe, and crossed the iron Mississippi. At last--the shadow having waned, light equalized above a coaled Lake Michigan--I dove into the eye of office-park Grand Rapids and struck a rabbit grazing in a pocket plaza in eerily illuminated dark. The souls of Amway, Lazarus, Ojibwe and Ottawa, perched on the window ledges, all hailed my kill; deep in my bowels, protozoans sighed Home.

New consciousness was sudden, sharp and wide. That featureless city was the last place anyone would relocate to, yet I resolved—decreed— to go and gather up the spent shells of my godhead, make amends to Miriam and to our son, return before the new moon, and begin again.

Vision Quest (Scholarly View) - Muse's Advisory, July 29 – Former comparative theologian, corner Division & Alger:

Tonight's topic: If one wasn't high on mescaline, why would one choose to re-locate to Michigan?

The Jewish Mishna doesn't volunteer a rule, nor do hadith, Icelandic sagas, countless volumes of Confucian wisdom, vedas and upanishads, Herodotus, the Platonists, St. Paul. One school of thought contends the place you live determines who you are, another that it doesn't matter who you are. Who ever heard a truly educated person say, “I wish I was Mongolian or German Swiss” or “Dover sole are blesseder than Arctic char”? Yet, popular metaphysics emphasizes place— home-field advantage, de-urbanization job relocation, highway beautification. It is right and meet, therefore, to ask Zeus, “Manfred—dude!—what were you thinking? Are you looking for a fake nose of conformity? Someplace no one will think to look for you?”

Okay, dear men. Adele. That's plenty for tonight. It's time for me to crawl inside my Whirlpool box and get some badly needed shuteye. We can pick this up tomorrow, after lunch? Red letter day! The Imam Sahibzada says Salvation Army opens up its doors again.

Unwelcome - Muse's Advisory, July 30 - Dr. Sharif Sahibzada,www.islamiccentergr.org:

Welcome to the

ISLAMIC E N & T E MOSQUE OF GRAND-RAPIDS

We just renovated our building. We remodeled the entranceway with new carpet and new paint, and the facade with Brick Face.

Our new sign does not, however, read:

Assalammualaikum, Zeus! Assalammualaikum, Maryam! Assalammualaikum, Yesua!

Do you think we came here to enjoy the beautiful climate? While we wish you no harm,

Allah stands not in need of any of His creatures.

I assure you we are in enough hot water without you coming here to stir up more.

I am a grave man, as can be seen in the four photographs provided:

Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, in his office Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, studying in his office Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, receiving calls in his office Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, busy on computer in his office.

Do not be fooled by my Santa-Claus like cap. Do not be fooled by my wooden obelisk that says PEACE on the east face and JUSTICE on the north. Do not be fooled because I use post-its. Do not be fooled because when I am busy on my computer in my office I am only staring at the screensaver.

I am a grave man and who is to say whether or not I am a stone cold killer when need be? This is the way we Muslims really are!

Who is to say what is written on the south face of my wooden obelisk? Observe: only the person sitting in my chair in my office is able to see this. Who is to say what is written on the west? Only the computer is able to see this.

Do not come to Grand Rapids, Pak Zeus. I heard about your escapades in Palestine. Did you think I would not hear about them from my brothers in Nazareth? I have learned about them right here from my computer.

Who is to say that the information is not right here on a post-it?

Almost three years ago the Planning Commission voted 8-0 to prohibit brother Noah Seifullah from opening a prayer center just up on Madison Ave. They said there are not enough parking spaces. Did you think there are enough parking spaces if you come here with Yesua and the Holy Mother, your concubine Maryam? No, I do not believe so. Therefore you must find another city to move to. PRAISE L L A H

Hasta la Vista - Muse's Advisory, July 31 – Yeshua:

Michigan? I did my hitch up North, two months in Ossining. Just thinking of it makes me itch again.

You go there, Zeus. You go ahead and do whatever voices tell you when you're juiced! Leave Ma and me alone. We like the rootin'-tootin' West. She's even started dressing for success— pink bra, the Sassy Rider vest. Are you jealous?

That's what the vision quest has sunk to?—one night homeless all-expenses-paid in Podunk and a growl from an imam in a cinder-block barracks so shabby the Jehovah's Witnesses skedaddled? You're lucky that beer-soaked ersatz Injun didn't point you toward Kamchatka! That fakir took us both to town!

While you were gallivanting in the sky I drove up to St. Joe to see my dad— I'm sorry if that's hard to hear. Ma wouldn't go. She's loyal to your ass. She stayed behind and went out for a beer. Some whiskeyed charro made a pass at her that made her wet. I thought you oughta know.

What a trip the three of us are— rejecting the scripts each other write— rejecting the guideposts of tradition— grabbing the devil himself by the lapels and insisting on “original material”! But it will be the usual spaghetti-Western parting on high chaparral— Adiós, hasta luego, que los ángeles sonrisa, tú sigue tu camino, yo el mío— and off we ride into cañones ciegos without a handshake or farewell.

Besides, I got a clinch with a cliché so hot tomorrow—

No, why bother talking tough, I'm heartbroken. The two of you have broke my heart. Whose dream was it for me to be a son of God? Why didn't you just ride me to get A's in school and learn the violin?

So now, who cares?

Grand Rapids, off you trot.

Pudre en infierno. Rot in hell.

Pathetic - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 1 – Tom at The Concord Carriage bar:

Yeah, I'm a poet—epic, really— struggling, though. This poem is dead. Not mouth to mouth, nor lips to ear, nor even Rose of Sharon's leaking breast to lips can bring it round— it's past the point where it can lift its chin.

I ought to turn this laptop off right now, head down to Meredith and have a skinnydip. That usually works— the second I jump in, new inspiration hits, the cooled-down scalp supplies the mental vim for me to soldier on until it's time to go to bed.

Or I could simply hit Delete and throw it in— admit Yeshua's nothing more or less than Christians claim, his mother Miriam a humble saint, and Zeus an obsolete, co-opted figment recently out-eyebrowed by Dame Edith Hamilton, out-romeo'd by Wilt the Stilt, reduced to cadging petits four from lily-fingered Classicists.

You know?

But that's all psychological defense, perhaps— perhaps the truth of what I write is hitting hard, too close to home— perhaps the nature of the Holy Threesome— what home is— are nuts too tough to crack without a thoroughgoing bludgeoning.

The self-help literature on writer's block advances other therapeutic saws— I ought to get out more— spend time with friends— go hiking— glide my fingertips along the cool cheeks of brook-polished stones— sign up to feed the poor— raise money to end genocide.

That thrills the dull blood!

That puts spring back into the step!

Lifts up the johnny of Jack Sparrow!

Do you think he's sexy, Depp?

It's obvious I need something a little stiffer than a drink. I sent my poor son off today— yeah, I'm a single dad— with just a box of Cheese-Its for his lunch. The school nurse and the secretary looked askance— my little Timmy rolled his eyes— so many ways to mortify a child.

So I sympathize with poor Yeshua in my book— his mom behaving like a giddy coed who has just discovered guys— Zeus, lost his motherfucking mind, plus hair like Einstein with his finger in the power socket of the universe— it couldn't be much worse— a misfit youngster dying to blend in with greasy-haired and horny not-quite-solid friends who hook their index fingers round the lips of beers like that young cowboy over there— and think it's macho to dismiss dismissive girls with obscene sneers.

With all Yeshua tried to do for us, he missed the boat as far as having fun— no parable on to how to break the ice with steamy numbers like yourself in dim-lit country western bars like this. Self-help can only go so far— sometimes what's needed is a helping hand— wink, wink— an open mouth, as Herbert wrote, that doesn't sing— or even more.

You haven't said one thing— or laughed— or even cracked a sliver of a smile. So— I take that as a no. I reckon that's a sign I'd better go— before the milk of your forbearance sours— that glower of contempt turns into rage and plants a mallet in my gong, like when a tin-eared fool went on too long on The Major Bowes Amateur Hour.

Prólogos (1938) - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 2 – Tom:

Engaging Homer with his own massive Odyssey sequel, Kazantzakis invited poets to think big. "Fellow craftsmen, seize your oars!” he cried. In my mirth when it arrived, I misplaced it, then spent hours rummaging to and fro like a shrew who'd lost track of which generation – breeding, laboring, or suckling – she was. When I found it, Yes! I want to wield these oars with as much skill as I can, before the narwhal skewers them to hang around winter's neck – then the boat, adrift – and its occupant.

woodcut - muse's advisory, aug. 3 – laërtes to odysséas:

not the ghastly scar planted

by the tine a beaten boar's tusk

but thirteen pear trees

ten apple and forty fig trees

entreat a heart-dead father to

tearfully recollect his lost son

Good Cop, Bad Cop - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 4 -

Calliope:

Taking inspiration from a fellow oarsman is time-hallowed, Tom, but hazardous as well. His sea-blades beat the waves in rhythms not your own. While powering his craft to breast the swells, your hero Kazantzakis never spoke your name.

We muses offer personalization, fresh inspiration tailored to your own oar's inclination, a 50%-off special on connotative caesura and full-color brochure on sylleptic chiaroscuro.

Urania:

Tom, you infringe Line 3 of Terms and Conditions by ascribing your inspiration to Nikos Kazantzakis–

1 I hereby agree to be bound by Terms and Conditions that apply; indemnify 2 and hold harmless the Muses; certify that all Material resulting from use of our 3 inspirations is original and not previously attributed to any other causal entity; 4 grant the non-exclusive, irrevocable, world-wide, perpetual, royalty-free 5 (including moral) rights to copy, translate, publish, or disclose resultant 6 Material in any form now known or hereafter developed without limitation, 7 obligation of notice, or compensation; to affirm that the Muses make no 8 representations or guarantees whatsoever about the accuracy, reliability, 9 completeness, or timeliness of their Material or results obtained from the use 10 of said Material, provided on an as-is and as-available basis without warranty 11 express or implied, and entirely at my own risk. In no event are the Muses 12 liable for any damages incidental and consequential, including lost profits 13 resulting from “”writer's block” or any use or inability to use the Material, 14 whether such claim is based in contract, tort, intellectual property, or other 15 legal theory. If dissatisfied with the Muses' Materials or the Terms and 16 Conditions governing Use, the sole and exclusive remedy is to discontinue 17 use of such Materials. I acknowledge that any Material offered by Muses may 18 be offensive, indecent, otherwise objectionable, or inappropriate for minors; 19 Muses recommend careful supervision of your children at all times, and make 20 no claim that their Materials are suitable for any purpose or for any audience. Check this box to agree: ☑

You bristle at the legalese—fine print? You think this kind of contract violates your precious First Amendment? Who inspired your Cretan hero? Did his genius spring sui generis from heat-lightning in his brain? Kazantzakis spun a lot of theories, but pull back the egotistic curtain—

Hildr, Göndul, Hlökk, Mist, Skögul, Hrund, Eir, Hrist and Skuld in Snorri Sturluson's list— we Poetry Valkyries dictate whose thumbs prize the button-mushroom cork—et pop!— and whose parched lips shall never slurp the jubilant champagnes of literary fame.

You didn't think us iron-fisted? thought us easy-going, tame? pale aesthetes of the ethersphere?

Here's how your “freedom of expression” operates: the publishers and editors are equally suggestible as writers are to what a little birdy whispers in their ear.

And Then, Book Two...I Want to Cut My Wrists! - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 5 – Urania:

“The next night by the fireside, when the great bronze gates of the castle closed, and slaves and cattle slept, Odysséas told the long tale of his suffering slowly...”

It's another forty lines before the hero starts, while Kazantzakis even makes us listen to his gas! A chimp with a 50-cent blue Bic could trim this 24-book snoozefest down to 700 lines– but not your Níkos Narkissistís!

At any Reader who survives the preamble, Odysséas launches his far deadlier ramble:

“At the far ends of the world, on noble feasting boards..."

Honestly, don't force me to continue.

"...the lyre rises, greets the lords, and sings to the wind...”

rushō

muse's advisory aug 6 – thalia:

old monk stuck on line daydreaming snow-melt stream banana peel chi

Of This World - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 7 – Yeshua, Salt Lake City:

This is where I was born to live.

Dilapidated houses in the hills all host a Jesus, if not two. I see them driving 20 year old cars, sprawled out in bars and parks, meandering the streets, as many centuries as they've been coming here— and I, the latest to arrive, my heart with still enough dried blood on it to draw a second gaze from curs whose business licking weepy sores has been recession proof here in America's great open pore.

I ask the seedy bartender if Paiute and Shoshone, or the Donner Party, ever stop in for a drink. He smiles at me, another Jesus looking for old friends. There's so much love, enough to see how wealth is amity's enemy.

I get a room in seven seconds flat— no references, security deposit, work. They know my story inside out. Did you want to pay a little extra for a daily meal? We have some interesting discussions over bread. Will you be wanting access to the internet? TV?

It's all I can do to not start blubbering, not throw my arms around their necks, these keepers of Jesuses, saints.

Who knew the world would only want their myths but lack the strength to love the boys themselves?

The Awakening - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 8 – Zeus:

Just when I thought I had it figured out, I woke one day ablaze to run a smokehouse like this place I stopped in Kansas City— beef ribs, psychedelic hot-spice-salty crust, with quarts of iced limeade— I pissed a torrent that could choke a horse and felt alive, unclogged, free of malaise!

At long last giddy with divinity I had a dream of flesh purveyors bowing down, salaam, of wood guys kissing butt to sell 100 cords, of chili pepper, lime, and paper-napkin guys, a squadron of hair-net waitresses and brisket-crazed phalanx of fressers led by ravening, hard-core Miriam.

No one raises their hand or voice against a man who knows his way around a BBQ.

George Foreman, Colonel Sanders, Frank Perdue— I get it, finally. The high-flown ode of praise inspires awe. The supernatural loop-de-loop is great. But what folks really idolize and open up their purses for is meat.

Sweetheart of the Rodeo - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 9 – Miriam:

I had a man who felt he wasn't good enough and one who thought himself a million bucks. Why did it take so long to find the type who knows he's trash and doesn't give a fuck?

Oh yeah! Ya-hoo! This Western love is fun! First, I'm a lady. Next, I'm tunneled like a whore. Then when the sun comes up, the cowboy gentleman who knows there's cotton on his teeth dog-burgles the back door.

The tender hand is fine, but such a cost. I'm not bone china that will chip if some stud's teacup bumps my lip. I can take it. I can dish it out. Shit's shit.

Tonight my sweetheart of the rodeo's a lanky thing named Henry Foulks— half lit already when he picked me up, the other half by six CC & Cokes between slow dances to the croaking of a country lizard at the Concord Coach.

To hell with life, was Henry's pickup line, but it was in my bed when I woke up.

Smokehouse (cont.'d) - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 10 – Block Captain, Fulton Heights Neighborhood Watch:

That's raaght, Cured Meats Championships was right here in Grand Rapids, an' we don't got no smokehouse!

Now, you kin drive west 15 mile on the Gerald Ford, an' you kin drive north 15 mile up 131, an' you can drive south 15 mile right down Broadmoor Avenue— git all the smokehouse that you want— but here in this town, no you can't.

So's far as you're concerned 'bout openin' a new place up, you gonna pack 'em like sardines in here, jus' don' steam good folks up, don' call your place no smartass name like Pigger On the Woodpile, nothin' smartypants like that.

You seem to be some kinda Greek, nobody care 'bout that, but don't go oversteppin'. Folks real sensitive 'bout that.

So you go on an' stick with meat. Don' get too cozy with minorities an' you jus' watch this town roll that red carpet out.

The Scriptler - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 11 – John Cantell at his desktop, midnight:

God says, I've kept silent. I've been told not to reveal another word about myself. But to whom exactly did I promise that? Those moonstruck apostles dreamt it up.

God says, Whoever put the idea in my head that they could run Salvation in my stead? Was I lost in the clouds, exhausted, drinking? I can't imagine what it was I was thinking.

God says, All my faithful abbesses, abdals, acolytes, almoners, archbishops, ayatollahs, beadles, bishops, bonzes, brahmins, caloyers, canonesses, capitulars, cardinals, cenobites, chaplains, confessors, conventuals, curés, deaconesses, deans, dervishes, diocesans, divines, druids, ecclesiarchs, elders, fakirs, fathers, friars, gurus, hadjis, hierophants, imams, incumbents, kohens, lamas, levites, mendicants, metropolitans, ministers, missionaries, monks, monsignors, muezzins, muftis, mullahs, novices, nuns, padres, palmers, parsons, pastors, patriarchs, penitentiaries, pilgrims, pontiffs, preachers, prebendaries, predicants, presbyters, priests, primates, prioresses, prophets, rabbis, rectors, residentiaries, reverends, revivalists, sacristans, santons, scholastics, sextons, sheiks, sisters, suffragans, sufis, talapoins, templars, ulama, vergers, vicars, votaries—

God says, Thank you, all of you are fired. I shall take over all your functions Myself from here on in, employing Omnipotence. You will all receive a severance package.

God says, Generous job retraining benefits and family medical coverage are included. I appreciate all of your service but I want to try some hands-on micro management.

God says, This is not my final revelation. I am going to communicate regularly now. From here on in, theists and atheists alike will hear things from The Horse's Mouth!

God says, I know many of you are thinking, “Not so fast, Abernathy! Is this really God speaking or some other crackpot charlatan?” I actually applaud that kind of skepticism. No, you can't demote or depose Me for not conforming to your requirements of “God.” Omnipotent, I can be/do anything I please.

God says, I will mount a demonstration one month from today, to give all of you a deeper understanding of what I'm like. Then I'll take questions for half an hour.

Wife - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 12 – Elizabeth/John Cantell:

“Don't get obsessed with that. Remember when Ted Pendergast joined up that klatsch of poets at Christ Church? Pat almost didn't get him back.”

“Don't fret, Elizabeth. It's God's work I'm engaged in.”

“You can't come to bed, John? God won't be upset. It's after ten.”

“You go ahead. I'll be a little while yet.”

“At least put on the sweater vest I knitted you so you don't catch your death.”

“Christ said, No man hath left his wife for my sake but that both of them got hundredfold. Here now, let's have a kiss.”

“The good Lord's long suit isn't wives. A hundredfold of what? Whose bed is strong enough for that?”

“I like it when you joke but I don't want to lose track of my train of thought. Sleep tight, Elizabeth. The minute that I'm finished, I'll come in.”

God Goes On...and On - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 13 – In the late night Recycle Bin:

God says, Seeing Me fries the minds of half my prophets, and the rest go hot-assing down the mountain just when I'm getting going. I'll tell you exactly what I have in mind.

God says, I created the scientific principles that underpin the universe, including 'bad things happen to good people.' Quantum randomness is the prime law of metaphysics too.

He says, Whenever those laws of physics seem defective, I will change them, but I cannot do that in your universe without it ending. So I'll adjust them in my next universe.

He says, The law of unintended consequences isn't mine. It's the limit of my Omniscience and Omnipotence. I don't know who created it. For example, importing poison toads,

He says, into Australia to prey on the sugar cane beetles eating the cane crop?—big backfire! Turns out, sugar cane monoculture isn't a fit habitat for toads. Other places are,

He says. So they disperse into the wild and start killing off the millions of quoll, goanna, and snakes who prey on them, causing a devastating continent-wide ecological ripple effect.

He says, As far as the an afterlife goes, I might be of more help there very soon, as theologians have been predicting. I hope to purify physical resurrection from random effects.

He says, The trick is to let decayed corpses stay where they are, but resurrect a true copy of those bodies inside a universe designed with more malleable laws of aging.

He says, I will implement it as soon as I work it all out, so that a Second Coming—not of Me, of you—will occur. It will be extremely cool, I think. I'm just dotting the i' s.

He says, That should end the perennial questions about whether I care about human beings or not. Remember, I could be doing any number of things with my evenings.

He says, Once I have clearly demonstrated the scope of my general awesomeness as promised in another 29 days, I will expect more praise, love—the whole megillah. It is,

He says, lonely, thirsty work I do! I have needs as infinite as my glory and mercy. That's why I've agreed to answer questions afterward. I'm tired of all those lingering doubts.

He says, Once everybody is satisfied that I am Who I say I am and am working hard to do what I say I want to do, there'll be no excuses left for anyone to still be ungrateful.

He says, Still, ingratitude will remain your right. I will not differentiate between people who raise pleasing hosannas and those who continue to grumble like dirt all day long.

He says, When that resurrection day comes, you will stay exactly the same as you are. If you are a grumpy-puss now, you will still be a grumpy-puss, only in a happier universe.

He says, So essentially, my whole message for today is: Try to get a smile on your face now, while you still can, despite all of the random stuff going wrong in your life,

He says, because there is nothing I'll be able to do about your permanent frown lines in the new improved world where you'll end up living for an unimaginably long time.

Staying Afloat - Muse's Advisory, Aug 14 – Tom:

Nikos, Nikos, I've lost my impetus, 1800 lines into your opus—

Odysséas still at home, his father walking in the morning with his nurse.

(Half-hearted readers of this hunk-a-junk tiptoeing from the room.)

I'll give it to the end of your Book II? If I'm still bored, we part as friends, like Laërtes and living?

I hope Odysséas's son re-enters your poem. You had no kids, but Telemachus is the richest character.

He appears!

His bride arrives by boat with that day's poet laureate of Crete, Odysséas hastening to marry Telemachus off, be shed of him, and on his way— but the proud youth, stung, is ripe to take up arms and drain his father's life.

They meet, trade speech, Odysséas acknowledges the kingly man whose fathering he shunned, then lays beside his luckless wife once more, and creeps down to his waiting ship at dawn.

III.

God sent a gentle shower on earth to cool the hairy fists that pull at oars in open sea...

Divination - Muse's Advisory, Aug 15 – Euterpe:

Just 300,000 steps to the top of the line, Tom. We nine are throwing honing casting drawing flipping playing dice skills lots straws coins rock paper & scissors to decide who kisses you with that last wisp of inspiration.

The jackals at the door are dead,

odds-makers pulling in their shingles,

milkmaids twiddling fingers at all hours of the night.

The verdict is you just might win.

The Green Scapular #76 - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 16 – Robert A. Macdonald, C.Ss.R. (approved by Pope Pius IX & Cardinal Shehan), verbatim:

Years ago, before penicillin was in use... I was in a hospital with pneumonia. I began to hemorrhage... and a little nun came into my room. “Father, do you have great faith... in the Mother of God's Immaculate Heart? You can be cured... through the Green Scapular! I was once so filled with cancer... they sent me away to die. Then I prayed to Our Lady of the Green Scapular!”

She put one over my head. Tremendous confidence poured into me. My bleeding stopped! Two days later, in the X-ray room... they asked when the hemorrhage stopped. When I told them... they expressed great surprise: “You have a wound that is six months healed... and there is no other mark!”

Heretic's Note: Before penicillin was first used in the early 1940's, X-rays that could indicate when blood vessels had healed were miraculous indeed!

Timepiece - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 17 – Polimnia:

Menarche struck us rapid-fire like locusts hitting a cornfield under the same blue moon that embezzled Homer's vision.

Again, in Byron's day, the two-faced tide returned to rip our wombs. What's left to aging spinsters now except extinction?

We scan each waxing face for signs his hand is rising a third time, set to reap all nine of us with one sweep of thin surgical steel, but he hasn't reappeared. Unbearded boys have shone on us while poets howled as if their marble buttocks lent la lune its smirk.

We'll know his murderous cheeks because they're cadmium, not chalk dust— his diction exact— bared fangs meticulous.

It was 3,000,000 days between the first and second time he came to slit our viscera, so we have hope that many centuries remain for idling aesthetically. When he does shriek, keen to rake our eighteen haunches with his eyeteeth, there'll be no more subtlety.

What Became of Shaka (found poem) - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 18 – Mr. Solomon Ndebele:

Date: Tue 2/15/11 9:08 AM From: [email protected] To: Mr. Tom Riordan Subject: Late Martin Ndebele's Refinery Co-operation Company in Zimbabwe

Hello Dear,

I found your contact address, using the Country search. My name is Mr. Solomon Ndebele, the eldest son of late Mr. Martin Ndebele of Zimbabwe, who was the chairman of a farm and refinery company in Zimbabwe for 9 years before his death. He was Shaka the unshakeable, Thunderer-while-sitting, son of Menzi, He was the bird that preys on other birds.

He was among the many blacks murdered in cold blood by President Robert Mugabe during the big land dispute that disturbs Zimbabwe. I need your urgent assistance because of a Sum Of US$11.5 Million that my late father deposited in a private securities company here in South Africa before his untimely death. Before being murdered by Mugabe, he owned a rich refinery company and ran a fruitful farm. Battle-ax sharper than other battle-axes, The long-strided pursuer, son of Ndaba, Who pursued the sun and the moon.

I cannot transfer this money myself, since we Refugees here in South Africa are not allowed to operate accounts or do any business. You and I will be partners when you receive the total fund. A good friend of my late father is a bank Manager here and promises to transfer this fund to any Nominated bank account abroad as soon as I find an International partner to help me avoid losing the fund left by my father. Great hubbub like the rocks of Nkandla Where elephants gathered for shelter When the heavens frowned. l will send my refugee Identity Documents and my late father's Death Certificate, so you can verify everything about me and my family. l want you to be honest with me and to please reply to me using this email address: [email protected]. I await your Response and I pray that you are an honest trustable Gentleman.

Regards, Mr. Solomon Ndebele

[slice/dice of scam email & traditional Zulu praise song, trans. E. Mphahlele]

Busy Hands - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 19 – John Cantell, on onionskin and Elizabeth's diet pills:

God said: Tonight I'd like to truly clarify who Jesus is. I know it's confusing to be told, both, that He is Me and that He's my son. Admittedly, He doesn't seem like Me to Me either. He has a distinct voice and look, and a very distinct point of view about your mutiny. It's easier to see Him as my son than as Me proper. But "both/and" and "either/or" do exist side by side.

God said: In my state of quantum simultaneity, the Me who didn't assume a human body exists side by side with the Me that did assume a human body—Christ. Assuming a human body is purposeful, corporeal Me must differ from the simultaneous non-corporeal Me. You're not exactly the same when swimming as you are when reading a book, yet you were exactly one person before you decided which thing to do; you're exactly one person doing either activity; ergo, you're exactly the same person even when you're different.

God said: OK, I'm boring the shit out of Myself here! This kind of lengthy lecturing is more Jesus's style. I should let Him finish it. I'm actually a bit pressed for time anyway. I still have to put away the dishes. Well, not Me, but actually John, who is writing this down for Me, because at this point in time, none of my three persons has an actual hand there on earth, though Jesus still does have a physical body seated right here at my right hand—which is metaphorical— because if I had hands locatable on any kind of axis, 'right' and 'left' couldn't describe the vast complexity of the sort of axis my hands would be locatable on.

Jesus said: I thought He was doing pretty well there, didn't you?—for a God of so few words? The silent type, unused to public speaking? He's okay, actually. I'm okay, I should say, since I'm Him. I'm the talker, and He's a listener—well, quiet, anyway. The Spirit is also Us. He says nothing at all, but the folks He visits all get crazy talkative! Oops, I'm slapping My own knee now, look. All three of Our right hands are having a round-robin slapping One Another's knees. Aren't I actually droller than you were led to expect?

Jesus said: So, Numero Uno pretty much covered it. I'm the one who had the human body, I redeemed you, I love and forgive you totally. Let's not get into what it is you did wrong. Yadda, yadda. The main thing now is just to wait for My display next month. I guarantee you, you're all going to be like, Whoa!

Classified Transcript VL8364 (Israeli Intelligence Steering Committee) - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 20 - Polimnia:

“M”: The last thing we need's a new loose cannon in the North American theatre. Sure, today it's just a modest smokehouse in a smallish city in the United States, but haven't we learned anything about front businesses and impeccable covers? We've got to neutralize him while we can.

“B”: Running commandos in the Midwest with our top-of-the-line interference technology is a very risky proposition both politically and militarily. What if it falls into American hands, or worse, Peace Now? And what about collateral damage— some Dutch Calvinist eating burnt tips, God forbid, gets caught in the crossfire?

“Z”: We have a communiqué from Yeshua himself. The restaurant's legitimate. We have always been able to rely on Yeshua's word as the gold standard, no? Do you remember in 2006 when he vouched for the Black-Eyed Peas in Tel Aviv? Was that not a concert for the ages? Who saw Yossi Shalev's 'Headphone Party' video on YouTube?

“M”: [Redacted], what in HASHEM's name do you mean? Do you actually think will.i.am was a real threat to the State of Israel? Moron! But Zeus has made more fucking trouble already than all the hiphop stars and Arabs combined! We must do something to stop him at all costs! I have, right here in my hand, a recently commissioned White Paper from our Western Michigan Chamber of Commerce. It concludes—I quote—'There is zero' — that is their italics— 'zero market for another smoked ribs restaurant in Greater Grand Rapids.' Your harmless little old geriatric god? He's clearly playing all of us for fools!

“B”: Moses help me if I'm wrong, but we can't afford to not send in a team. The risk is simply too great to ignore. Let's use those ultra-foxy hackerchiks that took down the Iranians' atomics—I want to pin another fucking medal onto both their chests, you hear me? Tell them to pack their satin nighties. Gas up that airport limo with the Bose speakers and tinted bulletproof glass. We assemble at 6, codeword hickory.

اااا اااا - Purpose Honed by Perplexity - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 21 Muḥammad Muḥammad al-Āmir ‘Awaḍ as-Sayyid اااااا ااا ااااا ااا ‘Aṭṭa:

I'm turning 33 in 10 more days. I won't grow much older.

Yeshua gave up life at 33. As an infant He spent one night a hundred meters from the hut where I grew up in Nile-suckled Kafr el-Sheikh. The ancient Crocodilopolite who sold Yeshua's mother pita at the souk bore witness that He uttered verses at 3 months of age. Even then, He knew the hour of His death. He too could never take a bride.

The Prophet, on the other hand, at 33 was just an ordinary husband. All-loving Allah candled him so long.

When I tell my Saudi morons why skyscrapers are demonic, they nod their heads like cows— how pleasantly stupid they are! Strange that these are the men I am entering Paradise with. I can't wait to escape them.

I look forward to rebirth in a place with less perplexity. I yearn for tamarisk bowls filled with fresh and savory home-cooked food again.

Everyone a Writer - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 22 – Foxy Israeli Hackerchik 1 @[email protected] / Foxy Israeli Hackerchik 2 @penzu.com:

1

I first met him in Haifa. I wanted a boat to Crete and went down to the port. It was almost lunchtime and dark, about to rain. Strong winds flung sea spray at the small café. Its glass doors were shut tight. Someone touched my shoulder, lightly, from behind. “Call me Ishmael,” he said, and grinned. “Are you looking for a boat?” he asked. “Heraklion,” I said. “That won't be cheap.” “Do I look cheap?” It was the start of a beautiful friendship. His real name, it turns out, was a state secret: he actually did go by “Ishmael”—Ishmael Levitz, owner-operator of an open-sea ferry for hire called the Saint Judith. He had the lightest blue eyes, set in the darkest tan, I'd ever seen. When he laughed, which he did pretty frequently, his face...

You all can guess the rest of the story. Chock full of realistic details. Two hyper- patriotic agents team up to foil the Cypriot arms smuggler or the would-be Palestinian martyr who will settle for the bare cell of a common criminal— something like that. If you've read my other stuff, you know I actually am a commando in real life. This evening, I am starting a mission, and so I will be incommunicado again, for who knows how long. Who knows if I'll return at all? So this next paragraph may be the last. (What can it possibly say, to live up to that?) Feel free to finish it yourself, if I don't get the chance...

...assumed such a tortured shape, I felt a desperate urge to look away. It was the deeply sorrowful lines into which his face otherwise relaxed that would ultimately wring out every sort of moisture that my body hid.

2

Off we go to Xxx, cover story: xxx xxxs in our target's new xxx xxx in Xxx Xxx, Xxx. Xxx always flirts with Xxx so shamelessly in his pimped-out limo, and I as usual will be embarrassed for her. But when will she look my way?

The target is Xxx. Why? Who ever knows? But these guys have kept the Xxx of Xxx afloat for many decades now, so they must actually know what they're doing.

As usual, we will share a motel room. We always try to book two double beds, but the last time, they said all they could give us was one king. I said something like “Why fight it?” and Xxx looked at me thoughtfully, as if thinking, "Is there a double meaning?" I was so hot for her that night as we undressed, I thought, "How is it that she can't see it?" But if she did, she kept it to herself, and in the morning we put our street clothes back on and went out like two robots and xxxed a xxx.

What will happen in Xxx? Love? Xxx? Or will my heart give out this time from all its wondering and wanting?

Brothers - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 23 – Saudi 1:

I'm sick of watching Taxi Driver over and over. I know a comedy's too much to ask of Atta, but why not rent another film that cryptically exposes Jews like Silence of the Lambs or Grapes of Wrath, to break up the monotony?

My brother says the cinema in heaven is unblemished by disgust. The camerawork is always dignified; the scores are riveting— you'd never dream of getting up to leave, even to piss— which, luckily, nobody must. The popcorn bucket top-to-bottom keeps a perfect saltiness, has no hard kernels, and replenishes itself. The Coca-Cola doesn't water down or lose its soft, sweet fizz.

As the day creeps closer, I flush with a bliss known only to a younger brother who has promised to relieve his elder brother's spiritual distress. Allah was merciful, and the healer in Medina wise to recommend we contact Atta, a talib with vicious thorns inside his heart, but surely guides us toward paradise. For that, I obey him and call him a hero.

Still, I don't know if I can bear another moment of De Niro.

Brothers 2 - Muse's Advisory, Aug 24 – Saudi 2:

Our donkey hates skyscrapers, like the movie guy hates cities. My brother says, “Keep focussed on jihad. We're almost there.” “We're almost where?” I ask. “Allah provides,” he says. Allah who provides everything.

For 28 years, Allah has fed both pain and wonder to Waleed. It's not enough that he should live a modest, ordinary life. “In this existence,” Waleed says, “He gives us signposts to the next, where He'll provide the rest. We're almost there, Wa'il.”

I hope he's right. Waleed has faith, but he was also sure about the ruqya healer in Medina. My pain is nothing next to knowing what he undergoes on my behalf. What kind of life is that? I hope it's true Allah prepares him something better.

Grand Opening I - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 25 – Zeus:

I'm glad the faithless floozie didn't show! The shamelessness of these Israeli mata haris turns me on like nothing else! That they are spies, even assassins, only blows a bellows on my passions! If I'm interpreting their brazen flirting right, I think tonight is going to be the night!

They may know who I am—my dossier— but they have no idea what I can do. Assassin 2 has got a major jones for 1, but when I'm done with both of them the straightie's going to wish she'd let the lesbie lap her dish. Do they imagine I'm some doddering old lech? Let's open up the doors and sling our hash: come closing time, I'll tally up the cash, then teach my Shannon twins who's boss.

The odor of the meats is sweet— an ideal avocation for a god, to bathe in blood and smoke and watch as humans sit and eat!

Damn Jews have had it in for me for— how long now? Two dozen centuries? What did I ever do to them? It's my fault Romans occupied Jerusalem? The Jewess I deflowered was some gem, their princes lined up at her door?

Why don't they bring the Christians down a rung: “It wasn't our Jehovah who made Miriam a mom— it was that infamous and loathsome Greek Don Juan!” It's like they're proud, in secret, that Yeshua their arch-nemesis arose full-blooded from their seed. Maybe it makes it less embarrassing, Jehovah being just a straw god they set up to feed their daydreams of superiority. I've roamed the earth and sky since Day 1 dawned. My brothers range the seas, and hell. There isn't any rival god unless his tent's pitched on the dark side of the moon or he's immured himself inside a benthic sulfur vent.

Here come the girls. O, what a fine, fine day this promises to be! Not just for me, but for Grand Rapids too. Today it beats back Lansing and Toledo's pity: any local yokel west of Philly knows a town without a single smokehouse has a lot of nerve to call itself a city.

Grand Opening II - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 26 – Melpomene:

Zeus smiles, transfigured, beholding the hungry queue. “Welcome to Mt. Olympus, everyone!” The first in line's a skinny fellow dangling from a Marathon Oil cap into the shafts of back-cut python cowboy boots—Yeshua. But gods can't see past hats; Zeus fails to recognize his son. He vigorously pumps the youngster's GOJO-scented hands and cries, “Your lunch is on the house—on me!”

The skinny-jeaned, waist-aproned waitresses know who he is and see an opportunity to kill two plump birds with one stone. But in deep cover, incommunicado, they can't make a call this weighty on their own. They risk their cover being blown to send even a very well encrypted text to “O.” But 1 nods Go; 2 scurries to the lady's room. Zeus feels a near-erotic stirring in his thyroid glands, escorts Yeshua to a window deuce, and readies for the femmes fatales to finally show their dirty, double-crossing hands.

1 seats the next group, seniors, in a chrome and crimson vinyl booth. Zeus eagle-eyes the black and white hex-tiled restroom vestibule for 2. But it's Yeshua's play! He leaps bolt-upright to his feet and pulls an iTouch from his Wrangler boot-cut dungarees. “Nobody move!” he cries. “I have an IED!” 1 races back in from the loo and flashes a thumbs-up to 2, who whips out her OO-MP3 and taps the playlist Jammin' Crete.

Zeus thrills! At last enough is happening at once, he has an opportunity to split in three and show these mortal amateurs just what it means to be The Lord of Seven Hundred Forms, The Manifold: Zeus A, in chaps, upends Yeshua with a thunderbolt of ribs; B, in a leopard Tarzan loincloth, halts 1 in her tracks with an entire brisket slab; and C, buck naked, boomerangs a cayenne-crusted turkey wing at 2!

The other patrons gape. The Imam Sahibzada in his white taqiyah, on his lunch break from the makeshift mosque, commands, “In Allah's name, Zeus, stop! The Prophet said—”

But who can hear a thing? Half into Zeus C's upswing with a three-foot truncheon of kielbasa, Yeshua nearly hews his Roman nose off with a knife-edged crucifix produced at lightning speed from hidden scaffolding beneath his cap! C springs for cover into B, and B accordions back into A. The reassembled god at last identifies his son and, dumbstruck, watches him unzip his denim coveralls down to the waist and send the routed hackerchiks careening out the door in horror of T-rays emanating from his Sacred Heart!

Sahibzada saves his hadith for another day, streaks out into the street on the Israelis' heels.

The other patrons goggle hungrily at all the great meat strewn around the floor.

Yeshua calmly tells them what the blue plate specials are and in a phonic shorthand he invented on the spot efficiently takes everybody's orders.

Grand Opening III - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 27 – Terpsichore:

“Rabboni,” said Green Hornet as he dabbed the beads of moisture sprouting on his upper lip, and paid his tab. “What do you make of this whole global warming mess?”

“I don't,” Yeshua says. “CO2 footprints, 'Footprints in the Sand'— it's too much chemistry and higher math, it just confuses me.”

“Fo' sho. My wife Lenore says, 'Let's have tons of kids since one of them might find the fix,' but Kato says, 'Adopt.' It's a conundrum wrapped inside— how does that bitch expression go?”

“Who fuckin' knows? That's $13.13 with the tax.”

“That dry-rubbed tongue was fine. Next time I'm in the neighborhood, I'll come again.”

“Whatever you decide about them kids?— keep up the ballsy gangster-fighting, Britt. I dreamt of getting some of that myself when I was young.”

“Atoning for the human race's sins, the Sacred Heart, giving the blind man sight? That shit is not chopped liver, any way you slice it! Not everyone's cut out for costumed vigilante work." Then, sotto voce, “Maybe one night after closing up, a drink? I sometimes got a taste for trade, a little casual down-low?”

“You know I wish I could.”

“A shame, a shame. I understand.”

“You give 'em hell.”

“You too, my man.”

The Smokehouse Ticket - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 28 – Zeus:

Sorry about that rack of ribs. I took you for a third Israeli. But what the fuck is your excuse for letting fly that bloody crucifix? Still clinging to that boyhood grudge?

Nor am I thrilled about the corny trickshop heart-ray bit you pulled, as if I needed rescuing. I held my ground, and more— had big plans for those Mossad whores you scared off with your cheap display of cheesy faux panache.

You're no slouch, though, at waitering! You shitting me? How much in tips?— no Zeus, but still you have a gift! The first time one dumb patron gave me lip I would've turned my sharp tongue loose and put my foot into my mouth. I'd be the poster child of getting stiffed!

Yeah, Heaven knows you got a very different style from my own, but still, if I said partnership, what would you say? My meat might be ambrosia yet if someone doesn't serve it with a friendly smile, it might as well be shit.

Grand Rapids is an okay whistlestop— no San Francisco or New Orleans but as good a town as any for a quiet life, for grinding out a buck. Today, you want to call the big-league shots, you need a couple dollars in your pocket. Yes, it's subservient, a bit, but when you stop and think, humility is pretty much your gig.

We build a grubstake fat enough for TV buys and PR flaks— then you, the lowly hick, and I, the gruff entrepreneur, could really make a run of it as Independents! You take the top spot on the ticket. Me?—I'll be Dick Cheney, Bush's veep. You good-ole-sweet-talk the electorate; my little finger diddles with her liberties and then my whole hand pushes deep into her pocketbook to pick it.

First choice for military Chief of Staff? Sheik Abdel-Rahman finds the bull's-eye on a donkey's ass as well as anyone; and Admiral Nelson's tops at blind man's bluff. First choice for an incursion— Beirut, Baghdad, or the Hindu Kush? Or should we stick our thumbs in everybody's eye at once and shock-and-awe Jerusalem?

The mighty eagle and the humble dove— I like the sound of it, don't you? Vox populi is dying for a figment just like us! The Smokehouse Team Business and Labor Hand in Hand Again! Your American Dream! We'll make the Mt. Olympus our campaign HQ and promise butt pulled pork in every pot! We'll silk-purse virtues out of every failing— shamelessly out-Sarah-Palin Sarah Palin— send Barack Obama back to Hono-fuckin-lulu!

Let Caesar nurse whatever's his, and render to the gods the rest. We'll suckle à la Siamese and leave the poor and friendless each one empty breast.

Olympus Smokehouse Ticket Nix - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 29 – Yeshua:

Pops, your halved burnt ends are tops but campaign ops is clearly not your gift.

There's more to politics than popularity. You have to cultivate the rich and kiss ass at The New York Times. You have to wine and dine, give graft, make promises and grease the wheels.

Smokehouse is art, running for president is craft. You don't cut meat, but deals. You rub salt and cayenne in an opponents' wounds.

Serving food is honest work. I would be proud to stay and help you get this shanty off the ground. Ruling the free world, though? More you than me.

I don't mind putting two slugs in a pronghorn's chest, and as you saw today, I'm up to shooing off a couple pretty vicious Jews. But smoke-filled backroom double deals, and dueling close-in with sharp knives? I lack that kind of steel.

You do it, though, alone. You didn't need me when you sent those deicidal hellcats packing earlier this afternoon. I only intervened to save their lives and burglarize their jobs.

Go on downstairs and tally up the take. You earned it. My congratulations. Mt. Olympus is a hit.

Restaurant Review - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 30 – The Grand Rapids Sentinel:

Mt. Olympus Smokehouse Flavor & Atmosphere Volcanic! by Publisher Britt “Brisket” Reid

My chauffeur and personal assistant Kato holds his own at BBQ, so it was a fine surprise to find that whole gamut of smoked meats at the new Mt. Olympus Smokehouse, in the former Café du Jour space on W. Washington Street, are the zestiest I've ever eaten!

The owner, a native of Crete who calls himself Zeus Labrandos to fit with his double-edged cleaver logo, explains that he was born on a constantly smoking volcanic slope and has never lost the taste for eating, or knack for preparing, an array of fine smoked meats.

Picture a stripped-down, white brick, boxy, white-floored room with formica-top tables and a few old-fashioned diner-style booths. There’s a bunch of sugarcane stalks in a corner, and on the walls, photographs of Bill Clinton and Oprah Winfrey waiting to be signed. Ask to be seated at a corner table if you can. The sound levels rock the rafters in this high-ceilinged space, sudden drafts gust through whenever the door blows open, and you'll want to avoid the brunt of the mayhem and bloodshed, as entertaining as it is.

Highlights of my meal: burnt tips and a halved tongue to die for, washed down with an ice-cold, ample pitcher of lime-ade; two foxy Middle-Eastern-sounding waitresses; one stringy-haired young man with a grease-monkey's baseball cap and the heart of a ninja; Zeus himself; and the local imam! I kid you not. The grand finale was a wild-west shootout that included joints of meat, cardiac death rays and boxcutter-sharp religious icons whizzing across the dining room!

None of which seemed to matter all to the customers crowding Zeus's tightly packed tables to sample his flair with smoked meats, ranging from turkey wings to huge beef ribs to real Polish kielbasa— and much more! Expert smoking, slow-cooking, and flavor fireworks all conspire to make you "high" on the Mount Olympus Smokehouse, at 117 W. Washington St., phone 734-761-2882.

•Hours: 11 a.m.-midnight, daily incl. Christmas •Plastic: Yes •Liquor: Unnecessary •Prices: Most items $12 or less •Noise level: Boisterous •Wheelchairs: A must

Restaurant Review, the Rhubarb - Muse's Advisory, Aug. 31 – Kato:

Fuck your literary license, Britt. “Next best” at anything is not my speed.

Valet and sidekick, bad enough— but telling everyone in town I'm second fiddle to a Cretan when it comes to BBQ is just too much.

Wisteria and maple mingled at the vee are bound to wrestle for the upper hand, the clasp becoming subtly murderous—

The sun and moon once crossed the heavens fondly, side by side, before the one became a flaming exhibitionist, the other a sedate voyeur—

Then comes a point in everybody's life, a Rubicon, momento de verdad—

Oh God. Can't we just end this whole charade? This houseboy scholar trick you have me turn— I quit. One final cappuccino, and that's it.

Let's swap roles, drop the fiction. Truth be told, you prowl the alleyways by night because the air of violence gets you off. I'm not your equerry, but your de Sade.

I say we bag this fucked-up Harvey Comics superhero shit and just come out— no masks, no livery, no false façades— two unapologetic queers who have the balls to show their faces and take pleasure in the underside of love.

Bedfellows - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 1 – Nikos:

“You learn to read and write so you become a man,” my father, Captain Michail Kazantzakis, told his sons. He meant for us to tame the animals within, the goats that mounted women without asking, and the wolves the goats fled bleating from, instinctively. But letters never curbed my savagery.

I had lunch with the priest from Holy Trinity G.O.C. We had that killer $30 lamb souvlaki at The Epicure's Academy down there on Wealthy Street. He's already worried you'll be serving meat in violation of the church decrees regarding Cheesefare Week: “What will his menu be? Is Zeus a patriotic Greek or opportunist leech?” “His name is probably a clue,” I said. He cried, “Then he's as bad as you!” That's when I knew we had to meet.

He also said the waiter here, your son— he had an air of piety. Is that him there? He looks like he's more into crystal meth than Holy Eucharist, to me.

You don't know who I am? I'm Kazantzakis the agnostic, author, priest-scourge, egotist— the closest thing to you on modern Crete, that ancient, rugged copper skillet on the stove of the Aegean Sea. I want to know why you confine your heat inside these fragrant, brick-faced kilns— why pile platters high with smoky meat, who oft-times charred a mighty city with one wild flicker of his wrist!

I do respect the working stiff. My pappoús hammered cauldrons out of tin. He knew his place—came home, sat down, drank his arkanes, chewed his crust of bread, prayed seven prayers and crumpled into bed. I meant no disrespect. You're quite a chef. Your meats are just as scrumptious as I've read. But if you own the powers of a god, I grasp your royal knees and pray you launch your utmost thunder-stroke a thousand miles to the D.C. Hall of Heros— blast the Pentagon into a Stonehenge of a million tons of sundered concrete circling the hatless and saluteless courtyard Cold War soldiers, in their gallows humor, named Ground Zero. Did you say No? Those military morons, shadow-boxing, don't outrage you—boil your blood?

Your name's Yeshua? Nice to meet you. I am Nikos, Cretan too—born in Heraklion. I'll have the Medley of Assorted BBQ with sides of creamed corn, coleslaw and french fries. Don't paint the meat with any sauce, I like it dry, and please make sure it's piping hot. I have this half-off coupon from the Sentinel. The limeade's free? I hope it's also plentiful!

You got a sec? I'm interested in you. You have the kind of think-big moxie I do, plus the wherewithal to back it up. Your dad's hung up his lightningbolt, he says, to hoe a couple less dramatic rows, but I aspire to old-time immortal glory— to instill both dread and admiration— to send petty tyrants running stand this two-bit fleabag Hotel Earth right on its head! You too? I've got ideas beyond my thews, you strength beyond your wits. Let's say we put our heads together— put the fear of Jesus into more than hot-wired, strychnine-cunted Jews? Yes! I do! I feel the fire in your gut!

So now you want to talk, Zeus? Tame my temper, quoting Lysistráti? Scurry back into the kitchen! Fix my dish! Your son's become the god you used to be. It doesn't matter how much thunder's in your thighs if you've forgotten how to dance the maleviziotis!

Doubleday on the Phone - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 2 – Tama to Miriam:

If Jackie O. were still alive, believe me, it'd be her here on the horn. But I'm her heir and protégé of sorts. I had a hand in Quincy Jones's Q and Tiger Woods's coach's A-Game Golf— I worked intensively with Tiger's dad, whose preface was a diamond in the rough I helped massage into a fairway gem. I've earned my spurs with long-ball hitters and, I hope, the right to pitch myself to you.

Cultural icon—overused, but in this case it fits: you're goddam Princess Di times two! Of course I haven't read the manuscript but even if it has some bumps or warts, I'm confident we'll get them ironed out and make a critical and popular success. When will you be in New York next? I'll treat you to a lunch you won't forget— the City's greatest food, a panoramic view of everything that will be yours if you'll let me and Doubleday bring out your book. Bring 20, 30 pages double-spaced. We'll sip a little Dom, we'll hatch a plan, then take a limo ride uptown to see how many big fat zeros we can jam into the blank box on your first advance, the Queen who kicks Steve King from #1 on the bestseller lists!

An Excited Flurry of Advice - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 3:

Polymnie:

Some fancy éditeur invited you to lunch? Mon Dieu! So many pitfalls, so much opportunity!

Is she picking up the airfare? Première classe ou économique? Surefire indication of the level of commitment.

Did they book you an hôtel? The Elysée, the Plaza, the Pierre? The devil's always in the details. Hire a literary lawyer.

Tama, was it? Tama Who? First Google/Facebook her. Then mail her 15 pages à l'avance, ask what she'd do with it.

I'm not an author's rep per se— my expertise, the idée inspirée— but generally they cut, cut, cut, then pay you by the page.

Is it “as told to”? “With”? Nègre anonyme ou crédité? . Urania:

Will they stipulate to book you on the network morning shows, or only minor-market call-ins in a thousand cheerless Buffalos?

As for foreign language rights, the biggest Christian markets: Spanish, Russian, Tagalog, Portuguese, Italian, and Amharic.

Terpsichore:

Don't drink a drop until the ink is dry— then guzzle bubbly to your heart's content. It's still their dime, and they're expensing it.

Don't let some bull-dyke elbow in and steal your cab: if word gets out, then everybody sees you as fair game.

And cross the street not when the box says WALK, but anytime the crosstown traffic bares a 10-foot gap.

Ask for onions on you hotdog at Sabrett's. Don't ever walk past a Papaya King and not duck in!

Hulk Hogan's strategy to best-sell his My Life Outside the Ring? Tip bartenders, hairdressers, waiters, cabbies, prostitutes and doormen really well.

Mojo Infusion - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 4 – Yusuf to Nikos:

I have desires I could fan to roaring passions, like you do.

I read your epic and your memoir, both. When Booklist noted you were signing books here in New York, I had to come.

I'm going to ask you if you'll write: To Yusuf, my life force is your inheritance.

How loud it is in here! Who guessed the St. Mark's was a magnet for you Greeks?

Am I the only one on line who doesn't speak your mother tongue, and doesn't trumpet every thought out loud? My Aramaic legacy is reticence.

You're smart; you didn't procreate. Your wife still hangs upon your words as lovingly as if it was your second date.

A child's a Trojan horse. I know. He slips a hand beneath your balls and squeezes steadily until you cry, I'll give my life! Just stop the pain!

And then he turns and walks away.

You faced down God and men with entrails cold and hard as metal chains.

When these two hussies finish offering you their cunts, I want to grip your virile wrist and pray its lava seeps into my veins.

I simply want what's mine. I raised that boy, I kept that women warm in bed at night for twenty years, while Zeus just sat it out.

If it were you, you'd leap right up and do something regretable, I have no doubt.

one of three nights at the cooper square - muse's advisory, sept. 5 – nikos, asleep: a boy breathes lightly as a pine lizard a cloudless sky above three continents a pelican crawls under the sea-grapes to die a pelican on an updraft sees how everything floats on everything a tsar collects his tax on nobles' beards a child's go-cart lames the mayor's mare a soldier learns why privies have to be inside a pelican perforates the membrane of the sea and gulps a struggling mullet a jetliner plummets from the blue over sumatra grandfather said it plainly oxen, sheep and donkeys are men who lost the faculty of speech and olive trees and vines are men who don't remember anything at all except to set the richest fruit they can at the first moment of creation everything was human even we humans were human

[Parts of S5 drawn from Nikos Kazantzakis's autobiography, Report to Greco]

The Towers - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 6 – Zeus:

Elytis wrote, The light never blended with their roof, not even a bee was fooled into beginning the golden game, not even a Zephyr into swelling the white aprons – but they built it anyway, raised the iron up into the light. 30 pieces of silver was the price: trim, oxford-topped beige dresses welcomed the aprons back at last, and the white made do with that.

Miriam purred, I'll wear whatever dress you buy me. But while I was shopping in the Taisho-ya Kimono Store, a damn gnome tried to jump me and I blew up with unfortunate results for all of Nakajima: Nakajima-honmachi and Motoyanagi-machi, Tenjin-machi, Kobiki-cho and Zaimoku-cho, Nakajima-shinmachi, the Sekaikan Cinema, the shrine, the brush-shop, the teahouse and the camphor trees.

She promised, I'll meet you in front of my cathedral. As I exited the Michino-o train station, another gnome accosted me but I kept my cool until I reached St. Mary's, where fumi-e agents forced suspected Christians to crush the Virgin's icon or be banished. When I saw she'd put the horns on me, I rose between the spires and called destruction down on everyone and all.

[l. 2-4 Odysseas Elytis, trans. Keeley/Sherrard]

Voice Crying Out in the City - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 7 – John Cantell, outside Madison Square Garden:

Tom Cruise! Barack Obama! . Yoko Ono! Michael Jackson! . Tiger Woods! J. K. Row ling!

God says: The fields are white. Oh how sweet! Do not drift From the brightness, From the glory! Look to the Savior, Come away to Jesus! Oh turn ye, turn ye, Out on the broad way.

I was a pilgrim bound One cold winter's eve. I was wandering, Drifting away from The gospel of grace, I was journeying, Passing onward, And I heard my Savior: Cheer up, my brother, Man of sorrows, We're going home.

God says: Have you room for Your blest Redeemer? Don't you hear My dying Jesus pleading? There's a great day, There is sunshine, Come enter the gate, Called to the feast!

[built mostly from hymn titles in Go-Preacher Hymn Book www.tellingthetruth.info/brg_hymns/gopreacher.php]

Cuntagious - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 8 – Terpsichore:

A block downtown from the Israeli Consulate, in Mimi's Nail Salon, Millie and Tina debate whether the evening's last two gals were lesbians.

“I never seen such fucked-up nails,” says Tina. “Whatevuh them two girls is doin' is just nasty!”

“They both straight-up dykes if you ask me,” says Millie. “You could tell it from them arms! You seen those arms? Them girls is heavy duty with the weights and shit. Know what I mean?”

“Jews always pick those scary snake designs! And did you see those fuckin' spike-toe shoes? Them girls some mean-ass lesboes!” Tina says. “$10 says they goin' at it right this very second!”

“All four of their tits is less than one of yours,” Millie observes. “But lezzies love that kind of tit. Know what I mean? Reminds them of a man's.”

“I wish my tits were more like yours,” says Tina. “Not these huge balloons but not too little neither.”

“You do? You want to see? I'll show you them. Slide down the shade. I want to see yours too. I like 'em big–”

“As long as we ain't lookin' at our pussies.”

A block downtown from the Israeli Consulate, in Mimi's Nail Salon, Millie and Tina debate what women can or cannot do and still be straight.

A loud knock on the locked and curtained door. The two gals giggle, hold their breath, and race to button up their shirts. Another knock, a cry. "Is anybody still in there? I'm desperate!"

Millie opens the door a crack and Tina sees her blush. Amelia Earhart stands there naked as a robin, right down to her reddish bush!

Rent Tomb

Polimnia con Fuoco Muse's Advisory, Sept. 9

On this day in 1965 Los Angeles a Japanese Navy E14Y Yokosuka Dodger Sandy Koufax executed On this day in 1942 an Imperial float plane dropped an incendiary history a tight 1-0 victory over the bomb on an Oregon state forest the 8th perfect game in baseball Chicago Cubs at Dodger Stadium long-ranged underwater aircraft in Los Angeles Although Koufax Launched from the Japanese carrier I-25 Fujita Nobuo piloted from 1955-1961 from 1962-1966 the light airplane to Oregon and won just games 36 to 51 losses he put in the record books what Mount Emily alighting the state are maybe the 5 greatest seasons fire bombed Wheeler Ridge on forest and ensuring his place Koufax's fastballs seemed to rise as the only combatant in U.S. by a pitcher in baseball history as they reached home plate United States Washington quickly blazing past batters His infamous history to bomb the continental ordered a coast to coast news knees almost always crossing the blackout for the sake of morale curve ball buckled at the hitter's plate as a strike after following and Fujita eventually went home a parabolic path as he amassed No long-term damage was done as a hero and was reassigned to the middle of the Cubs order and training kamikaze pilots After the perfect game Koufax faced struck out Ron Santo and Ernie as peace gifts his family's 400 Banks in the 8th inning before the war he gave his former enemies year old samurai sword and planted although the Cubs said afterward a yew tree at the bombing site striking out the side in the 9th they always knew what was coming where a daughter buried his ashes

[built from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nobuo_Fujita & http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandy_Koufax%27s_perfect_game]

between two minarets muse's advisory sept 10 romanticism of the machine high high time for my grand gesture

the 400m mashrabiya minoruts high on yamasaki's masjib al-haram

koenig's grosse kugelkaryatide representing a ruptured kaaba

nagare's cloven cloud fortress spreads thighs to the rapture high aesthetic planes welded together

he assimilates it as he does volcanoes erupting tsunamis & earthquakes welling inside his veins high a bearded bum a-glitter with fleas in his Russian egg of flannel coats

roaring

roaring

10,000 life forms underneath his nails

a white-silver 18-wheeler pulled off at the west street edge of the plaza

the driver's head thrown back & back & back in the red blink of the hazards

high 5 port authority police share predawn laughs

on wet hands & knees an old fiend crawls over the flattened galaxy of the fountain's floor high for coppered zinc and nickeled copper coin time

No - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 11 – unknown:

One thing I'll clarify. I don't subscribe to Time or Life or Christianity Today. Your cries make less noise in my ear than schoolchildren's soap bubbles failing. I don't smell anything: I didn't smell your Auschwitz or your Abel's offering.

Twin Dronings in the Hearing Room - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 12 – Urania:

"We looked at every possible thing we could think of that could happen to the two towers, including an airplane hitting them," said lead structural engineer John Skilling. “A B-25 bomber had once hit the Empire State Building. Our analysis showed the buildings could withstand the impact of Boeing 707's. There would be a horrendous fire but the building structures would survive."

“A trust exists between builders and occupants, and with firefighters,” said forensic architect Roger Morse. “That trust was broken." The builder in charge of structural fire-proofing, Louie 'the Bone' DiBono of the Gambino family, was in St. Mary Cemetery in Queens on 9/11. He'd been found riddled with bullets in the front seat of a Caddie in the WTC basement parking level.

On the Air - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 13 – Day 3 broadcast:

...Windows on the World waitress, whose white apron flew up, blinding her as she fell, told Sky News correspondent Eric Blair that Jackie O. had been at brunch with God's mother Mary, sipping demitasses reeking of Sambuca, when legendary aviatrix Amelia Earhart emerged from the oncoming jet's port cockpit window wearing nothing but...

...a red-eyed truck driver from Tennessee claims a large, bearded, vagrant man climbed atop the sculpture known as 'The Sphere' and raised his arms toward the sky, as two slinky and well-accoutred young women ran up, brandishing what looked like eerie rays of greenish light...

...visibly shaken spokesman said that the substitution of Martin Scorsese’s 1976 Oscar-nominated 'Taxi Driver' for Ang Lee's 2000 Oscar-nominated 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon' as inflight movie for the Boston-to-L.A. flight had been requested by passenger David Angell, creator of the sitcom 'Frasier,' but had not yet been OK'd by the flight crew...

...47-year-old Jackson 5 fan and street-corner evangelist John Cantell of Noel, Missouri, had appeared suddenly, attempting to intervene on behalf of an elder, possibly Arab man scuffling with guards in the North Tower entry foyer following a routine request for identification, to which he replied, quote, 'Yeshua and Kazantakis would never demean themselves and produce id's!'

...Buckingham Palace Correspondent says the Queen is pulling in all the laundry and dispatching her firstborn His Royal Highness Prince Charles Philip Arthur George Prince of Wales Knight of the Garter Knight of the Thistle Knight Grand Cross of the Order of Bath Knight of the Order of Australia Companion of the Queen's Service Order Privy Counsellor Earl of Chester Duke of Cornwall Duke of Rothesay Earl of Carrick Baron of Renfrew Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, in the company of Lady Camilla Parker Bowles, great-granddaughter of Alice of Pleasure House in East Sutton in Kent, chief mistress of King Edward VII from 1898-1910, to fly to New York City as soon as airports there opened, to convey the Royal Family's deep condolences after...

...PM Tony Blair deplored 'absolutely shocking events taking place in America'...

Muse's Advisory - Sept. 14 – Euterpe to Tom:

Just stop. Don't take another step.

Who is answerable, except yourself, for this unfolding lapse in judgment?

Stop in mid-air. In mid-sentence.

That prince chained to an iron ring– in agony of fleas, lice and incontinence– knows all too well what happens when you bite off more than you can chew.

Sure, I got to meet my mythic dad. You had your bit of fun with God, the Blessed Mother and their Son.

But now you're sketching out a soaring, grand, love-conquers-all finale?

How Titanically boring.

Don't do it. Let furled canvas lie, let time and mold and wind-salt worry it to shreds, text messages and tweets.

30 centuries of puffing hot air into sails, and aren't we still row ing the galley?

Instead, turn hands and lips to me, Euterpe. Plain Jane with a flute, who sees a future on dry land.

My urgent, fond and desperate advice: this dimmed poem's wick is burning low, and when it finally splits– one wisp of cursed black smoke, one specklike eye in clear hot wax– fly fast and take me with you!

No luscious dish, no leather dominatrix bent to kinky sex,

I'm just a chubby, whistling waitress, moonlighting on Sunday as a ticket-taker on the slow train into Minneapolis, and animated by the simple wish to sing a human child to sleep at night.

Please. Take me with you when you go.

Ill-Conceived - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 15 - Yeshua to Hephaistos:

When the day comes that we take these hardhats off, surrender the tiny bits of bone of Zeus to the tiny bits of bone of Miriam and bid them both a happy ever-after— requiescatis in pace, as the pater prays— when we've sifted every inch of rubble, cheese-clothed out the last remaining mote of the prick whose sown oats gave us life, what then?

It's me and you I'm worried about, my friend.

Nobody's ever going to let me live or die in peace, and you're inhumed in such obscurity, it's death in life, as if you never lived at all— not heir but minor actor in your sire's bio-pic.

We might as well go have a drink. I'll try to love you all I can, but how exuberantly can you feast on hearty lentil soup from me who wears the mantle of your birthright, though unwillingly?

The whole thing is distasteful, I agree. Why did he have us if our patrimony's only gravel-speckled, lygus-stunted pulse steeped thirteen days in rancid misery?

He left us better-heeled if he had sheathed his wooden phallus swollen with its hidden load of offspring— cooped that god-sized cock inside a £1 Trojan magnum.

Was it your countryman who said, Mὴ βλάπτειν? First do no harm?

The Urns - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 16

Frederic Weatherly:

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. The summer's gone, and all the roses falling, It's you, it's you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow, Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow, It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow, Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!

But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I well may be, Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me, And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be, For you will bend and tell me that you love me, And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!

CNN U.S.:

The giant yellow arms of heavy machines ceased their steady rumble to honor the dead, pausing from their relentless task of removing rubble from the ruins of the destroyed Towers. Then, to the strains of bagpipes, workers returned to their posts, and the Leviathans resumed their somber, tedious undertaking.

Miriam to Zeus:

You tickled me! You're not supposed to be in here!

And there you are, again! My goodness, bits of you and bits of me are all mixed up together in this urn!

And now, in your urn, too! I feel one of my knuckles butting you.

Oh, this is rich! How will you wriggle out of this?

Epistle to the Tobeloans - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 17 – St. Paul the White Cockatoo:

Creation, incarnation, conservation, annihilation— the craft of gods is complex, hard. No one was ever born omnipotent, nor ever neared that notional capacity who was not dedicated, disciplined.

These ranks of opal urns arrayed like China's terra-cotta warriors on the mantel-shelf you chicks delight to call the Milky Way—each has a story to it— archimage, scops-owl, handmaiden, conscript, ghost-fish, Penzanceman. That one? A monk too fond of food.

Yet there is always profit. The catastrophe at Gamalama taught me hope; my submission to the crush of Zeus's hand confirmed my self-restraint, and saw to it I don't forget affection's fallacy.

My brood-mates wolfed the fruit and boxed my beak; the nesting hen and cock both shrugged. But as Yeshua said, “The last are first.” At least they have a shot at it, I think. So when Hephaistos begged my help—

exactly, yes, God's actual First Son, the one who stitched my left half to my right, who set my bill back in its jaw— so when he begged my help to re-inspire Zeus's effigy, to lure him from the comfort of the ashes of his trophy wife by common law, I told him, quickly, “Count me in.”

He said: “They're half in this urn, half in that. You hear those doting lover's coos? It's has to stop. I want to sentence him to go on with his shitty life indefinitely, as he did me. I drafted plans—

my aspiration, once, was to be Muse of Architects, did you know that?—

to build a holodome, an office building sim: an elevator lobby and an upstairs hall, framed artwork on the walls all perfectly innocuous, a consultation room, Venetian curtains drawn,

a smoke-and-mirror world like in The Matrix or Mission Impossible. What I need you to do— nobody fiddles Zeus's heart-strings with more virtuosity than you— is to entice him back out here with that pathetic poor-hurt-parrot call.”

Experience brings precision, and precision, accomplishment. I want you one day to be proud too of whatever you effect by force of will.

My nine poor orphans, do you think you understand? Your mother, no, she never really got it right, she cherrypicked her lovers' memories and thought the truth would never come to light. She nurtured you on fantasies, encouraged you to dabble, as if ducks, in sediment, to shut your lids and nose around in—browse on— mysteries that offer tasty braird and sprouts to deep-sea acolytes who bow and scrape to keep dreams out of sight, yet ever in the mind— but she is still your mother, and each one of you is bright.

Children! Contemplate the reliquaries lined up on this altar ledge. Can any part of you believe their contents are inert, incapable, extinct, and sit there idly twiddling their thumbs awaiting—What?

Is that the nature of things? Or does the bigger picture ask more toughness intellectually? A more engaged approach?

The grander scheme— survival in a state that's worth surviving in— asks much of us.

When Phaestos threw his switch, I placed my bill between the sighing urns, Lee-Strasberged back to scalding in the flood of molten rock, and desolately whimpered, “Fuck!”

Revivicist - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 18 – Miriam to Zeus, in Urn:

Do you hear a distant rumble, a machinelike fuck fuck fuck?

Who does that remind you of? He's out there somewhere, isn't he?

Come here. Hah! How much herer could you be? I mean come closer spiritually.

Inside this mummy case of sooty dust, the noise outside isn't as thunderous as it would like to think.

Now, over in the other urn, I wonder if the same thing's happening or if our other halves re-recombined to different DNA.

Is that us?— Hear it?— Whispers?— dry red phosphorus to powdered glass?

There's no imperative to care.

We're bits and pieces 99.9% burnt off, and 99.9% of what is left, irrevocably lost, then the remainder cut like cards, half dealt and half a cairn for junkyard cats and curs to paw, and we don't even know which half of which 1/10 of 1% we are: but it's enough we're here. fuck fuck fuck

Fuck! Is that a puff of ash where your left phantom ear pricked up?

You sack of shit! A single atom of your entity is all it takes, I swear!

Each microsec the earth averts its face and stars roar as the universe's membrane beats a terrified retreat inevitably there spring to life another fifty ways to leave your lover.

The Bride Euterpe - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 19

1. Downstairs In the Lobby

Euterpe:

“God says...” The typewriter bell rings and the carriage returns. Cantell, evangelist, is losing feeling in his hands. Ambrosia crusted on his penis burns.

“Jehovah was a lecherous fat Turk,” the Cretan Kazantzakis wrote. “He fingered the Muses but that was as far as he got.”

Tom, let me tell you what to write. As soon as you put down your pen, the handsome jackals congregate like wraiths, and far birds start to trace slow halos on the sky.

You have to plant a big warm piece of meat to cover your escape. This isn't anyplace for dabbling and diddling, for monkey-dancing, dilettante and debutante.

Of nine of us, I took the keenest interest in your character. I know who's in the jars upstairs on your fake mantelpiece. I've followed you—how many steps? I split my dower into eighths to bribe my sisters and make sure I'd be the one to meet you here.

The elevator's coming... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3...

Wait until the final second, then we'll dash inside and I'll de-synchronize the worm gears and the door cascade so that the car can't take on any other passengers— and there I'll be, alone with you— and finally free to kiss the perfect crescent at the tip of your big toe.

Don't answer yet. Your final line, however it comes out, will seal my fate— but no, no pressure— do you understand? I cast my lot with you as permanently, trustingly, as parting lovers commend strands of one another's hair to heart-shaped lockets.

Some one's got to notify your family once you're gone. Yes, you'll still mope around, and wash the dishes, mutter darkly as you switch off carelessly left blazing lights, take garbage out, still kiss the kids goodnight, and grope the missus— the part of you I'll take may not be missed at all— the high, surprised note in your voice when the elevator door glides shut and you discover who I really am.

I always had the most extraordinary eyes. That's what was asked of me and what I gave.

And what have you that fits my bill?

You know exactly what I'm going to name: I feel you subtly, subconsciously withdrawing it, secreting it away.

Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom. Who do you think you're putting something over on?

Give me that Chinese take-out bag. Now,

take your pants down.

Yes. Right here.

Now, touch your toes.

Yes, both palms pressed flat to the well-buffed marble floor.

Your grotesque characters are dead. They make their way, today, as ash. Not you. You still feel hope— still subject to my regiment.

Ding!

Stand up, quickly! Come, step in!

2. Upstairs in the Office

Miriam:

I see we interrupted your Chinese. What is that, shrimp in black bean sauce and vegetable lo mein? I'm starved! No, thanks. Alright, but just one tiny bite.

Zeus:

So, Doctor T., I still can't die— but thanks to brother Phaestos I'm 3/4 blind in both my eyes! My gentle daughters nine, who I despise, if truth were told, take turns hand-holding me at myriad appointments made with quacks and charlatans like you who grope to re-root happy thoughts into the muck inside my mind.

Oh, yes, I've taken pills! Talk therapy? Till blue. Re-visioning the story of my life? We've tried that too. That's why, although your meter has a lively spring to it, I haven't so much as a eunuch's wife's cunt's shred of faith in you.

My wife? Oh, here we go again! I think professional virgin is the technical term. She says she'll love me till the end, but hasn't even let me see her bush since Burning Angel aired that spread on “Waking Up With Strange Trim” New Year's Day, 2010.

I love her too, don't get me wrong. We've had our ups and downs, only not for a very long time.

No, Doc, I'm joking! Lighten up! Pull off that frown! My lovely little girl Euterpe's one your most ardent fans!

Why can't we talk about your facts of life? Why does it have to be my way-too-thoroughly-raked-over failings with this child or that wife?

The truth? Nobody wants to hear it— that's one thing that hasn't changed. My girls have made flirtation with you shrink-wrapped, self-styled geniuses the highlight of their woeful, isolated lives.

Don't say I hold them back, manipulate them into being lifelong handmaids to my own depression. It's only grudgingly—for them—I'm here. I want Pandora and her swarm of ills to come and punch my ticket! I want to locate the bucket and kick it.

Why can't I moon and wallow, if I like? Why can't I redefine myself as Omni-Impotent? You and Euterpe, trot along to Ang Lee's porno flick. Feel free to take my wife— leave me alone here in the cold and dark to play cat's cradle with what used to be my prick.

Miriam:

I hear this sad-ass bullshit every day! I'm terrified I'll hear it till eternity! I know it's quite a lot to ask, Tom, this late in the game, but is there some way to rewrite a bit and have me to tell the tall, dark stranger in the road outside my father's house: “No thanks, I'm not that kind of dame”?

With everything I've learned, I have a feeling I could live the kind of life you fucking read about!

Tom, one more bite?

Besides experience, what else have I to show? I'm hitting goddam menopause— at least I think I am, how do you tell for sure, it's been six, seven months?— and Zeus tells anyone who cares to hear I've been an albatross around his neck the last 200 years. I might have clung, moped, nagged a bit, but my life's been no bed of roses, has it? Yeshua pulled up stakes 2000 years ago, and hasn't shown one ounce of interest in my happiness. And Yusuf—please excuse me, but no Cock Ace in the first place— left me high and dry, and now re-woos me as an alcoholic televangelist!

Mankind has profited, you say? Tom, time put that Purple Kush away! Before this dullard's sperm attacked my egg the world was cruel and human nature stank but it was still a golden age for men and arts because the voice of gods was vital, frank: you sluiced out of your mother's womb on shit and piss and blood, then paid your taxes for the right to eat the holy farts of sacred cows, until at last you died.

Tom:

Dad, Mom—is it too soon to call you that?— Pak Zeus and Mami Miriam, as St. Paul said?—

Zeus:

Don't even breathe that lousy opportunist's name!

Tom:

—you're having one or two bad days or weeks or months or years, but if you'd add up all the pros and cons and take the slightly longer view—

Zeus:

Excuse me, Doc, but who the fuck are you to tell us how to count or what to view?

Tom:

If you would shut your yap just once and listen to a different take on what gods can or cannot be and do, you might be pleasantly surprised to find out there's still hope for you—

Go, finish it. I ate my fill.

Miriam:

Thanks, Tom.

Zeus:

Why not? Why look like half a cow?

Tom:

—to find out that the son you disinherited is man and god enough to make you proud you're you—

Zeus:

Oh, cut that crap! And cut the rhyme! You're blowing smoke! That dud is lucky if he ends up shoveling manure or bottling Coke.

Euterpe:

Stop interrupting, Dad! You've had over 1000 lines to speak. Please let Tom wrap this fucking epic up—

Zeus:

—and what?

Euterpe:

Is that what's eating you? You like it in this poem?

Miriam:

You put your finger on the thorn stuck in the mighty lion's paw! This gig brought Zeus to life— of course he's scared of going back to being little more than Google hits. Though I've been amply vitalized, throughout, by myriad admirers and supplicants, I'm horrified myself to think I'll have to close my lips and legs and sweetly grin again while sobbing women kneel and light 6-hour votive candles— stand on sideboards watching pedophile priests get plastered— be consigned to bobbling my head on Lublin van and Fiat Punto dashes.

Euterpe:

That isn't going to happen. Is it, Tom?

Tom:

I haven't really thought it through, but—

Euterpe:

You would never do that to my dad and stepmom.

Tom:

—all else being equal—

Zeus:

No! No fucking way you're gonna stick us in a sequel!

Miriam:

The two of you, leave him alone! Poor kid has clearly got his hands full ending this poem!

Euterpe:

Stepmom common-law, boss Zeus around as much as he'll permit— who doesn't like their guy compliant?— so you can bottle the admonishments about the way I handle my man— er, I mean my poet client.

Zeus:

Aha! At last! You're getting laid! I knew it! And now all us other dickless popeyes in this cockamamie yarn are going to have no more consequence than potted palms compared to e. e. casanova here: I can already read the postings on the wall of an unfaithful daughter's Facebook page!

But good. I'm glad. It's easier for me to say goodbye with you in someone else's hands.

Miriam:

Zeus! No!

Tom, help us! Tell him not to leave!

Sweet god,

before you irretrievably resign your role as low-brow foil to nine highly cultured maids,

as simple, blue-balled john lured halfway to domestication by the doe-eyed faux-immaculate who cast you in her dead-end third-tier-market roadshow second-fiddling as her adored son's absent, passé—yes, cartoonish—dad,

before you cite artistic differences and amateurish operatic plotting—

before you break my heart and go—

How is your stomach feeling, Tom? Was that lo mein okay?

I'm getting supernatural cramps, myself.

Oh Jesus, not again.

I'm spotting...

-The End-

Sources Cited

[I'm still putting this together. - Tom]