Rumors of Vampires

THE MUSE'S TWISTED KISS An Introduction to "Rumors of Vampires" Poetry is a language unto itself. At best, I am a dabbler and a babbler at the edge of the pond, mainly interested in capturing a moment the same way a photographer might capture a fleeting image otherwise lost to the ages. I'm okay with that - this sense that we are incredible yet insignificant beings moving through some inexplicable milieu of experience and emotion, longing and loss, love and grief. And yet, at the same time I'm not okay with it at all - for it is human nature to crave that which remains out of reach. It is human nature to chase the muse that whispers midnight promises of eternity, but delivers cemeteries and funeral processions when the sun rises on another mundane day. It is human nature to want to live forever, even (and perhaps especially) if that promise were to be delivered in the form of an erotic if twisted kiss of eternal damnation and eternal salvation all wrapped up together in a vampire's embrace. The vampire has been a mysterious and recurring icon in our human imaginings for as far back as anyone can determine. Some say it's only a myth. Others insist all myths have some basis in reality. A rare few of us choose to believe in vampires and faeries and alien visitors above and beyond any dull human-spawned deity. And such is the language of poetry - a way to explore our darkest fantasies and most forbidden desires without automatically being consigned to the psychiatrist's lumpy couch. Some would say I suffer from depression. I would argue that I suffer from clarity, but also from the dark but beneficial curse of allowing myself to believe there is more to this world than we have been programmed to believe. It's not just what I want to believe. It's what I have to believe, or run the high risk of becoming just one more cog in the grinding machine that digests our imagination and craps it all out as rhetoric, pabulum and dogma. On the day I become that, I will shut down the computer and throw away my writing quill forever. My muse sends notes from time to time, telling me he's off in India or Australia or on the red sands of Mars, always harvesting words and moments like grapes plucked to create the best wine. I am trying to believe him, but as all writers know, muses are fickle fuckers who have their own agendas. For now, I hope you will enjoy Rumors of Vampires, and that it will bring you some measure of entertainment, a chill or two, or - if I've done my job - a stray thought to chase through the candlelit cathedral at the edge of Vampyreland.