My muse flipped me off last week
after too many midnights, head caught
in code, tweaking time step solvers
on an engineering binge.
She said you left that years ago
for herons, shoals, and metered lines
and who but those like you could find
your mind entranced in strings of code?
I said it’s just a short-time thing
an algorithm coding fling
my simulation fantasy
to make a number cruncher sing.
Just fine she said, half out the door
composing raunchy metaphor
it’s art, I argued, and what’s more
my colleagues all swear, and you know’em
my programs resemble a poem:
they tend to abort
a syllable sort
ambiguous functions the normmm.
As I said, my muse
flipped me off last week.
Took up with a wild-eyed type,
my evil twin Sal
who drives a souped-up symbol –
nineteen sixty seven
or eight mustang
which has nothing on my hybrid
when it comes to efficiency.
She was last seen riding shotgun
top down, streaming
raucous lines, the kind
she knows I never use. To choose
the wild, a touch
obtuse and bad
career move for a muse
‘cause reptile brains just cannot write.
So I propose
pour tu, cher muse, inverse haiku:
“Wake up soon and savor dawn
engineer by day
after sunset, yield to art”
So ready now to channel
phrases, randy words
stoked in the queue
long overdue, when can we start?