[1 year, 30 days]  Just came back from store.  And while in line, I realized how I’m tiring of the process, want to start seeing bound product from Self.  I acknowledge I’m in a bit of a virulent vortex, so I’ll try to temper my tone.  Back to school tomorrow.. coming back here from Lisa’s, only for a bit, then to café.  Not bringing laptop tomorrow.  No sir.  Only writing in new journal– I mean, journal.

Looking at it now, below my copy of Ariel.  Also tomorrow, probably after English 5 section, I’ll go to Barnes & Noble, get my books for English 5.  Need tomorrow to be exciting.. so…  Pack light to each class.  Walk in with only a Comp Book.  Or journal.  These last four sessions are workshops, anyway.  So why not?

Each poem must revolve around something.. a singular something.  Or a singular set of something, or somethings.  Thought in car about steering wheels.. what they do, how crucial they are, and what if we had them for our existences.


What wine to open tonight.  Maybe one of the bottles I bought at lunch, from Enkidu.  The Pinot or the Cab?  Feels like a Pinot night.  What is more poetic?  Well, Pinot, obviously.  Need it after such a SLOW day.  But, I did do some GRE studying, wrote for app packet.  Am I on schedule, behind?  I don’t think either, really.  Just know I’m contributing, that it’s on this writer’s radar.

And I’m stopped.  Probably by my own mood.  I look at Jackie’s artwork.  He’s only 21 months old, with two displayed standalones, right here in kitchen.  Granted, his exposure’s limited, but he’s done what I’ve been for years attempting.  You could say I’m exaggerating, or being too hard on mySelf, but that’s my measurement presently.


9:19pm.  Decided on Cab.  2010, AV Winery.  Now, to journal, poem.  How quick can I make it to the café?  If I don’t shower, just leave from Lisa’s, I could be there before nine, which would give me over two hours to write.  Nearly 2.5, to be candid.  No wine tomorrow night.  Only decaf, water.  Getting back to my 5 mile runs.  4 a week, totaling 20.  […]  Reading a couple of Plath’s poems, the first few, in ‘Ariel’.  I see at some point I wrote in one of the margins, “Wow.” Just what I want readers thinking as they read my work.  And if I’m to get into the doctorate program of my choosing as an already-formidable author, making his living with lines, armies of them.  What would be more admirable, worthy of future candidacy?

This Cab, even better than the last bottle.  Is that bottle variance, or a result of “aging”?  Sure some winemaker would give me a three minute explanation that should only take 10, 15 maximum.


Tables, full of past.

Arguing with ears.

Noises metallic, glass,

take an elevator to

psych ward.  Out, two

minutes into cart.  Gurney.

Toes on a typewriter, must be another

angel looking for its share–

where?  Wind in a bin, vision thin.