the practice is natural

I am sad for those
who think it unnatural to try.

And who,
by this bias,
deprive themselves
of so many fruits
of their would-have-been
finest efforts! Because they feel
that to make effort is to taint
inspiration - they woud rather lie back
stupefied, dissatisfied; awaiting
their lagging muse - rather than to stand,
jiggle their bodies and limbs, and throw
themselves around in an exuberant dance
to call to her, to call her hence!

The muse waits not on those who wait
for her. She attends those who pay
her effort, who do her homage,
who pay her attention, which
is only her due.

It's better to write ten
poems at once than to wait
for inspiration to strike. You
can sit back all you want, say
"I don't like to force it," all you like
- and hell, neither do I! (Like to force it.)
I like it just to flow. Flow like a mysterious
river, never knowing from whence it sprang, like
a sudden storm, a guerilla cumulonimbus that gangs
up sudden, a towering mountainous cliff of dark wet cottonballs
glaring up over the rise, that grew over you while you were napping
and now there is lightning and hail of inspiration
in the sizzling air of your turned-on mind!

Wouldn't we all like it like that? So easy,

waking up from a nap.

I like it to land
sudden,
in one's lap

like an unexpected Saturday blow job. Don't we all?

Well, fuck. Of course we do.

But you know what?

I'm sorry to have to say it,
but sometimes, before it's ever going to start
to "just flow"
to ever get going,
sometimes - you have

to fucking work for it a little.

Shit.

Now go write ten poems