This morning, almost completely poetry.  Can you believe that, Ms. Plath?  Don’t have long to talk, but I’m a little proud of my commitment to verse, in recent weeks.  When am I going to read?  Not sure, when I can find time, I guess.  Tonight, no wine.  Had enough yesterday.  And honestly, I didn’t like the way it made me feel towards the end.  Well, now that I remember, even at the beginning.  I remember walking around at Pride, looking over one of those valleys, thinking to mySelf, “I should stop, but these wines are too incredible.  One more sip…” In fact, right now, the room is completely quiet, Ms. Plath.  Only thing I can hear, the refrigerator’s grumbly hum.  Tomorrow, first day off in six.  What am I doing?  Besides spending time with Captain Jack, putting words into the Chapbook 1.  Will there be verses in there?  Yes, but I don’t want it to be some college student-esque poetry collection chapbook for a class, excessively assignment-looking.  I want its dominance to lie in paragraph, narrative.  Then, the cubist strokes of verses I like to write.

My eyes, wanting to lower.  They hate me.  In the previous entry, I was going to do a writeup on the three wineries we visited.  But, I don’t want to write like that.  That’s not Literary, reflective, of any voice emblematic of ME.  That, and they’re not paying me to do so.  Few wineries would.  But, they would certainly take the free press, donated time, exertion.  Don’t get me started…

Can’t hear Sir Jack.  Maybe he finally fell into sleep.  Already noticing changes in his character, his physique, his motions, mannerisms.  He looks into you with analytical angles, seasoned with curious insistence.  Today, he holds 8 days to his little name, frame.  People say he looks like me, one friend even going so far as to call him a “mini-Mike.”  No, though.  He’s his own varietal.  Now small, but early vigor evident, promised.  How do I write him fairly, Ms. Plath?

11:03pm.  Need sleep.  Okay, for tomorrow…just finish the first chapbook.  Throw a bunch of older entries in there, write some new poems, and be done with it.  Mimic Mr. Shakur’s work habits.  Like he said, you “…don’t have the time or the luxury to be spending all this time 1…” project.  Especially a chapbook.  Just finish it, Mike.  Jack demands it.  Or maybe he doesn’t.  Maybe he would urge me to be more reasonable with Self, not to be like my past dictatorial “superiors.” Superiors, heh.  That’s hilarious.  No supervisor, has ever, or will ever, be “superior” to me, my writing, my ideas in any respect.  Especially with writing, wine, writing about wine.  Now I need some sleep, as my rattle warns these weary, weakening walls.

2/23/2012, Thursday