Gaucho Muse

I would say that my Creative Muse has recently had his hand severely crushed in a slammed car door, that he believes my intentions to be like oh my god, shallow, or that he took a flying leap out of my nearest cerebral window (because he had a super hero complex?). Whatever it is that has happened, my CM is severely impotent at the moment, no matter how many glasses of merlot I swallow in an effort to seduce him. All week I've been anticipating this blog, for it is the first of the 30 day challenge! All I came up with was Summertime by the Sundays and also the dysfunctional comfort of gaucho pants... So, I'll leave you with the music in the above blog and with this exceptional poem that Kristen D. from the litmaggers introduced me to, possibly in an effort to define themselves and me, but probably not.

Lineage
by Jeffrey McDaniel
When I was little, I thought the word loin and the word lion were the same thing.
I thought celibate was a kind of fish.
My parents wanted me to be well-rounded so they threw dinner plates at each other until I curled up into a little ball.
I've had the wind knocked out of me but never the hurricane.
I've seen two hundred and sixty-three rats in the past year, but never more than one at a time. It could be the same rat, with a very high profile.
I know what it's like to wear my liver on my sleeve.
I go into department stores, looking suspicious, approach the security guard and say what, what, I didn't take anything. Go ahead. Frisk me, big boy!
I go to the funerals of absolute strangers and tell the grieving family: the soul of the deceased is trapped inside my rib cage and trying to reach you.
Once I thought I found love, but then I realized I was just out of cigarettes.
Some people are boring because their parents had boring sex the night they were conceived.
In the year thirteen hundred and thirteen, a little boy died, who had the exact same scars as me.