Thought I lost my poetry book. Relieved past my abilities of expression when I found it under my desk, in the miniature file holder. Don’t remember putting it in there, but I’ll graciously receive this gift. Poetry, becoming more of a priority with me. Thanking Kelly. Miss her. Wonder if she connects me to her writings, drawings. Wouldn’t matter. I don’t deserve to be there.
Full-time rime scribe. Find the Self alive. Meaning less social media effort, much less. This writing will sell itself, I will sell it, together We sell it. These social media mavens, icons, gurus, what have, are truly unsettling chatterboxes. Most of them, not all.
How did this rime book get into that little file tomb? Must have been during one of my more intensely wined writing stretches. Trying to laugh about it, however I can’t help but sit here puzzled. One of wine’s embryonic hazards. Need to grow from this. Okay, now I am laughing.
Mike, hurting from the schism separating he and she. It had been too long. He didn’t want to write. “What would that do?” he thought. He listened to his echoing beats, envision a blend. Of them. Then he quit, changing his position in the chair. Sipping the Nebbiolo his friend made, he turned on the TV. Somehow, the screen threw at him a channel playing one of his favorite writing movies. How this night was peppered with engaging coincidences. He turned it off, sipped...sipped. Back to the page. He’d try. To write. To forget her.
Rolling in reflection. Red
through mortal wires.
She’d cure me.
In her mend.
Three live journals. Is that too much? One Composition book, one little journalist notepad, and yellow pad on my desk. Something tells me I could, should, ditch the yellow. But, for some reason, I enjoy scribbling on a different shade of sheet. Odd, I’m sure, to those who don’t write, and probably most who do. A different varietal of paper, encouraging.
Tonight’s varietal, Nebbiolo. Loving it, fiercely.
Mike walked down 4th Street, unsure of what he was doing in Santa Rosa’s eclectic downtown zone. He had his little notebook with him, but wasn’t in the mood to record, even with the cast surrounding. A young lady, early 20s, shoulder-length vampirically delicious hair, dark blue eyes, entered his frame. “Hi, Mike...do you remember me?”
At first he was lost. But, then the accuracy set in. His former student, Lindsay, from his 1A class a few years ago. She was in a different role, it seemed to him. “Yeah, of course. How are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good. I transferred to Sonoma State, as an English major, thanks to you,” she said, while embracing him differently than one might expect from a former student.
“Thanks to me?”
“Yeah. After reading Martin Eden I realized I really liked literature, especially how you had us read and talk about it, the whole deconstruction thing! So I took more classes at the JC and decided to transfer as an English major,” she said. All Mike could think was how he hoped she didn’t go down the adjunct path as he did. He, right there, while the homeless man sang to the parking meter, felt as though he had done disservice. He had harmed her, Lindsay, one of his favorite formers.