Artistry, about me this morning. Not letting me walk away from these blank pages. But where will the pages go? Into a book? Who knows. Doesn’t matter right now, while I write, now. My scribbles on Ms. Plath, also calling me. This morning, I’m just letting you know what I’m doing, and it’s all Literary. Outside, gorgeous. Really should saunter a bit, gently, as to not further perturb my right knee. Follow footsteps of Emerson, Thoreau.
Poetry, calling me ...
My objections, not missed in the thick mist.
Uniformity and pattern, no match for my lantern.
No more juice. I’m bored, too. Slide to shores,
While I imbibe four more scores of torn pores.
Deceptive periodical in my optical, waiting for
my mocha. Guess it’s the caffeine that makes me
that mean. Walk through a block of Cab Franc, while
cars on 12 honk. Compiling taunts, while other realities
haunt. Manuscript muffling, faster disaster, like passing
cash to a pastor. I wear hats haphazardly, dastardly.
Time for the stroll. I’ll say it again: Sometimes the most Literary act one Literary can demonstrate is to not write at all. We writers, wine writers especially, surrounded by all these beautiful vines, now before harvest, need to balance writing with Life. As my own boss, in these entries, I’m clocking out, signing out, or whatever. So silly. Returning whenever I wish. When I’m ready. When the words are ready for bottling. vinoLit ...
9/10/2011, Saturday, 11:16am