Post-lunch pre-work sloth

Wrote a wretched poem just now, around 1:30 pm. I didn’t write one this morning because I was keen on getting to the novel. Which is as bare-bones an example as the matter could ask for, the matter being: To what extent do simultaneous projects of poetry and fiction interfere with each other? I have only so many hours per day to dedicate to real output. I have a years-long dedication to writing 1 poem per day. (These are often bad, and friends have pointed out to me that this process can undermine the process of poetry and even rob me of the joy in writing it. For various reasons, I disagree, and try to stick to the schedule regardless, sometimes writing 2 per day if possible and then keeping to that schedule until I’ve “caught up.” Whatever this says about me psychologically is a matter I just can’t get into now.) I also have a more recently established goal, and corresponding dedication to meet said goal, to write 1K words / day for the novel.

My question is of course a non-question. There is nothing preventing one from working in both mediums save the extent of one’s energies, the ability to enact one’s twin ambitions. I know that poetry is the work of the morning; it always has been, for me; I’ve written my best work between the hours of 6 and 7 am, waking up way before everyone else, shhing the Best Dogs in the World Whitman and Suzi as I punched the prepared coffeemaker into fragrant life and pushing their snouts away from me as I did my crunches to pass the time until coffee. Then, coffee’d, I’d go upstairs and write poems, good ones, I thought, coming more often per week than they do now, in the light of two small candles that were of intrinically-good angle for poem-writing, as they were those little 1.5 inch high candles that give off fine light when you keep them close to what you’re working on. I only need to get back to that routine, and set up a similar, subseqent system for the Novel.