isochronal oeno-canticle

8/5/12 — Friday night.  Well, mine.  Thinking only of verse.  But more so, in moment instant, enveloped in this blend.  Its contents, hardly mattering.  Vintage, unimportant.  I’m just enjoying being a writer tonight.  Didn’t set my alarm, this A.M., as I planned.  But tomorrow, 6am.  Yes.  Doing so, this time.  Véraison, spreading throughout the estate, the valley.  I’m being elementally antagonized.  Love it.  The Bottled Ox, may escape his confines.  And if that DOES happen, as I feel it soon will, this “blog” dissolves.  Another pour…

Writing verse with pen, after this stint.  This last glass, with even more of a woo than the previous, the one before that.  Making the writer sleepy.  Lusting for stage, for my words to interact with ears, human vessels.  That’s the musician in ME; the performing poet.  But it’s not so much performing as it is simply READING.  And vice versa.  But all my verses put themselves in tight vices.  Then, I have a new vice: a volumed frame of verse; one meant to be heard.  This has to be my “style,” I’m thinking, since I’m doing so so old.  33, me.  How could that ever be?  Well, it is.  And ditch the expected rhyme, writer…  Another one of my moods.  No patience; can’t wait months for an “album” to be “mixed down.” Now, my Matterhorn.  If I don’t keep Self in climb, I fall.  To creative quietus.  Was just thinking of how many songs I recorded when living in San Ramon.  Know I have those words somewhere, upstairs in Room.  The actual recordings, I’m sure lost.  And I don’t care, as long as the pages can B located.

And the wine, more herbal, more strawberry, raspberry.. some kind of red berry-centered than last night.  Love when wines taste better on night next.  Better for page.  Especially when I’m inked, not typed.  Ox, nevermore bottled.  I’m wild.  Streamed, mild.  Needing an actual page.  This screen, bugging me, a bit.  Log off, with my jot knots.  I’m ripening.  Finally…  -10:53pm.