1. Make a list of all your dreams.
Everything always started like this, there. Lists and deep reflection, pranayama and parallelism. What if we could write about that? The nimble-fingered feeling of climbing over the table whiskey drunk, leaving the room when you wanted to. Hearing the same song on the same bar speakers, behind brass and furniture polish and fry smell, in a new elsewhere. That acute feeling of being somewhere not the south and feeling on the verge of being able to say something. Mountain chill in the air, but hard cold instead of misty. Snow clouds instead of fog covering the foothills. I can see the storm coming down the mountain. Porter warm and new and old and plastic pop top pot machine rolled joint on the patio, rich jewel tones and the microphone on the second floor. There’s something sort of difficult to articulate justify where are the poems why so much about the poems. What even have you been doing.
2. Cowboy boots echoing down the hall.