Posts Tagged With: Spoken Word

Beauty Brooding

IMG_5691Attestedly, Pinot and I have a flimsy relationship– we bicker, we contest, we ardently altercate. But not tonight.. tonight we dance, thanks to this Russian River producer.. the fruit is not in any angle contrived or forced, or one-columned. I’m being spoken to, in song, in verse, this ’13 is like a convincing cloud of sensory force that I’ve never met; that other Pinots in set would envy and downright deplore for its palate prose. And maybe this would be the glass, my second, spurring the writer, but it’s Truth– this Pinot is its own mandate, a sovereign sewing of empyreal ebullience– wild herbs and field-y tones taunting the caesura of raspberry and maple, slight cedar– but I‘m not approaching the wine that way, with the dumbed cataloguing of notes and ‘descriptors’. This character deserves more, and more, and by ‘more’ I intend a story, and I envisage, some world, or setting, or moment where character like myself and another like-penner perambulate in words and recitals and– some crowd, listening to our words, all prompted by this Burgundy, from Westside Road… Next sip, forcing my diffidence, causing me to reject any and all boxes, and cherish my own chatter. When I find a wine like this, this is what materializes. And Pinot, of all forms, genres. This is no wine review, no silver-tongued sentence sequence, just me writing to wine; evidence irrefutable of the writer tilted and terrifically taunted by a new wine find. And Pinot… Pinot! I don’t want to be one of this new fashionable fold but it looks like I am. But that wasn’t the writer’s desideratum, by any measure. And that’s my understanding of Pinot as a presence: vagary, the espial; ensuing enclosure. But I’m digging too far as I tend to do, this writer-slash-professor.. I should have just sipped and scribbled, jotted some humdrum banality and skipped along with the glass-tilts. But that’s not how we arrange on page, we writers, the word-warpers loving simple syllabics with a bit of sip. And like Kerouac, there was a decision I’ve been meaning to stamp and solidify but it’s been tossed away from my perceptive plain, and pleasurably. And I thank the PInot, this ’13, for getting me to clarity some coherence of paragraph, composition.. wine wine always in a wine, me and my cyclical sentiments… my Beat.
And my glass empty. A lull ebbs in my Personhood. And to do.. what. Nothing. Just stare at this bloody glass as any Beat would. My curves and coursings opaque in any rationale, and so mundane when I re-write, and re-re-write. But this bottle’s solved that. And I’m untroubled. From this Pinot. Why does it confront me from sides blind? It, this contained vivacity light but not so, aims to have its Self heard. And I know you’re asking, “Where? From where? What winery?”
Why does it matter? I’m a writer, find love, a wine, mine, mind molded and resulted. Freed, me.. That’s REAL capsuled composition. So I sip again…..

(4/26/14)

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2:21PM. Still sick, but

better after nap. Coffee.. trying to download this newsletter thing and of course it’s not cooperating. Says that I may have to pay? Yeah, then nogo, as my budget is in an envelope upstairs for my blog/startup/vision/dream/whatever/slef-publishing freedom whatever. Thinking about the last winery and how I’d be there normally now, and so glad I’m not– always with a knot in my stomach and always with nonsense, nonsense there following me. I’m here, at Arista (not now physically of course, but comfortable and in a breeze everconstant of Zen. Have the heater on a little as the adjunct experiences chills, not severe ones but just enough to notice I have them.. have to get ready, Alice and I to look at a house off Fulton.. see how it shines in the presence of the others over there. Alice loves the house but the garage style is something that I guess concerns me. We’ll see. Adjunct thinks about tomorrow, how there’s no class, but if he feels up to it, he’ll wake at the same time, write, grade, post to teaching blog.. maybe he shouldn’t do a newsletter for his creative writing or Life blog, or the teaching blog. That’s just one other thing to manage, right? He’d post a letter, no more than 500 words to both sites, both their own ‘management’ form. He looks back through his photos, the IMG_0855last winery.. should I take a shot at them? No.. please, he thought. “What would that do but just cause more trouble and if he were to cite them fictionally, then there would be not fallout or repercussions.. he’d be forever triumphant and blameless! Find picture.. my dear friend, my fellow Beat, Dav, when we’d all go across the street to the Kenwood for an afterword calmer. Dav and I haven’t exchanged our huge letters in some time. Now realize, coming across this old photo, my beloved friend, that those are the only letters I’ll write– Kerouac didn’t write bloody newsletters outside his projects, neither did Plath, Hem, Joyce.. none! That’s off my consciousness– I will market myIMG_5067 Self and my blogs and the writings in them by brickNmortar means. Watch, I’ll be victorious like no one else has with such pushes, efforts.. IMG_50692:36.. go.. will let you know what I think…. House was more agreeable than I ever thought to measure. Barely able to finish entry, though.. feeling the cold’s rebuild and re-assault. I’ll be in bed before 8, easily. Chicken noodle soup helped, but I still have those landmark aches, foggyhead associated with a cold, flu. Hope it’s not that. Goal: better for tomorrow’s RRV mission.

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dayrime

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–

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Dodging Front

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?

(2/4/15)

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No Why Of

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
here,
Trust me.
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
ually:

just notes on sounds, the espresso machines, fruffmmm and
shaaaaaaaahg, repeated.
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
hope;
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
know why

(1/31/15)

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Lounge Wish

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.

(7/12/14)

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note, 7/5/14

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.

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pilot ought oh

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.

(6/26/14)

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Axes Dialing

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…

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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.

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