Mocha, music, manuscripts.  Impossible to design a more delicious morning 4 me.  Just finished a 25-line verse, using some of the poetic sneezes from the little notepad.  Time, 9:45a.  Don’t know if I’d say I’m AHEAD of schedule, but I’m certainly gaining ground.  But, on what?  I’d say verse, at this point.  POETRY.  My first love.  I remember, from my second spoken word “album” [“Border Disputes”], if you could call it that, I wrote in a 1-verse track where I said, “…poetry is the only wife one will see in my short life.” Wrote that in ’99, I want to say, when I was on-campus at SSU.  In fact, I think I wrote it during a CS (Computer Science) session.  Was awarded a B- in that section, taught by Glenn Carter.  Nice guy, opening the course with his ever-edifying line “Computers are stupid.” Nice guy.  No way I deserved a B- in that class.  He must have graded on a curse.  A tsunami wave-proportioned curve.  Anyway, that verse, that old album, and many of my other past efforts, soon exhumed.  Poetry’s always been there, and I always, ALWAYS, come back to her.  Kelly would tell me to follow this compulsion.  Don’t resist it, as I’ve been making Self do with other matters, in recent measures.

9:53a.  Waiting for Jackie to wake.  Want to scribble a verse while he’s near, as  he’s more poetic provocation than I could have ever envisioned encountering.  He is an album.. albumS.  He’s a career.  He’s new Life.  But, he needs his rest.  And my little Kerouac is more than “worth waiting for.” Looking left, through blinds, still gray.  And the mocha, almost deceased.  Then look slightly downward, the little note pages.  They want interaction.. ORDERING I return to verse, abandon this structuralist prose-y nonsense.  Agreed.