Ars Poetica (the Art of Poetry)
I awake to a nameless poem without words. I feel it. I can taste it. I sense it, I’m enlivened by it. Like hot coffee with cream and a bagel. Having slept nude, it is a confirmation I don’t believe in abstinence, nor poetic abstinence. For I’m going to write the poem, as I am now—naked. My ding-a-ling is as hard as the dictation coming. The tapping on my iPad carries its own rhythm. Inspiration never needs tap dancing shoes. The rhythm is not a method, but a mission, antithetical to omission. As I cum to the end of this composition, the climax; well, let me just say, it has not been abated. I’m awake. Aroused in anticipation of more dictation by Ars Poetica. © emmett wheatfall