Friday, May 13, 2011

Wine Riming, Me, Randomly

Pour to doors.  No score, anymore.
Scared of this chair’s stare.  My poor 
sessions, tear anywhere.  Different 
bottle type, for Mike.  Hold pen and lined
sheet tight.  No reason to fight.  Resort to
insight.  Others manuscripts.  Others’ lectures
hand you slips.  All lies, I’m supposed to be the 
fall guy, the one writing about wine.  Define my time
in fined rime.

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