Finished a purge of poem.  And it still rains.  Alice, downstairs on couch, slowly interacting with the chicken noodle I heated for her.  Been thinking all day of what I am– poet, writer, teacher.  Right?  Am I anything else?  Do I want to be anything else?  Do I need to be?  The obvious theme, Identity.  How do I want to be seen, by little Kerouac, Alice, family, students.. not too concerned, or really at all, with others, those outside.  Especially any slug in wine’s industry.

Definitely warranting wine though, with this rain.  Only a couple glasses left of last night’s blend.  That should be enough, right?  Yes.  Back in tasting room, tomorrow.

The rain’s speed, terrestrial encroachment increases.  Love it.  I need it more than the vineyards, frankly.  My street, with its new glisten– parched, now anointed.

This room, cluttered, but I’m ignoring it.  I’m listening to the day, the

weather making it.  It’s beauteous.


Hoping neither Jack nor his father catch whatever Ms. Alice has.  I can’t stand to see my little Artist ill, even slightly.  He’s my foremost strengthener and weakness.  And his duality evermore motivates me.  That’s why I’ve been so flustered of late, questioning all my roles, written directions.

4:25PM.  To get my little one in a few.  Excited to go for the short drive, through these drops, to Ms. Lisa’s.  Paris, when like this, is nothing I’ve since my ’09 visit seen.  I remember getting back, tired, barely sleeping, then waking the next morning to teach that Lit section in Napa.  Seems like so long ago.. well, nearly five years.  How?


I must continue in poem, I know now.  Yes, there’ll be entries like this, a few short stories, vignette, maybe “essays” (if you could call them that.. hate that word, though, and concept..).  But I’m a versifier.. a verse-ist.  I’m from music’s milieu.  Wouldn’t say I’m anti-formalist, or informal.  But I’m certainly not of standardized stench, that’s for sure.  -4:33PM


8:11PM.  I will continue with my day’s storm of verses, but before I do, I think only boastful thoughts blooming down here, on couch.  This plague that circulates, whatever it is, does not in anyway frighten me.  Alice upstairs, again not feeling well, and little Jack down for his night’s still.  I fear for him, not myself.  I dare this malady to fight me, this vicious writer.  Just quickly sipped a glass of last night’s blend.  And after that.. to my Merlot.  What, am I celebrating?  Why yes!  The rain, my day off, my boldness, the poetry.. all of it.  I’m celebrating me, and how I can’t be brought down.  By anyone, thing, germ, idea.. nothing.

Was watching that Sylvia Plath documentary earlier, while upstairs.  Even when she conversationally speaks, I’m frozen, tied in her tide.  Should write my writer friend, tonight.. see what she’s been scribbling.  OR, just to continue my epistolary habit, practice.  […]  Just back from beginning another poem.. have, officially four standalones to name, today– or, I will, once this most recent leap is complete.  Well, actually.. “Stanza 2” I’m not really counting, because of its brevity.  Can’t believe how early it is, and how easily my little Artist went to his dreams.  Only sounds, currently: fridge’s hum and drops darting down that thin metal gutter on the wall’s other side, my left.

More wine, certainly.  I’m laughing right now, not too loud obviously as I don’t want to wake little Kerouac nor Ms. Alice.  Why?  This bug that’s ambushing us.  If it wants me, I’m right here, sipping wine, mocking its very bloody functionality.  Such an utter joke, this bug.


Topic next:  Students.  So storming with ideas, this semester.  Love that.  And I can’t even convey the level of motive these matriculants have delivered to their “instructor”.  And I put that in quotes as I feel they’ve taught me more that I have them.  And I love that it’s that way.  That’s the whole reason I “teach”.

Should pour self another glass, further taunt this cowardly condition jumping around the city, attacking my wife.  Thinking I’ll watch more of this Plath documentary, then do some Kerouac research.  And only one more typed poem.  After that, pen.. paper.  -8:31PM