Now Playing: Beast of Burden, The Stones. Of course.

A post about Brian Wilson is nearly ready. Pages long. I cried yesterday. And today. I listened to the songs. But I’m not ready. Not yet.

In the meantime, I left Word Raccoon unsupervised, and she found such naughty things to do. I kept trying to shove her back in her cage but she hissed so much I gave in.

I told her I was waiting for the muse. She told me to drink my water and STFU, to open my laptop if I really wanted to help.

Some days you get fed, sometimes the raccoon. Today, I started my newest collection of poetry, apparently: Sacred Mutual Art Portal, DO NOT IGNORE™

The day began early. Like, if that animal knew how to sleep properly anymore I’d be shocked. But she woke me with poems and half a song about a literary character and I’m so excited about that last one but I wish she would let it be a poem but she said no, no, no, that if Dylan can win the Pulitzer for poetry with his song lyrics, she can claim these are poetry too and I couldn’t fault her though I caught her rhyming in a sexy time poem and I interrupted with an explanation so I guess we cowrote it and it was hilarious and tantilizing all at once.

Word Raccoon seems to be feeling spring.

First off, at the café she put a bib on, ate her protein berry bowl, and ordered tea. She shredded the napkin with her claws, checked her teeth with her spoon handle, then told me she was ready.

You want to know if I’m still alive? She asked.

I begged her to play nice. I told her I was feeling tender.

She said no one cared about that, art is built best when the emotions are warped.

Second of all, she said, putting up her hand, You are adorable in that red hat and your new dress. Your lipstick matches the stripes and don’t think people haven’t noticed.

Back up: before I even left the house she was dictating. Three baby poems and a song that melted my eyebrows.

You can’t say that.

You can’t.

 I protested.

She told me this was the Sacred Mutual Art Portal, and that I could get in or get out of the way.

“Fine, but could you please write with something more romantic than the notes app?”

She declined, stating some nonsense about being in the flow and she shot me the bird and okay, so we’re writing….

Today, I had to beg for titles. She was not having that standing-around nonsense, except when it pleased her.

Then, the titles she shot out had to be caught with a mitt.

Do you want to know what this perfect menace wearing my red hat wrote?

Poem Titles from the Sacred Mutual Art Portal™ (Curated by Word Raccoon):

• Frenzy and Elegance
• Gaslighting
• St. Sledgehammer
• You Have No Events Scheduled Today
• On Choosing My First Tattoo (Won’t You?)
• Use Your Words, Then Your Hands
• Mixing Paint for Two
• 15 Seconds from Someone Unbuckling Their Belt
• Incomplete Myth, Some Assembly Required
• Muse Custody Battle
• Opera-Ghost-Wailing-Through-the-Hallways Possessed (she wants this one to be a song; negotiations ongoing)
• Poetic Accusation Architecture
• Sacred Mutual Art Portal, DO NOT IGNORE
• With a Z (this one crackles with voltage)
• Rave in My Head, No Molly Needed (Only the brave should go there.)
• Behind the DJ Booth in Platform Boots (spicy)
• Fermented Cabbage Will Not Cry (way hotter than it sounds—thank you, kimchi)

There’s a line in one poem referencing “poetry kittens.”

Yes, “poetry kittens.”

Blame WR.

IDK…at first I was kinda upset at Word Raccoon earlier for taking over my day. I wanted to sit quietly and listen to Brian Wilson, the Beach Boys, be all melancholy.

She refused to play along. I felt in that in-between place.

All day I felt on the edge of this lush, overgrown pasture. Weeds so high but you just push past them and there, a clearing with the poet’s log to sit on, with trees, a river. Deer, squirrels. The birds have confidence that we will see them.

Artifacts and yet-to-be-born things. Things that only we can see.

Oh, Word Raccoon. How is it that this evening your frenzy from earlier somehow now brings the cool wind of words onto my sunporch in a way I would have missed this morning?

It was a good day after all. Wildly productive, regardless.

Was the maple tree in on it?

I’m guessing.