Clocking in, for sips, scribbles. ’07 Napa Valley Cab, my propeller. Fanciful dissections, not needed. Not with wine writing. Not mine. On this page, no policies. Just the moment. Dark presence in glass, tastefully tranquilizing me after a day dreary. Blog’s life, my barreled reads, bottled soon, in book. Have to save sentences, sip with sense.
At this desk, moving at my pace. On my clock. My dime, devil. “Peace, Mike, peace. You speak of something, but change direction,” Shakespeare’d say. In the book, all animus and umbrage projected. Big Brother, with too few guns to mute my might. Stay in front of this pen, mic.
Counting my cube notes. Deciding where to blend. Another sip of the Cab, encouragement. Thinking of studies behind. A return, to Plath, Poe, Shakur. Not sure of the direction, thesis. And maybe I don’t need one just yet. In the most enjoyable stage of paper symmetry, coherence: storming brain lanes. Scenic. All to the page. All. Not storming senselessly. Or maybe I am. I’ll find out, soon I appraise. The Cabernet, now telling me to fetch my Composition book, begin the Plath paper. Not now. I will get the pages, but not ignite any reactive fusions to Ms. Plath’s work, not tonight. My mind’s shape, bent after day.
Closing session. Not in optimal manuscript mold. Breathing, even in Orwellian octopus nooses. Sips, sending me to collated safety, I think. Plath said, “The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.” So, to the notebook, for postmodern perforations, ink and paper blends. The Wine Lounge beats aside me, assist Aesthetically, aphoristically. Hope the book appreciates this moment, and what I’m about to write, outside this petty “wine blog,” for the book. As one from the world of dusty texts, I’m not concerned with fallout, especially in “the industry.”
vinoLit ... [8/15/2011]
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