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