8:54PM.  Another thousand-plus, logged.  Eager for tomorrow’s run.  So I have no problem making this my final cap, this Torpedo.  Wonder what the Madigans are doing, up in Santa Rosa.  Can hear Jack moaning from his Room here, on Fernwood.  But then, as soon as I note, he’s again silent.  The color of the ocean, so again welcomed back to my lenses.  MY run tomorrow, all to memory.  I’ll write as I skip, record in a sauntered sip.

So relaxed now, more than I thought I’d be.  Couldn’t believe my wife sipped red right along side the writer.  Tomorrow, a family day, so I won’t have time to write till day’s end.  I’ll note when I can, but most observations will be basted to brain, recorded with recall.

Feel like I may be getting sick, like Alice, Jack, Alice’s mother.  But I refuse the infirm’d perne.  This is most definitely the wine talking.  But that begets truth.  And truth is what readers need read from writers like I.

Tomorrow, running.  So angrily, that I’ll surprise mySelf.  And I’m not trying to please a single soul, but my own.  Christmas, tomorrow.  How?  Not letting Time get to me.  I’ll pretend tomorrow’s the New Year, where I re-begin all matters.  Xmas.. memories from old days.  Those in Bayview.  What my parents provided for Katie and I.  No complaints, regrets, or even neutral comments.

Now, tired. not in proper function.  I blame the Cab/Syrah blend.  Tomorrow’s run, shaking this poison from my stream, poise.

—

Handouts, folded with moods season

Twenty-seven sharing needed

Us, no army about my commercial

Santa Cruz, I’ll come back

I swear

How long has it

been?

 

Traded show, tell the

President I’m on the phone–

what’s home?

Write another poem.  See if it’s

read

properly.  Autolatrist, obviously.