Thought I was running out of writing steam.  But not at all.  Just as little Kerouac’s tireless, I shall be too.  I feel a little trembly, but not uncomfortably so.  Going to write through it.  Realized I need to be more persistent with collecting, inventorying, organizing these poems I write, especially the spur-of-moment– no, hate that phrase– moment-centered pieces.

Jack reads through his books, and I write, listening to something on the Thievery Corporation Pandora Station.  Wonder how many poems I can gather by day’s end.  Want them separate from book.  Any poetry in book, its own world.  These collected poem pieces, their own planet.

Jack, making his father laugh, with all his silly traveling around the room, scattering his toys, other items [like the remote controls].  His new sounds, centralized words, language.  Realizing, definitely need a break from caffeine, for at least a few hours.