Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Have to be honest, I sip a bottle I the other day bought.  Not amorous.  Repugnant.  Imbalanced.  Perhaps improperly stored.  In the studio, consolidating projects.  Focusing, like the winemaker on his blend’s constituents.  Time, 9:07p.  Why does night fly so tunneled when I walk through my front door?  Not paying attention to the clock.  Those digital remarks in the screen’s upper-right angle.  None, deserving any of ME, this page.  Even this limping pour I offer sight, perspective, flight.  Just took another sip, and I have to be honest, I can’t wait till the glass is over.  I should dump it, honestly.  The page’ll thank me.  Open that Cab Franc from St. Francis.  2007, I believe.  Wouldn’t matter, as all from my winery cartwheels in palatable musicality.
Almost impressed how awful this wine persists.  Maybe I should dump the glass.  No.  Going to fight it.  My palate, aggravated tribe of receptors.  Defiant to these overtly social pawns, mangled in “media.” I’m just a writer.  Paddling on page.  But I’m proud of my persistence.  This awful glass, for them.  The next electric bottle I release, for my fellow writers.  Of wine, travel, poem, tale, all-creative.  This gross glass, making Mike malignant.  Need to fixate on the time2Self.  Need to be in bad in 2hrs.  How does time do it, be so indiscriminate?  At least it’s persistent, consistent with rhythmic rage.  somewhat admirable.  But why does it target this wined Me, especially?   
This entry, a provoked stroke.  An invoked note.  My throat’s wrote, in a slow tow.  Prose syllabicism.  Critics, those in cataclysm.  That’s what this wine does to me.  My rhymes, from under-seas.  Me, of blunders, please.  Fiddling with characters paginated.  I’m Self-exasperated.    Perhaps I wish it so.  Old situation, do I miss it, no.
Settling.  Poetry, always in me.  Was watching a Tarantino film before this sitting.  The freed plea in me, because of he, insistently.  Need to clock out, seriously.  As I move with this fading pen, deliriously.  Remembering my students.  Missing them, their recitals.  Sipping4them, always.  vinoLit.  Mostly Literary.  Mike, ghostly military.  Sipping more Cab while slipping in drab.  Either way, glass tilt.  Alas, billed.  But the mail’s ignored, and my bail’s in doors.  Uncorked.  My ink gun, bored.  Nightcap in my right lap ...      
[7/12/2011, Tuesday, NewMike]

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