Reading · lyw’s Substack

I: An American Muse

hard enough being a black American ballerina,
during the rise of Western consumerism
and its slithering hydra of racism
then to be beaten, drained and marginalized
by that American hero, artist, frontiersman
who showed the rest of us what to do with talent
but had no room to value hers, or maybe he
did and just wanted to lock it up
use it like his other medicine

over the city roof-tops
on a starry night, aiming that
one high note right through the bullshit
of historical rage and grief
he was that American hero
who gave us a look at true wealth
beyond this earthly game
in a note, in a note, a note
that teacher of how to draw music
from every possible form; to always be
in a process of creation
always moving, renewing
our American anthems
just not for this woman
he tried to marry

a girl born of beauty and colour
another set of jewelry
to weigh down her wrists and neck
false lessons on an Aerial spirit
before she even knew language
that a commercial look was all the power
she would ever have – and should be more than enough
to satisfy her
stupid lies that should have been
so familiar to her husband, but wasn’t
O dear Frances, how you could have shown us
what it means to rise and stand
with the tallest grace
for a nation, for a people,
for our moral salvation,

and why not, balance all of that
on the finest of a lady’s legs?
for there isn’t any girl who can stand on point
during the rise of Western consumerism
and its slithering hydra of racism
who doesn’t know
strength, discipline and I’m getting up anyway

have to be crazy to beat on a beautiful swan
and she was like a caged bird
never offered much of a story for herself
and made one anyway
if he is one of our American hero stories, lyw
than what is she?
she, my dear, is the survivor;
the American muse

II: Miles Away

I don’t know what it feels like
to be a genius,
this man,
this black man growing up in a racist
middle-class American society
this man who abuses women
this addict
this person with chronic pain
but he looks like
a human
with eyes electrified

American monster both good and bad,
a human in the past; a legend in the present
and a way to understand the future
male, black, brilliant, violent, angry,
juvenile, ageless creator of new music,
new paths to take us; new paths to make us
as flawed and perfect as we can be; monsters both good and bad

lit on music, on sound, on sending out his note
into his crowded world,
young men could find their own way in his shadow
women, too, unfortunately, in a different way,
was he so afraid of love, don’t tell me he didn’t understand
feelings; then, again, maybe he knew them
but never quite caught them
beyond the music
because he was so angry
for things that didn’t have
words in English, so he cussed and attacked like Caliban
an earth-bound spirit with one channel to let out
what can only be his untouched soul
moving through the soft and hard cancer cells
holding back the din
of the cities of consumption:
of wanting and having and needing
a domesticated, yet insatiable,
middle-class hunger

his humanity stumbled onward with crutches;
music cannot cure your psychology
when you use it as another drug;
a fleeting high, a live experience,
pure improvisation witnessed or even missed,
by a small room,
then gone, when gone,
who will remember when
the room goes cold

a man can’t play forever,
even and when with the first note,
he can invite us to take the same high with him away and away
again and again, forget our own wounded bodies and minds
into that perfect and untouched soul

more important,
we cannot play forever,
cannot play this man’s judge, though he lived so big
we need to accept ourselves
as we truly are, outside of heaven,
on this planet Earth;
bring to our flawed heroes
bring to Miles
a little peace of our own

This poem is a sample from the an American hero poetry chapbook by lyw. This series explores love and disillusionment for the Hero myth in North American culture.

An American Muse

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