Mocha2, singing like I’m an eager audience. 1000 words for book, pocketed with today’s Literary Luncheon. Here in the Roasting Company, this author’s always calm, peace’d. Can’t stop thinking about my wine project with Katie. What is it doing right now? As a winemaker, this is what I’m supposed to be daydreaming, right? While listening to these Wine Bar beats on my computer? Back at NWG in 13 minutes. Good writing pace, today. Already thinking about next harvest. Getting too ahead of Self, I know. Just like I do with my writing. Switching habit, pattern. Promise.
Wind, howling like it’s entertaining itself. Just like the forecast stated. They were right, for once. Funny. What if I didn’t go back to work, just stayed here, wrote? That’s a prompt, if I’ve heard one. They’d know where to find me, though, I’m sure. Where else would the writer be, but where he always, EVERYDAY, writes? Ten minutes, should be able to hit my word target. Fishing for thoughts, nothing biting. Bottles, Zinfandel. Why am I thinking of Zin? Don’t have any interest in producing one. Could be my unconscious telling me to revisit the varietal I divorced. No denying, I put my Self in a Cabernet capsule, coffin, cloud.
Listening to spoken word, now, with this song. Want to play with syllables, vowels, meter. Poetry, like when working for my M.A. at Hayward, or East Bay. Whatever it’s called now. Love the spontaneity of verse, the invite to play, experiment.
No cease, in my page, a low crease in my day.
Fascinated by barreled panaceas. Internally,
all Pangeas. Another worded blend, there’s
an inverted end in my second book, a session’s
9:06p. Writing more verse. Prose, not on my night’s menu. Watching a documentary on one of my favorite poets. He knew he was going to meet dreamz. As I, even after being battered by the cube’s hours. This hour, about sentences, images, like this FULL glass of Pinot to my right. 2009, for your notes, or mine; Hear waging wind, the projected leaves against this office’s glass. I see Self on stage, reciting this page, the line I just scribbled: “Immaculate. And tragic, yet.” These pages of scattered rhymes, metered speech bursts, the best way to convey what I feel, see, experience. Maybe I should follow Kelly’s advice, tell my “story,” whatever that is. Guess that would work, with my fondness and comfortable seat in consciousness’ stream.
Reading through Ms. Plath’s entries, for the first in a while, reminds me of poetry’s place on, IN, my plight. “Pinot stretch. My reach grows vexed. Write to delight...”