5:14am.  Barelycorn.  Did it.  Woke hungry, with stomach, angry, confused.  Much the way Jack must feel when he rises.  My clothes, someone–I mean someWHERE– in here, but not sure, so I can’t go running.  And even if I could, I’d choose not to.  These keys, making noise.  Don’t wake the little Artist.  There…  The fridge makes its running hum.  I have cover.  Least from my perspective.  Tired.  Thinking of falling back to sleep.  But then what kind of writer would I be?  This is when my consciousness is most beautifully brave, odd.  Stay with it.  Readers: if you’re doing same, don’t go back to sleep.  Make yourSelf stay away.  If I fell back into dreams, what would she think?

She’d understand, I’m sure.

Not in the mood for work today.  Not even microscopically.

Only want the Road, time for me.


In this dark, though, I have to retreat into Self, and all I have are simple recollections.  Maybe I should go back to sleep–  Is that what this entry’s about?  Shame.  If I could just have a cup of coffee.  But that would wake him.  And if I could just re-situate on this couch.  No, same.

Tomorrow’s run, shoot for 10 miles.  Try.  That would bring me to 17.75 for week.  Have to make Self run Sat and Sun, optimally before work, have that momentum and energy established.

Pretending I’m on an overnight, somewhere.  That I have a conference at 8am, knowing I have to soon be quite sharp, that I SHOULD go back to sleep.  But the reality, later.. I’m just pouring wine.  Talking about it.  Trying to sell it.  No Art in that.  Yes, responsibility, stability, but there’s not much Art, honor in that ‘act’.  Or maybe there is.  Maybe I’m just a cranky 34 y/o.

The cellar master said I should taste my wines today [he said that to me the other day, after shift’s end when we all went to cellar to get a bottle, reward for day’s doings].  Guess I have to, as immediately after shift I have to get the little Artist.  His reaction now, when I walk through Lisa’s door: perfect day topping.

5:27am.  Is my throat hurting?  Oh, I hope not.  Want to save PTO time for a couple days next month, take a weekend off to finish some work, spend time with Jackie.

Decided:  Today, bringing first two standalones to work, from book.  I’m finishing this thing, this first chapbook.  Time to start saving money, making more of it.. showing people, especially those fools so quickly labeling me a “blogger” or “social media guy” that I’m anything but.

I’m a writer.

I have



Refrigerator stopped with its running.  Now I have to pet each key rather than push, punch, or tap it.  Will not be sway on today’s lunch–  I.  Am.  Reading.  Moving forward with this book, which I just last night learned has well over 20k words in its area.  Delightful.

Memory:  Advanced Poetry Workshop, 1st semester, Senior Year, SSU…  One of my fellow students, a girl I had a good relationship with, Melissa, calling much of our class “poetry snobs.” Not sure why I remembered this now, in this darkened play area for Jack, with quiet fridge and quiet everything.  I remember thinking she was right, though.  Many of them, especially this one, can’t remember her name, had quite the opinion of her work.  And others.  And she always used adverbs, she loved them; they were like specially glazed sweets to her; she couldn’t use them enough– “I’m ALL about adverbs,” she once said.  I probably with Melissa rolled my eyes.  Would love to see her at a reading now, the Adverber.  Battle her or something.  And that’s much of what provokes me to attend readings, now: push to show others that I’m better.  Which I think is healthy, quite resounding.  But I need to finish works, commit them to memory if they’re to be read the way I like.  If there’s 2B any magic in my stage.

Still very much awake.  How am I doing, Ms. Plath?  Would love to read a poem or two from her right now, but my books lie in the kitchen, under the table.  [5:38am]  And I’m not going on the bloody internet.  That would kill what I’m doing.  Infect it, nullify this delicious dark.  Fly flying back, forth, before screen.  By my nose, buzzing my lashes.  There it is again.  What does it want?

5:40am.  Will there be any grapes on crush pad when I arrive today?  Hard to say.  Think harvest may be dumbly done.  And with my harvesting of poems, for 2013: want it to keep going.  I won’t let it be still.  Today: can lie, say I have wine club letters to write, retreat to other bar, write more verse.  Genius.

Alice’s friend, traveling to Southern California to run a half-marathon.  She’ll be on Road, if only for day.  She has something taking her– reasonably loud sound outside.  The paper man, I think.  Or is that my little Artist, upstairs?  With no sight, depth perception in this dark, I can’t tell.  One sense drought curving its cousin…

Coffee.  Much on mind, very much.  That Italian Roast, probably my favorite of the 3 types I bought the other night.  [bending legs a bit, as they were falling asleep resting on this pillow.]


Tired again,

and there’s still a

whole day

for me– stale



DID Ms. Plath ever go back to sleep, even for a power nap?  I’ll settled that she didn’t.  She couldn’t afford to, with two children, her “duties” as a wife.  Think I just heard my little character.  Need to edit this, with famished shark speed.  1,000 words before 6am.  Not often it happens, but no wine, or my beloved artisanal beer is much to credit.  They only slow you, reader.  Coffee, that decaf, an illustrated, IMMEDIATE solution.  I’ll also thank Mr. London for his character.  Think Martin Eden did the same thing.  Been a while since I read it, semester ago.. years ago.

The fly again,

Motorcycle in street, either

showing off

or rushing to work.

Either way,

go away.


(5:54am, 10/16/13)