Starting the day after xmas like the new year has already thrown its talons into my prose and purpose. Adding and adding to the ‘plans’, and not “resolutions”, list. Everything will be done but time presents a block of sorts today, with us all being home. But like I noted a couple days past we writing daddies only have little liberated bursts, not consistent extended fields to just skip through. So I start now with this first cup and watching Finding Dory with little Kerouac. I’ll revisit and slightly edit yesterday’s poem, write for clients, and somehow find time for the writer to run. Alice and Ms. Austen still upstairs sleep. I collect. This day and its list steer and wildly rile my reasoning. So… another cup. Composition book… shit, still at parents from xmas eve. No worry, I know I have another tablet somewhere around the writer here.