One of my characters littering his studio floor with sheets of short verses and poems, some haiku streams and anti-form pieces. He gathers whatever he randomly picks up from the floor. He reads them lightly, not wanting to find any errors as he knows he’ll be tempted to re-write or somehow correct. Each poem should be a snapshot and taste of the Now, he says to himself. Right at 5pm, he pours himself a white blend, something from Anderson Valley, and reads some more from the past 8+ hours of scribbling. He has something, something to sell, just from a day. Pours another glass, writes another page.