Wine rime in my spine. Merlot foregoes the time.
Clandestine, expand less grinds. Praise the vine mind;
Pen fervent, and slurred, bent. Walk in blank streets,
tearing up bank sheets. Incomplete. Sin, delete.
Bottle log full. Author, fermented bull.
Stuck in blank luck, but then smile, for hundreds a mile.
Nebbiolo, send me solo. Avant-garde like
my brother Kaz. No follow of other fads.
Zinfandel in the well. My ideas in the
puddle of red. Befuddled, not dead. Read
my inebriated manuscript. Expand and sip.
Need time to breathe, a fine reprieve.
Momentary escape from the grape;
Scenery leaving me agape. Leaning
on the gate. Delay the sip. I’ll never say
a script. Thoreauvian defiance, within
a roaming alliance; exposing the high tents
of critics, censors and skeptics. Me, the sender
of hectics. Tornados, typhoons, upon
nihilistic nay-saying goons. Recite and sip,
afternoon to moon...