Ask I sit cross-legged on my bed
lit by the white electric gel
of my laptop’s screen,
my psyche and my muses shriek
for my creative flow to move
in another direction.

My name defines me.

My writing is loosely hand stitched
into that identity
like a cloth label
that someone slapped on
as an afterthought.
If I took a pen name,
would that change things?

All I have ever wanted
was to be Zelda Fitzgerald
and pop out of the roofs of cars,
brandishing champagne
and cigarettes–
a zephyr of the zeitgeist.

I am constrained by this
earthly plane and the mundane.

Put me in pin curls and watch me
fly like Zelda–tonight, I will
choose a different name
and start to write without

My voice may not sound like money,
but I will either fascinate or fail.