Short entry tonight.  As I’d rather be penned, truly written.  Today, in Reserve Room, all 8, no lunch.  But I have more material upon which to reflect.  The group of Vietnam Veterans, who hadn’t seen each other in 40+ years.  The wife, only woman present, me told.  I enjoyed overhearing them tell their stories, combat plus other.  Nearly wishing I’d experienced some level of battle, like Mr. Hemingway.  Still not done with Stephanie’s letter.  Shame on me, truthfully.  This’ll be my last letter for a while.  Wine, hitting me harder than normal, probably ‘cause I failed in getting lunch.

This social media strangle, like momentary mind mute.  Can hear Jack restless on monitor [9:46p].  Maybe be unsettled from the company we had over this clear eve.  The weather reports, making such deal of possible rain this way headed.  Ramble, healthy for consciousness release.  Again, if I were at war, I’d have more to report.  Something scenic, I could stream it.  Here.  In novel form.  No blog.  I’d need more time.  Maybe I am at war, in some light.  With reality’s constant slight.  Singing to Self, with newer lines, hoping my epitaph climbs to a sign’s shine.  Watching news, slight chance of rain and the news is accelerating in their coverage.  They’re predicting less than a half-inch of fall, and they refuse to relent in their explanation.  Desperation, amusingly.

After this breath set, only verse.  newJournal, may pour Self another night’s capping.  Again, find Self wishing for war, more strain.  I’d then bleed richer drain, I’m sure, positive.  I’m too comfortable.  All the more reason why I should detach from this blog, media social altogether.. it’s too instant.  I need to sit on paper-perforated protrusions.  Let them age, intensify.  Kelly, still ever in climb, reassuring my selected set.  Me, not the door to fret.  Resetting in my initial transition.. rhymed, metered, 750ml’d.

 

No, my tales may tail off, with my frail cough..

Injured with wine’s trimmer.. inhibition, awareness,

but what is fairness?  Bravado, no choice as a writer

but to blare it.  Rain in spoon catch, my pain a dune’s

patch.  Codified, relay upon the sky.  With object Me,

or mine.  Allied with time’s mind, but it’ll get me

killed.  After it’s all spilled.  Dreaming I’m broke, working for

nothing at a Petaluma mill.  Can go home to put on

paper, spill…