Tonight, writing freely. Won’t touch book till Tuesday morning. Hoping to run in earliest of morrows, tomorrow. No matter how drained I seem. Took home a bottle of Merlot tonight. Already opened, but nearly 100% full. Complete glass to right. Plath to left. First piece of memorable dialogue this morning, the only except worthy of record, for day’s whole: one of the stockers, a 20 y/o JC student, quoting this morning’s poem back to me, approaching, repeating “whisked white whispers.” Made my whole day. Was nearly tempted to leave early, pretend I was sick or something, flee to nearest coffee spot to write.
More punchdowns this evening, after a glass of this same Merlot. I noticed the aromatics intensifying, the temperature contrasts more pronounced. And the color, differentiating in intensity, barrel to barrel, trapping me. Again, with winemaking ardency, insistence. Love the way the cap looks, above the juice, and how the juice looks when rising through the skins. The process, more than the finished product… Always animated, for me. Just took first sip of this glass, and still quite impressed. Wish I could have bought my Merlot, but I’m moving forward with this 2013 Meritage. Need to think of my own suggestions for this Bordeaux blend they’re doing. I don’t want to be in their way, with no contributing ideas. The most recent issue of WineMaker Magazine, just above Merlot glass, here on table.
Can still smell skins on hands,
Gorgeous vampiric strips.
Ms. Plath, on the cover of her collected poems publication, staring right at me, telling me to stay focused, be an Artist.. write your poems, and now that the first chapbook is finished.. bloody release it! Time, readers, 8:51pm. Always looking at time, so how free am I in this writing? Only one more glass after this, then to decaf. Have to run, everyday this week, M-F. Just set two alarms: 1, 4:15am; 2, 5am. Met a gentleman today, visiting with his wife from New York (Staten Island), who runs all days of week, waking at 4am. Wish I could do so. Well, tomorrow’s my chance to try– or do. No “try” for this penner, never. Not at 34.
iconic, but off to drop it– what,
the pouring, to coffee’s sleeves,
no, my inner incline never resigns,
please.. to cold to fold2mold, poetry my
Again, so thankful to the coworker this morning, reciting my lines. What’s more remunerative for the Artist? Plath, still looking at me. Should open her book–
“All the Dead Dears,” first piece I see. Interesting, her reflection on artifacts captured, how they’re seen, and what we should think of her, Plath, observing it.
Social media, anything technological.. disgusting, too easily infusing.
Not may notes from day. Actually, only a couple lines added to a poem I started a couple days past. Didn’t date, so certainty’s only a wish. Thinking the next release should be a collection of poems and not the flash fiction effort I before pinned. What do you think, reader? Ms. Plath, too much in this writer’s wheel, winds. So tell me then, what do I do?
“Do what you feel to write,” I hear Grandma saying. “It’s your Life, you have your choice.”