The blinds shake softly

But I’m scared

I raised them

To let the sun in

They’re still now

The cat and me

Take a nap

On the couch

Each day

A little after two

The sun has made its way

Over the building

To shine through

The west windows

My fear keeps from seeing

That the blue sky

Framed in the window

Is really

Quite wonderful

I worry

Instead

I’ve been seeing brighter than normal flashes when I turn the lights on in a room

Glints in the air, on the floor

Out of the corner of my eye when I turn my head too fast

That hummingbird won’t leave the cat alone

Buzzing right outside the window

The cat behind the glass

I’m not sure he would even know what to do

He’s so used to kibble at one in the afternoon

He misses my girlfriend, I think

She gives him more attention than I do

She gets back from Costa Rica this afternoon

I write all my best poems in an afternoon

If the sun’s right

And my blood toxicity is just right

I go for months

In the fog

I’d rather just

Watch the performance

Than write right now

“If you’re an artist and you perform on this stage, you must think, I’ve made it.”

What’s after you make it?

The kids in front of us draw and smoke American Spirits. She has a pen behind her ear, bobs her head slowly, cool like.

“Shit’s right.”

Dialogue from the TV show last night resonates.

“We should eat the rest of the mushrooms.”

Okay.

Robots can’t write this.

Can’t feel the sun coming through the clouds. Hear the subtleties in the performer’s voice that sound like she knows, like the experience she had growing up in Baltimore and going to church. One of those churches where people get filled with the spirit and fall down. That stuck with her.

It feels right right now.

I used to always have to write whenever I did drugs. I felt like I had to take field notes and bring them back to my sober life.

My spiritual progress can be measured by the decrease in my will to write.

It’s right here.

I can leave the flower in the soil.

I write like I pick flowers from the garden to bring back to my lover.

Be there in the garden.

Let them grow.

Be the flowers. Or the soil. Or the sun. Or the gardener.

Be there.

It is what it is.

And it’s right right now.

“If you’re an artist and you perform on this stage, you must think, I’ve made it.”

What’s after you make it?

The kids in front of us draw and smoke American Spirits. She has a pen behind her ear, bobs her head slowly, cool like.

“Shit’s right.”

Dialogue from the TV show last night resonates.

“We should eat the rest of the mushrooms.”

Okay.

Robots can’t write this.

Can’t feel the sun coming through the clouds. Hear the subtleties in the performer’s voice that sound like she knows, like the experience she had growing up in Baltimore and going to church. One of those churches where people get filled with the spirit and fall down. That stuck with her.

It feels right right now.

I used to always have to write whenever I did drugs. I felt like I had to take field notes and bring them back to my sober life.

My spiritual progress can be measured by the decrease in my will to write.

It’s right here.

I can leave the flower in the soil.

I write like I pick flowers from the garden to bring back to my lover.

Be there in the garden.

Let them grow.

Be the flowers. Or the soil. Or the sun. Or the gardener.

Be there.

It is what it is.

And it’s right right now.