At the Vine St. Starbucks.  Two poems under my belt. 

Can’t believe how early I got here.  Well before 8.  Time now, 8:22.  Only one sip of this “refill” under my belt.  Feel bad for telling the lady it’s a refill, but why?  It’s not, I lied.  But so what.  Fifty cents, for coffee this good, this hot, this comforting, this needed this morning?  Yeah, not feeling too guilty.

Think I just burnt my tongue a little bit.  Want to leave early, go out and take some pictures around Dry Creek.  Thinking of giving photog’ a good, healthy, serious, “professional” try.  But can writers do that?  This one should.  What do I have to lose at this point?  Oui?

Both poems I wrote, meant to sell.  Everything must be sold.  EVERYTHING.  No more freewriting, even for self.  And if I do freewrite, then I break it up and play with form so I can present it on page and sell it, read it at a reading.  Do something with them.  If I leave here at 8:45, 18 minutes from now, I could have close to an hour to take pictures.  Why not.  Stop everywhere that gets me curious, or if I wonder what a shot from there would look like.

Surprised I haven’t checked any social media.  Huh… maybe I can change.  What if today’s the day where something amazing happens in the way of me and my career as a … whatever I am, or think I am, thought I was, dreamed of being—  Life is so fucking short, it infuriates me.  I continue to perpend, measure and catalogue.  Let’s see what I do.  Even I want to know.

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