Sometimes, my dreams are vivid. Often they're not at all. This morning, I woke up with a visual of a man sound asleep, comatose, in the bottom of a johnboat--my boat. He was large, but slept heavy like a child. His hair was long, unkempt, and curly. He lay on his back, spit dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His deep breaths blew spit bubbles.
So I woke up and wrote a poem and titled it "The Sleeping Muse," and that was good because I had a poetry group meeting today, and I went prepared with a poem to workshop. Maybe "The Sleeping Muse" came to me because I watched the documentary "Bukowski" last night and was reminded how some writers live with the muse right beside them (in a bottle or a smoke), and I was thinking about whether I had one, and, if I did, what would he/she look like. Since I've been feeling uncreative lately, I guess my brain conjured the zombie in the boat.