Rare.  Writing upstairs, while Alice sleeps.  Slight rain on window’s opposing side.  Reminds me of that night in Paris, when I wrote in the Comp Book– and that’s a good point, why am I typing?  Well, I am.  Tomorrow, grading, getting completely “up-to-speed”.  Then, write.  These days off.. have to produce a MS.  And obviously, that’d be the poem collection.

That restaurant, Starks, much too loud for the writer.  Older I get, I just can’t handle noise.  To any extreme– even if slight.

Plath.. on mind.  Her revolving worry, if that makes sense.  Her type, incredibly rare.  I think of that movie, with Ms. Paltrow, and what it said about my most beloved poetess.. how she carved her own identity, even when she wasn’t sure she had much of one.  I see strength, in everything.  I look through her collected poems, stumble upon “Monologue at 3 a.m.”.  I see pain, reckoning, revival, freedom.  How did she capture so much in those 14 lines?  “…the snake-figured almanac/vouching you are/a million green counties from here…” Her word choice is unique, unexpected, by so symphonic as to pull emotion.  That’s why, or partially why, I continue to push that Ms. Plath stands as her own genre.

Now, just a countdown to sleep.  Little Kerouac, mute in the room next.  And me,

his varying father, here, in a chair, plotting

as he always does.

So yielding, fielding his

docility from a lake, a couple

miles away.  Want to be

seen as she is–


but a walk disrupted

crumbles to my forcible

toll.  Remove something from the side,

you’ll have a hidden pigeon.

And they say I’m imagining things.

That’s fine.

It’s the wine,

if you know me.

Time, 10:49,

I’m out of line, just ask

my opposing sanguine–

off tint,

hardly mint.