I will call myself a professor again for now, even though I still stand in the driveway.

However, I won’t call myself an author.

The two words represent the same thing in different spheres. A flowery take.

I’m fine with prettying up the thing I don’t care about, but the thing I do has to be spoke plain and true.

By the time this evening is through, I’ll be done with both for a while.

Look at all those little internal rhymes flowing without thought.

I can go be a belletrist and an itinerant. I can be Rimbaud a little, temporarily. The joy of it must be whispered in solemnity lest the gods be raged.

In the morning of a Saturday I’ll be a different person and I hope to like him better.

Brushing the regalia.

See you on the other side.