(October 2021. Written during a brief moment of calm by the beach at Greyhound Rock on the coast north of Santa Cruz during what was otherwise a 5 day period of extreme duress.)
The way the beginning of creation
Is seemingly random,
A negative point appearing in the positive sphere—
And once there’s a prompt to go from
We have started, and possibility
Collapses from the weak sphere
Into a direction,
Now a strong cone flying
From the face of the actual
Beatin' Paths ~~~ The journey to the Great American Novel 