Ars Poetica

Stop:

Arrange the pen, the page, the frenzied eye,
the fingers itching to thrum on the typewriter keys.
Breathe in the air mixed with orange peel,
chocolate, coffee grounds, stale wine
pencil shavings, smoke, and mold.
Tense. Compose. Stall
until the words run burning though flesh,
flicking silver scales and curves -
a torrent of green, black, and gold imps.
Release them in mashed scrawls upon the page;
stab those that try to escape and bury them
in shallow, scribbly graves.
Find those drowning in the muck
and encircle them in heavy lines of red,
a thin line of salvation from the imminent revision.

Stop

And begin again:
Taste the words: the delicate sifting calm of “oooh,”
“mmmms” that pinch lips and rumble like a cat’s purr.
The apple-flavored “aaah” that dances across the palate;
the quick sharp hummingbird articles and thick dusty clauses,
vibrant feathery adjectives that flit between
their dull and honey-colored nouns,
singing a wild song all their own.

Stop

And begin again:
Ah, muse, where have you gone?
Lost in this grotesque wasteland, I sing to myself
of dying streetlights, of fog, of lust,
of orange roses, Chai, of midnight drives.
I sing of life in all its subtle glories:
clumsy bouquets of words and images
strung together and left to dry,
Fading day by day from yellow and purple
to bitter ash and russet brown.
I write of bad habits, peeling sunburns,
faded scars and hidden freckles,
screaming trumpets, worn guitar strings,
love deaf, sweet, cruel;
I write to worship the wail of human voice.

Stop

And begin again:
You are always there
lighting the darkest places, dimming the bright lights
falling into step behind solitary footstep and
burning into the silence with clean, sharp tones.
Your cadences and connotations
soothing and inspiring simultaneously.

Stop.

And begin again.