One month from today, the Kenwood Foot Race. Feel up for it now, but I need to do the Lawndale run a few more times before I can be prepared fully for that stretch. Only gray in sky. Quiet outside. Not that I’ve been out there.. it just looks quiet. Little Kerouac, quite involved with his objects, stacking one atop the other, pushing it over, repeating, doing differently each time with order of stack, stacks.
So pleased I skipped wine altogether last night. I’m quiet awake, but still quite drained from yesterday’s 5.9 mile run. Under an hour.. that’s “good,” isn’t it?
Prose, not to be paired with coffee in its brew. Throughout day, more verse. And if I need fill any unexpected void in book’s page span, it’s to be done with verse, rhyme, poem.. something musical, always. Don’t want to be seen as a ranter.
Lost track of where I was in my lap– off to
escape through meter.. don’t expect this scrivener
to come back, how much has elapsed, couldn’t disclose..
comatose from introspective overdose. Syrupy sentences,
high fructose.. only scribble in true show, cowardly critics
looking to divot my digits, all ignored.. I’m in Medoza
sipping Malbec on hidden ridges. Just
beginning my scene, beautiful day, pardon me but I’m
new to these ways, involuntarily imbued in
the daze. Grazed by stray blades.. spend the weekend
on mend, the responses sent– me, not a pawn with
pen, senselessly sentencing, rather muddled in
melodies, taking odd shapes on the wrong date.
Amalgamating pieces, I’m sprawled, debating
re-creeds.. Can’t take any more caffeine,
or I’ll be having a cracked spleen, all their traps seen.
Definitely don’t need any more caffeine. And why can’t I bring Self to scribble in Comp Book? Why am I so addicted to this device? This isn’t writing… And I’m in more a poetic mood anyway, this morning. So what’s the halt about? Just skimmed an article about writing simply enjoying language, toying with it when they hit blocks. What I should do, true… Jack looks out window. Walking away from these keys, I do same.