Bay Map, Race Track

No mood to write.
Nor to check up on my wine,
Talk about it. Take pictures?
Why? No fire. Should be
Bedded. But I
Stay up to write. From truth,
Authorial option. No more
Weeps from my little Artist.
I’m still in shake. At my limit
With storm, skirmish.
Sipping. A blend. Too lazy–
No, exhausted–to get up, stroll
To kitchen for label specificity.
And this entry, my last on device.
That Lit Mag in my eyes’ vice.
So easy, so formulaic.. all these
Testimonials. Give me a
Break. After I type this, on phone,
Mind you, I have to attach
Ridiculous tags. Did
Poe do that? Mr. Hemingway?
Faulkner? I’m retiring, to pen, paper,
For some considerable time.

Watching news. Finally in relax with
Pleased mask. What a concept, in this
New onset. Rain on way, my brain on play–
Real Life, at the deal’s knife. Avoiding trite
Spite. I’m neither pawn nor knight. In flight
With a new perspective.. Less objective, but
More selective. Hotel Room, locked in sober
Scribble.. No spelled swoon, frustrated,
Equilibrium serrated. But impact, not
Fully anticipated. Repose, as the show faded.
How can I dodge the fact– I’m a poet,
Jaded by the politics, in all of this.. no hit, miss.
Hackers invaded.. No safe spot but on paper’s
Play lots. See self with tommy gun, spray
Shots. Realization, intimation on all sides
Of oration; imbibed with 4 ways pinned.