Edit no more

7:41am.  Coffee.  Little mocha mix.  Thinking of my office.  When I’m finally there, whether on Embarcadero, or in downtown Napa by the Roasting Co, or just down the street from this condo, it’ll be perfect for me, as Twain’s hut was for him, with its pool table, bar.  This morning, need to answer a couple emails, 1 in particular saying she liked a spoken word entry.  And I am going forward with emailing a monthly letter.  “writer2Reader,” I’m dubbing it.  “Reader” in CAPS on account that without them, we’re meaningless.  Well, I don’t know about meaningless, completely.  But I write to be read by more than just mySelf.  Today’s aims: 1 bx post, 1,000 words in book idea.  And that’s it.  Rhyme writing in Comp Book, or here on the keyed monster, not listed ever again as goal, as I should be doing that everyday, anyway.  That’s who  I am– in POETRY.  I’m a verse-ist, and that’s how I should live.  And tonight, going dry.  No beer, wine.  Watching thee olympic athletes, one being 1 year older than the writer, has me motivated.  As does little Jack, here on the couch, at right.  He watches the news with me, making sweet funny sounds every other story/report, or so.  There’s another, as if to say, “Hmm, interesting.”

To verse writing, no rhymes circling in head.  Blame the TV, these obnoxiously revolving stories.  Think even Jackie’s getting sick of them, as he re-engaged with a toy, waving it intently, slamming it to his right lap.  There he again goes, my little Kerouac.  He’s telling me to flee to poem, be the beat I need B.

more than just a coffee shop recital. ignore bans

stopping this oddly topped sea tidal, meaning my

sentences, sung essays.  reflections, left 2 let-play.

since april met may. my punctuation and sense of

formality strayed.  not sure how to behave. i’m

implicitly rhythmic, if I don’t write I fidget. another show,

by colorado snow, starting to tire, toggle slow. switch


Think I’ll stop there, finish the rest off-blog.  Not giving recital-worth words away.  No need for another home-brewed blazing cup.  My energy’s enough elevated.  But then, with expectation, tired.  And, still I sit, completely still.  Like an ignored statue.  Nothing around me provoking prose.  Jack, asleep upstairs, me right here, only hearing a humming fridge.  Realizing, again, how valuable the tasting Room is, with its ceaseless surge of material; characters, dialogue, wine reaction, scenes, symbols.  What I really want–no, NEED–the same, just far away.  Other cities, states, city states, countries.  I want to have a session on some balcony in London, sipping a cheap wine that I bought from some random merchant close to the hotel.  And just write.  Not edit.. no more of that.  I’m a journalist, being fed from my journals.  So, it need continue with a paper page’s purity.