My muse is a badass rock-n-roller and when she comes, she drives up, blasting the horn of a beat-up van, her hair a flyaway mess of blue-black curls, a wicked grin on her face as she hangs her head out the driver's window, one hand on the steering wheel tapping out some spastic beat, the other turning the volume knob on the stereo a little higher.

Sometimes I wish she weren't that way. Sometimes I wish that maybe she'd comb her hair and get the engine on her van checked, that she'd wear pink and play cello and whisper in a voice like wind chimes. That she'd know how to waltz or samba and she'd read the classics out loud on Sunday mornings.

But no, my muse wears black and bells. She dances in twirly ambiguity whenever, wherever she can, and she hardly wears shoes. She plays guitar loud and furious and she shouts out ridiculous things like "Hello Cleveland, it's

great to be here!" and she flails her arms and pretty much acts like a kid acting like a rock star. She chews gum and swigs coffee, slugs whiskey and wears sunglasses. She cries at movies like Breakfast at Tiffany's and she tells everybody she does, right before she plugs in her amp and says, "Let me tell you about..." and of course I have to listen, she's my muse, and really, what else can I do? I can't just send her back out on the road. She's got two bald tires and the streets are wet with summer's endless rain.