Any thought secondary has to be buried,
rarely second guess self but I do when it comes to tell–
Observed surroundings, nothing astounding,
Attention span of a gnat, and I’m overly selective at that–
Posts Tagged With: Spoken Word
Any thought secondary has to be buried,
a shoe, stepping on concrete that
waits for rain, something someday, needed,
but then the clouds leave, find more attractive
flats, and the shoes are thankful but at a loss,
and so am I, what is this?
am i trying to be correct in my planning, my
maturity if i even believe in that
hard to say but i have to at a certain point, i know
not a high or low, just slow, immeasurable pull
no team or advisory, on own but cliff looking at tree, that
cyprus meant to garnish sea view,
overlooking my notes and what i recorded and wondering
if i did it right
but that depends on who you ask, and who would you ask
the supervisor? nothing super about him, he
doesn’t like me cuz i talk, cuz i question, and there it is in my
truth pot, the table not yet served, i sit to gather self and order more
coffee probably don’t need it but this isnt manic, i dont think, but im not a
doctor or even a professional, the professional they want me to be, im just
a word wrangler, and im inchief as they say, so official, im in office, and
bobbing head with what the xylophone does, following the snare, my snare
as i stare into the smoke over the small crowd in this free hut–
not sure if its simplicity or if i some urge to
complicate and overcomplicate, so maybe its not them, not
them at all, maybe im imagining them, the clock, the obligation and
the schedule, i have to be there, that’s mature, maturity, maybe
we’re all imaging that–
return to the burn, the purifying waves of flame that come from the midday
into the notebook intel spell, attempt, no contact from me after, just silent
i spoke too loud and here i am, whoops, without
but im better, so much better, i should thank them for the paper work, release, out,
of a certain cell, look at me, seriously look. at. me.
no suffer, suffrage and suffer age, put my temper in the fridge, or freezer, thaw it
and what do i get:
sense, a chorus, words ive never sung– bong blong ting ting–
new jazz in a new life in a new street and new calendar square, dirty hands
but that’s art, voice or something like that
new extremity, so now they
call me an extremist, rabblerousing roarer
but as my songs on plays i sway on something
sharper, and my You’s a renewed ME–
landscape to escape or just remain, im
too mobile and manic to anything mold,
im told, complexing
and complication, what now, what now!
Colors circling and I get tads in dizzy,
More vision, though, there’s more
But I don’t trust me so I’m a hyperhypocrite, listening to
two idiots in front of me in this
cafe talk about philosophy and amoebas and followings
and Asia, and standards– oh they know so much,
and I just stare at the shade, the tinted blends on the wall, smell
espresso or biscotti
or maybe that’s just the wind outside– oh so now they talk about Shake
speare. they know so much!
Please tell me I’m not one of them, I’m not of their hem!
Lean into my keys and feel please but I’m around two pseudos,
send me to Peru, or Pluto!
I thought I was manic, you should hear this guy!
I’m annoyed, about to feel my patience fry.
Concentrate on what I have to do, focus I
tell myself but I’m a bad coach and now the younger gives the
excuse that he has to get to a haircut, he doesn’t
want to listen to him anymore and neither do I and
now that the younger has left I don’t have to– praises!
To the moment and to the oddness, now come curious pauses..
Does this happen to you, when you have days off? Oh, but this
usually is a work day, but not anymore, not anymore,
more than anything I have songs to bring, new life and
new me and some trumpets and snare, event
just notes on sounds, the espresso machines, fruffmmm and
ugh, now more talkers, ladies at table two over
left and they talk about days off they need or one of them
does– oh no, she’s talking about an
employee, she’s management, enemy, turn
that espresso machine back on!
Bring that younger back in here!
She’s one of them! One of the
clock lovers, one of those bots that make
my case lowered, ‘I’ to ‘i’–
can I go? Sure I can, I have the day, no noose, bless
ing, no dis
guise, look at my eyes, both, you see a sky and a lake of intent, or at least I
a guy wipes the counter, a tall guy walks in (he works here), and I just write, and sing to
myself cuz I love my voice, I’m no different that this amoeba philosophy guy
i need some advise, and a teamish tone
let’s see what I can draw, but I’m gone
and the shop wants me to go to, go out there,
enjoy your day,
you’re free, swinging in and
out of any
sea, no edit or controls I start to shiver
but then I’m enclosed, in love, set, and I
Formaality– no time,
it’s fractured, my time,
so I write the fractured.
Job, when you have one, you wish for
beaches, or forest strolls, rocky
dialogue, that makes it interesting,
this is poison.
I hope you can read.
Coffee, now shower. Thinking about that measly check from yesterday. I’m going there today with a predator mood. I want blood. I need it. I’m the orangutan. They, my rue. Making it known today, I’m moving on– mentally at first, then tangibly second. What is that wage going to do for my family? It’s not my Beat, that’s for sure. So much time of my life, and for what? My hangover, not tearing at me too tyrannically at the moment. Glad I switched over to water last night before bed. Mocha, now, just at right, reassuring me it’ll be a good day. Hope it’s right. Keep saying to myself, ‘my Beat, my Beat’… And what it is. Thought I figured it out at the end of Spring semester. Think now– or realize now that I’m just starting to put pieces together.
narrow my realism
for the sake of
what, suspected, I’m an arsonist, or
I will be, I’m about to
burn one of my own books,
so what does that make me,
wait let me– yes, okay, this I think I
said in another note I wrote
to mySelf, one morning before work, when
I was in one of my moods, sipping a cooling mocha and
eating one of those breakfast burritos,
in the market’s parking lot, this is so much
a writer’s foil, tall toil–
eating a candy I found in the
freezer, peanut butter,
my favorite, return to
the child, when things weren’t so necessary, or expected, or planned,
why does sit have to be mapped out, protractor’d,
that robs, I’m robbed, and
thinned, more than the road they set
me on, why can’t it taste this good, where are
the keys, the curls to a better ride? I’ll
go for co-Colossus,
don’t think, just go, I’m riled but
sought slow, and that’s another song I’ll have to
somehow fake, more leaves
get a rake. hope sincere,
that letter was already sent to supposed supporters.
light another match, for the writings in my desk.
hope the smoke heads west, to the pest press.
Infuse toxins into your rouse,
Nonpaid dues, devil you lose,
Statements made with ardor, escape
To Ann Arbor, stay away from the intoxicants, antithetical
Raymond Carver, forever poet martyr–
My blade and thought knot, sharper. Farther than and
Arctic point, count my counterfeit coin–
New solar system given, Picasso lotto…
4/21– Especially tired today. Onto 3-shot mocha, had 4 this morning. Quick meeting planned with ‘100’ students. Sending them to library… Need nap before Fountaingrove hills. Presently in Adjunct cell.. sipping this espresso, but cautiously. I’m starting to wake, and quicker than my mind can process, decode.
Still surprised I wrote 3,000 yesterday. Days off yield the unexpected, often, even though I don’t have them that often.
12:35PM. In library. Students looking for topics, researching. I’m on the fourth floor, trying to keep Self motivated, awake.. difficult to clearly think. Week 15 we’re in, and I’m ready for break, a break, of any length. What the author could really use: a nap. All the students around me, motivated by deadlines, thinking of my deadlines.. don’t want to be dead before reaching. And I remember what I looked for when I would research.. which was– Too long ago, once in graduate school. And here I am, exiled in the library. Hungry, but ignoring those impulses. Hear students laugh from one of the group study rooms to my left. The novel, my novel… under some type of construction. So tempted to rise from this chair, leave, go get something to eat, take my nap. But what if I didn’t? What if I actually practiced what I preach; “Stay in the chair,” I’ve always told them. I mean how else will the novel finish?
Around me, quiet, concentration, panic with the semester closing.. all these students facing their last days in this semester’s story.. Asking reference desks where books are, ‘where can I find, where can I find…’ There’s Life in here, pursuit of what one wants from Life.. You can build your Self here, in a/this library, in any library. But I’m here, wanting to be a student again, but I don’t want to spend all the time, money, in some institutionalized program, where I have a questionably competent professor. Am I talking reinvention? Maybe a little, but more of a simplification, separation. A “new era” for me, indeed. One of the page, constant typing, writing…
Those students in the study room, doing anything but study. Just laughs. “We were just talking about how tan you are,” just heard one of the boys say to the returning girl, back from restroom visit.
Kerouac, the poet (not my son) in thoughts.. thinking he may be my new focus, maybe something to read with students in coming terms.. ‘On the Road’. I so very much want to be on the road, just for a week at a time. Here and there. Travel, Life, seeing, observing, recording. The stationary day sets will not be permitted in this “new era”. My ‘new era’ embodies rebellion, defiance of convention… POETRY… BOOKS… revolutionizing the Self-printing platform and plight. Publishers, I’m knowing now more than I ever have, are wildly evil. And they can be defeated by Us, small presses. And my journals will be the starting salvo in this period of my Life. What in here I look for.. affirmation, not from outside sources or articles, necessarily, but some kind of lens that assures me what I’m doing is needed. 8 days, one month, till 35. THIRTY. FIVE. Time, easily my greatest enemy, but it too will suffer tremendous setbacks in this “new era”. Hate that wording.. meant to be so profound, emphatic, when really it’s hyperbole– flabby and false. Allow me to hold, “Illustrating and cementing chapter”. And it’s been in motion for some time, as I’m tired of regularity, expectation set upon my character without my permission, or any sort of negotiation. Who do you think you are, fool, devil?
1:13PM. Wrote a poem, one easily destined for reading, recital. Think I’ll submit it tonight just for laughs. The poem is meant to capture me, in this library, my moments in this place that’s supposed to be quiet. But now that I’ve finished my criticism, I’m glad, quite pleased actually, that it’s anything but quiet. Talked mySelf out of the exhaustion I felt before ‘100’ and much of my presence here. Ready for lunch, some sustenance. And I think I’ll submit the poem right now, here from this fourth floor. The volume has declined, and I’m in better mind, finally.
Not submitting from here. Have to set up some account with an online submission manager and that could take a little time, so I should leave, go home, enjoy lunch and a nap. Then, ready Self for run up hills. Yesterday’s jog, or walk/jog, through Annadel/Spring Lake was so fruitful for my thinking. Need to enjoy that same course more frequently. And now, I make the leave. Should count Self-publishing funds once home. I know I’m over $300, which I said I wouldn’t do. So I’m stopping, sealing the envelope, and not digging it up till I have my MS printed, ready to truly publish. I’ve been in this circle for years, I was reminded last night reading entries from years ago. But in these new chapters, it stops. And I finally can begin.
8:14PM… As tired as I was all day today, and after the broken nap I took once home, I can’t believe how well I did with that Fountaingrove run today. No intervals this time, but a 2.25 out then back. So 4.5 total miles. I’m pleased, and that’s all that matters. I still very much plan on sending off the poem I wrote today in the library, and I begin a new log of my submissions. Sipping a Little Sumpin’, as I always am anymore when it comes to beer. I’ll open one of my wines for dinner pairing, but I need to stay alert, sharp in this ‘new era’ of MINE– like the beat generation; rebelling, confronting conformity at it stands so bold, sure of itself, convinced it’s so witty and invincible. And I start with this poetry collection. One title I thought of, while running up one of the first hills, was ‘Oblong Ode’. But anymore, I’m beginning to have an aversion to alliteration. And how poetic is it, really, in its obvious commercialized slouch?
Sipping my Merlot, so very re-laced. My story tonight, about the moment I’m in, as will be all my work in this new stupid era. I’m in a new character’s suit, and it feels lovely. That would be the reason this writer still sips. I won’t be in my late fifties, or sixties, just celebrating the publishing of a book-length work, a novel. Why, ask you.. as I publish my Self. I only need approval from myself. And I’m not like all other Self-printed penners.. I’m fanatical, extremist, militant. Publishers kill writing, except when the publisher is a writer, and his only Artist is himSelf.
The re-inventive chapters begin.. tonight, and tomorrow.
10/28/13– Typing in the Safeway parking lot. My mood this morning, toxic.. everything from rhythm to sight, to tone. Not in the mood to do the same bloody thing I did yesterday, day before. Before. If I could just have the day to Self, to finish the bloody book, already. Or just write freely. I will, though. This Friday. If today were that day, I’d be on my way to Petaluma, by now, surely. Once there, I’d grade for about an hour. Then, to cafeteria to write in newJournal. Freely. To the second mocha of my day.
Wrote a healthy amount of verse, poem, yesterday while in tasting Room, visiting and revisiting wine to aid with knee pain. No plans for a run today, obviously, in that I pickup little Kerouac from Lisa’s. Do I want to run tomorrow? Possibly. Probably, actually. But not too much distance, as to care for these aching structural portions.
My mood, rising, watching these cars race by on Calistoga, towards 12, where they choose to turn
8:44am. How much longer can I write? I’ll give Self till 9:05. Precisely 20 minutes to finish, edit, post this prose. Or poetry. Whatever form it takes. Cold this morning. The reader, or “gauge,” reads 39’. May as well be 32, as I’m quite affected by the sterile sharp atmosphere. Reminds me of Sunriver, of course. And then my mood rattles again, in wondering how long it’ll be till I up there again write. Young family walks by, two children in roofed wagon, mama carrying littlest on person, in one of the strapped pouches. Can’t remember name for them.
Listening to beats that I used when having my Literary lunches, Napa. And my hands start to stiffen. Don’t I have the heat on? No. Fixing that. Maybe that’s why my temperament’s so coiled, boasting fang points.
So relaxed, here in car, with this 4shot energy boat, music, characters everywhere.
But I have somewhere to be.
That, precisely why I’m re
Still 39 degrees. Much more pleasant in the cabin of this new car, with heat’s help.
Passers, with visible mist
Me, hidden from.
At lunch, I need to get this grading done. Instead of 4 items, I will shoot for 8. Four must be 1A papers, just the other night submitted. Going to use a new 50pt rubric I found online. Would write my own, but my writing energy, as it pertains to my teachings, stands better spent in other areas– lectures, lessons, assignments.
And, “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck appears, audibly. And the writer’s mood, colorful. No longer hunched. Imagine my Self back in Paris. By mySelf, writing, walking, no wine.. just the cafés, cuisine, characters, conversation. Anymore, wine only harms the writer.. this writer at least. And I’m all the more settled in me not making a wine this year. I will return to it, yes. But I want the writing to carry me, first. Then, when means rotate upward, barrels get filled.
Today’s writing goal: 5 poems. Due: 5 o’clock, not a second later, says
Professor Madigan. (8:57am)
Posted 3pieces, Professor Madigan… 8:16pm, in kitchen’s nook. Going back through blog, its word doc, here on laptop, reconciling.. guess that’s what you’d call it. Caught Self OVERthinking, again. “Oh, did I post this one.. this one? THIS ONE?” Why concern Self like that, OVERconcern Self like that? It’s all book-able. No more of this 1-year-on-blog hogwash. Some pages I post, others I don’t. I’m a writer, not a blogger.
On new notes: didn’t have any advances at winery today pertaining to winemaking. So, I’m resigning to not making wine this vintage– NO! Not ‘resigning’.. assigning. What am I “assigning?” The Self, to only write, teach, read.. work with my students. After leaving Kerouac with Ms. Lisa tomorrow, I’ll head straight to Petaluma. A simulation for this coming Friday, where I plan to write for 5 straight hours, 10a-3p. Or possibly more. I’ll print my 41pg work as well. Bet on it– Actually, don’t. You might lose. Just know I’ll try, angrily.
Poetry tonight. Three verses, comprising 1 song. That’s it. Something to perform. Going to designate tonight’s piece my signature work.. or touring pages, if that makes sense. And maybe I’ll test them on the English 5 class, this Thursday at open mic. Or, “open mic with Mike,” as Jess said.
Tonight, I’ll grade 4 items. Didn’t hit the eight or whatever I wanted to at lunch. Instead, I went on a winery visit with a coworker. Deerfield, all their single varietals, a couple blends. Love how the tasting Room’s in the cave. Always thought that was an appealing facet to their experience. Was I a huge fan of their wines.. not really. But I enjoyed the unexpected dash to another tasting Room, being on the bar’s other side. Is there anything I can report from day, other than the slow start, and the uncomfortably easing rush at conclusion, the two annoying people from Reno I poured? Not that it was Saturday-busy, it was just quirky, discomforting. Rushed to gather little Kerouac, then back to condo castle. Now, I’m in professor mode.. more, more.
Hungry. Should probably open night’s wine, to pair with this Mexican casserole Alice made. Long day for us both. Want to get us into our own house, away from neighbors. Older the writer gets, I don’t enjoy nearness to other voices, movements. I prefer the isolated places.
10:14pm. I should be grading those papers.. but no surprise, I’m not. I’m enjoying my evening. Quiet. Writing. And running tomorrow? Not sure. Maybe, actually. Even if for only 30 minutes or so. Have to remind Self that not every run should be a record-breaker. The fact that I go out, interval on pavement, or trail, is victory to itself.
Poetry, to mySelf, here in the semi-solace. Maybe I shouldn’t run tomorrow.. but Thursday. Can I keep that promise to mySelf?
Tonight, writing freely. Won’t touch book till Tuesday morning. Hoping to run in earliest of morrows, tomorrow. No matter how drained I seem. Took home a bottle of Merlot tonight. Already opened, but nearly 100% full. Complete glass to right. Plath to left. First piece of memorable dialogue this morning, the only except worthy of record, for day’s whole: one of the stockers, a 20 y/o JC student, quoting this morning’s poem back to me, approaching, repeating “whisked white whispers.” Made my whole day. Was nearly tempted to leave early, pretend I was sick or something, flee to nearest coffee spot to write.
More punchdowns this evening, after a glass of this same Merlot. I noticed the aromatics intensifying, the temperature contrasts more pronounced. And the color, differentiating in intensity, barrel to barrel, trapping me. Again, with winemaking ardency, insistence. Love the way the cap looks, above the juice, and how the juice looks when rising through the skins. The process, more than the finished product… Always animated, for me. Just took first sip of this glass, and still quite impressed. Wish I could have bought my Merlot, but I’m moving forward with this 2013 Meritage. Need to think of my own suggestions for this Bordeaux blend they’re doing. I don’t want to be in their way, with no contributing ideas. The most recent issue of WineMaker Magazine, just above Merlot glass, here on table.
Can still smell skins on hands,
Gorgeous vampiric strips.
Ms. Plath, on the cover of her collected poems publication, staring right at me, telling me to stay focused, be an Artist.. write your poems, and now that the first chapbook is finished.. bloody release it! Time, readers, 8:51pm. Always looking at time, so how free am I in this writing? Only one more glass after this, then to decaf. Have to run, everyday this week, M-F. Just set two alarms: 1, 4:15am; 2, 5am. Met a gentleman today, visiting with his wife from New York (Staten Island), who runs all days of week, waking at 4am. Wish I could do so. Well, tomorrow’s my chance to try– or do. No “try” for this penner, never. Not at 34.
iconic, but off to drop it– what,
the pouring, to coffee’s sleeves,
no, my inner incline never resigns,
please.. to cold to fold2mold, poetry my
Again, so thankful to the coworker this morning, reciting my lines. What’s more remunerative for the Artist? Plath, still looking at me. Should open her book–
“All the Dead Dears,” first piece I see. Interesting, her reflection on artifacts captured, how they’re seen, and what we should think of her, Plath, observing it.
Social media, anything technological.. disgusting, too easily infusing.
Not may notes from day. Actually, only a couple lines added to a poem I started a couple days past. Didn’t date, so certainty’s only a wish. Thinking the next release should be a collection of poems and not the flash fiction effort I before pinned. What do you think, reader? Ms. Plath, too much in this writer’s wheel, winds. So tell me then, what do I do?
“Do what you feel to write,” I hear Grandma saying. “It’s your Life, you have your choice.”