Curled Singer 2

Cinco de Mayo.  But no celebrating for this Author.  Not till Manuscript’s out of barrel [blog/laptop trinket] and into bottle [book, actual pages readers turn].  Finishing the ’12 Napa Valley Sauv Blanc I last night unscrewed.  Yes, no cork.  Tired from today, even though I was on Mountain.  2 tours, both small groups, both easy.  Didn’t taste my wines as I’d hoped.  I’ll do that 1st thing tomorrow morning, well before opening duties complete.  Hoping the Merlot’s of more harmonious tow.

2013, though.. still playing with ideas.  And I have a bit of time to just meditate, envisage scenarios accommodating, buttered in theatricality, from how the fruit will look when crushed to how I’ll watch the brix fall.  Only doing 1 wine, that’s it.  Has to be Merlot.  Everyone loves Cab, Pinot, Cab Franc, Zin.  But I’m standing by the grape character shape that pulled me into wine’s interests.

Need another glass, I’m thinking.  Should edit the first piece in book at some point tonight.  Only have a tad of time to finish.  Surprised at how the air feels, now, walking back from quarters put into dryer– cool, almost Fall-like.

Looking at notes I took on ’10 Merlot, today.  All from Nose to Palate, Finish.  Such a well-organized wine, to me.  Nothing about it stammers.  It’s confident, assured, ready to face its prejudice.  It strikes me as a writer’s wine, for its defiant spine.  IT rushes, only to slow.  Sings to my glide with snowing glow.  Want my ’12 Merlot, and ’13, to have similar impressions lasting.  Just realized, I should be grading, prepping for classes Tuesday.  But I’m giving–no, force-feeding–mySelf excuses.  Writers do that, too.  At least I do.

Spoken Word, MY music, again on perception platter.  Now, still, not writing [well, I most visibly am, as you’re reading what I’m writing, or typing].  Thinking of FREEDOM, total occupational independence, from what a coworker today me told.  Details, of course, Reserved for off-blog log.  But what richness in material.. what push for the penman.  If I want to be free–and I mean COMPLETELY liberated–I ned to write in such syncopation, both in tone, form, imagery, and postures paralleled.  Not reaching for marketability, here, in this log– or “blog.” I’m conveying the author’s nucleus in capsuled collision codes.  IS this a vent?  Maybe a spec, yes.  But mostly, it’s to show you that this writer’s 4ever alive, unafraid, speaking mind, sense, moment.

Hoping to wake early again, tomorrow morning.  Not going back to bed for an hour as I did this morning, leaving me with the most horrible of sleep hangovers.  IF Kerouac’s cries pull me from dormancy, then I’ll open this laptop– no, pull Comp Book, start my session’d scribble.  Tonight, the SB’s showing a bit more tropical turns that 24 hours past.  Interesting.  Why is that chord making its way to measure tonight?  Why not last night?  Would love to know what the oak is on this project.  Sip…

Can only see beach, Southern France, tilting stance, stem, towards this ceiling with its avant-garde simulacra.  Travel.. I think it might be here already.  All recipe components, at table with Author.  “Just put them together,” she’d say.

Running, tomorrow.  Hoping to do another 5-6 miler.  Can’t let mySelf stop like I did yesterday.. but at least I stopped when I was even with house, in return.

Was thinking today, for Fall: Hemingway, the opposites.. in Sun Also Rises, his short stories, poems, other writings.. thinking I might just have one Author of focus, for both classes.  Why do I always have to select some trite, expected, overused collection of dreary writings with flabby instruction, study questions surrounding?  That’s why I’m quite sure–no, thoroughly, universally set–Fall will show as my best semester.  Ever.  All typed from me.. everything.  Even the most obscure, seemingly insignificant notes, brainstormings, offerings on text, course material.  English 5, however, I’ll let them choose their theory.  Maybe.. deconstructive, post-modern, or biographical.  Want them to set themselves in a certain mode.  If they don’t like those selections, I’l let them settle in general Reader-Response.  But they’ll have to know that even that seemingly relaxed form entails responsibility, discipline.

In complete Literary/Art mode 2nite.  Nothing wine about me, other than I’m sipping some, quite slow, along visions of my ’12 wines, how they’ll taste tomorrow morning.  Need the strangeness of Newness, any location, further tastes better.  See mySelf on an overnight, just writing songs by an open sliding-glass door.  Collecting songs, hotel2hotel.


Phone lines, interrupting my bones’ grind.

I’d wait, procrastinate, but there’s no time.

Yelling at my lungs’ top to a red light.

Only a mess on my desk, was I bled right?

Pessimism, blessed when my crest is risen–

Below arctic snow, I’m in a no.. a reluctant

river2row.  Altitude in Anchorage, my slang

has slid.  Behind gates.. eat off mind plates.

Fly away in rates, price tags, warn critics:

stay away from my spite’s bag.  Only weapons–

Sauv Blanc, Pavlov’s flaunt.. never an agitated

writer taunt.  Bombarded by pitches, stand staunch.

Barricade behind barrier, can’t decide what’s carrier:

eternal clock punching, or the cameras me hunting.

Break, pause, cesura, a moment please..

But I can’t stop with song, I’m not known 2freeze.


They call my work evasive, abstract, incomprehensible at

best.. hope these devils don’t find me, I’m obsessed

with vicious clarity, and they keep daring me– spoken

rarity.. the economy, just hilarity.. comedy 2me.

Therapy, poetry.. organized in collections, never albums.

Questions in thousands, behind that puritan curtain.

Wolverines refuse a scene left clean, the king’s on screen,

just staring, fear underhandedly blaring.. populace

impairing.  I lean back into couch, decipher what the

scene’s all about.. me, not a nihilist in pout.

Need plan, to get me to bank, new land.  Like a tank,

in the strand’s band.  Take possession of my world, or

should I state RE-take.. personality in 3 states, stuck with it,

no rebates.  No pleas make.. Stay in my trench, fire at

their bench.. can’t stand the workplace’s stench, so I evade

to the palisades, my pages sound alarms for air raids.. cuddle

my coins like Arcades–