3:16p. Staring at BOOK1. Should be editing. But, it’s actually quite gratifying to just stare at the compiled pages. Mine. Current posture, circumscribed, quite beautifully. As I don’t want to move from this chair, these poems. Odd word links, image pools. Want readers to feel like their drinking these lines, compositions, like their preferred wine type. Wine, all desultory, fragmented flavor story.
No mocha this morning. Saved $4.65. That corporation lost my coin. No control, them. Me, in rule, writing on ...
Affluently vagrant. Wine, side. Sip, steady. No
slip. Lamented before fermented. Valorousness,
undented. Letter, send it. Just keep moving pen,
proving then, I’m dedicated; celebrated my educated
debated, stated. More crafty than masons. Hide in
basins, with stolen casks. Readers know I’m crass.
Poetry, only. Scope, then see, slowly. I lost it.
While exhausted, no more, distractions; retractions.
In love with words, language, like the winemaker is with fruit, especially as it comes in during harvest. This, actually, more than love, or “passion.” Hate that word. So overused. Especially annoying when people working with wine, or words, have to tell you how passionate they are. To me, this is life. Pages voice their presence, essence. These words, grape reactions. Don’t need captions. Clock out, laughing to the next page ...