Bright, this pour. Zinfandel, Napa. How possible? Not sure. But I’m drinking the possibility. Chapter One, done. Editing tomorrow, while on lunch at NWG. I’m right there, at the toll plaza, I know. Nearing fruitful flux. My implemented incantation, beckoning moment. Sipping to what I know, and of which all momentarily be spectators, readers, viewers. Locked. Thanking the wine. The Silver Oak from a few nights past. That’s what truly told me.
Spoken work, on the page. Wine, not at all poetic. More, mesmerizingly scattered. That’s the Aesthetic all need to at least see. Such song, what makes the mind type, write. May lose sleep over thoughts of how the morning’s photos’ll result. What it’ll do to the page, these rhymes, my recital. Mikey, a marvelous mess, 2nite.