Only poetry, today. Saw the Napa Valley in a way I never before have. Learned, like a writer’s meant to, with wine, his Craft. Tomorrow, day off. Morning mocha, of course. Allowing Self hour bursts, like with the Lit Lunches. No such hour today, as I was about valley’s floor, Howell Mountain. Sipping Racer for cap, now. Can’t remove these random rimes from head, even with forceful deliberation. Wine, encouraging the random session, not one mapped.
Maps, attract what’s meant to compensate lack. Drown Self
in Zinfandel well. Only wandering rimes written, pondering
why I’m visioned. Play like guitars from afar, pour Self another
bottle at undiscovered bars. No cruising in others’ cars. Cards
dealt, the scars help me learn to life appreciate, nights mediate.
Think of thoughts to voice, applaud all noise, devotion commotion ...
So many pages of these random pulses scribbled. Most in cubeNOTES. Only poetry, me, currently. Still reveling in that professor, when I was undergrad, telling me “poetry doesn’t sell.” What about song writers, performing poets? Thinking my versed efforts need more attention, as they blend more advantageously with my Creative urges. Consciousness stream, obviously. Love the sight of this black ink populating the page; open notebooks, compensating my age, delayed. Like winemaking processes, these sittings, following the pages’ collective terroir’s intentions, if that makes sense. All this, my verses, incandescence colliding with wild wine writing. No concentration ...
As I settle, no longer a smoldering kettle. Like
those who embezzle, out for Self, about wealth, so I
persist in scribble, enlist my inner drizzle, turn it into a
storm. I’m like a Cabernet that won’t conform. I’m not the
one to be forlorn. Befuddle like sights of a shuttle, outer space,
louder base. Why so complicated, this economy? Obvious robbery ...
- - - - - - - -
wind, leaving, but i’m still
writing. the scraping, on paper,
enough. metered lust, reading
to my calendar, numbers annoyed.