9:19pm.  Back home.  Sipping something artisanally beer’d.  Want to print more poem.  Looking down at these pieces that I sent through machine, last night.  Need more, produce revenue, or something tangible.  The group I had today, taking them to Mountain’s Top, made this scribe’s shift.  Enjoying quiet, here in home study.  Should be actually studying.  Anything.  My French, Lit Theory, specific Authors.. even my own entries.  Still sipping, scribbling, thinking of the morrow.  Need to be, recite/act/exist more out of character.  More separatism.  “Whoso would be a man…” as Emerson said.  Tonight, letting worlds know, I don’t concern Self with expectations, what others retrain from others’ efforts.  Managers, benefiting from our efforts.  Not letting my son’s father live that servitude.  Never.  Only surrounding Self with those like today’s visitors.  That’s Art, and from here out, only Art.. and if there’s lack, I’ll find Art in what I can.  Not sure I’ll reach target tonight, here in studio, sipping Little Sumpin’, knowing more need be typed.  Less pics, less video, less “social” media.  That’s not Art.  Art isn’t even here, in what I’m doing, typing.  Want more ink spilled.  Tangible animal, standing full– my objective, rhythmic perspective.  Listening to these instrumentals, thinking of more words spoken, turns chosen.  Tell stories before my shell’s quarried.

What I believe.. INDEPENDENCE.  You already have sight of my scope, but I elope to notes cloaked.  Looking around my home bunker, I realize consolidation’s ever-necessary.  More poetry.. in-moment pulses.  Reading past entries, wondering home time arrived where it now ticks.  Must be immature, I’m sure.  Not thinking right tonight, as I write my plight.  But, reading this only issue of vinoLitLetterz, I see my urge has been admirable for some time, since 2010.  Before, really…  So I’m told by Craft to return to ink, sheet.  Where’s newJournal?  Think maybe in work bag.  Just want music, tonight.  No formalist twist.  The more postmodern I go auburn.

Should be writing paragraphs now.  Not how I’m thinking.  More song, instrumental-focused.  Wish I could have written at Mountain’s Top, today.  Just give me 2 hours, up there.. promise I’d have a few dozen pages fermented.  Actually, just had idea– keeping2Self.  Thinking I’ll finish entry in morrow’s harshness.  Time, 10:08pm.  Having trouble thinking I can spend any of night’s remainder in anything other than pagination.  Why?  Why can’t I allow the writer to LIVE?  Isn’t that more Literary than actual writing?  That’s what I’ve been professing.  Anyway…

Sloppy session.  But at least I’m writing.  Sure Mr. Hemingway had a seated stroll or three like these, or here Me.  What else am I going to do?  I’m a writer.  I don’t have any interest in “partying.” What will that do?  Won’t finish manuscripts quicker, that’s certain.  Now, tired, uninterested.  Maybe I should return to this effort in morning..  Would that be so horrible?

Tired, retire to comfortable quagmire.  Could I push Self, maybe.  But I want to to “relax.” Actually NOT work.  Barbaric, I know.  But I’m here, complaining.  10:38pm, just for purposes, notation.  Little pages to right.  Should write as I do in tasting Room, in-moment.  That’s what’s really REAL.  Where the Art sits, waits for written connection.