Tumbling Dice

I was making breakfast this morning when an otherworldly thunderbolt rocked the windows. For a second, I was a scared kindergartener. Then a hard rain came in, flooded the sidewalks and melted most of the snow. After the rain, a fog fell and it was balmy and gorgeous outside.

Here at my usual Buena Park corner cafe, I'm chill upon a vintage teal couch and "Tumbling Dice" is cranked a tad louder than I imagine the predominantly yuppish clientele would like, but to me it's heaven.

I'm thinking about my old friend Carl, and the firestorm he endured for simply being himself in academia in the oppressively politically correct 1990s. I remember meeting Robert Creeley nearly a year ago and the Carl vs. Academia discussion I had with him. Creeley, who is also an acquaintance and contemporary of Carl's, told me I was smart to get out of *that* when I did. Still, I'm bitter.

I'm attempting the next great literary coup d'etat. Please join me.