On break at winery..

met people with intersections in my world— more on that later.. but blind-tasted coworkers on my ’12 NewDadCuvée, and the response was flooring for me, humbling in a way I’ve never experienced— “Magnifico!” I thought.  The end-game I addressed in earlier entries draws closer so much quicker than I measure before.

Outside, possible rain, promising clouds, and me in here by fire, pouring and tasting and writing and gathering ideas.  Keep myself writing with my pages in hand, not in pocket, in front of me when I pour— content, content I say to myself and keep the poetry in its syncopated sense of motion and song, what wine should be, always.. so again to a post, and idea and more and more— this fire I can’t contain and why would I when the story’s right there, begging for me to write, write IT, to bring me the vino-loving beatnik close to IT.

I’m going back out there, to the TR, the bar, behind the bar and learning more for my eventual tasting room and wined story.. and today, more lines and pages, paragraph storms than I expected.. praise the Craft and the page and what it brings to the beat, to my beat and poetry, songs and words spoken—

scribble lines at the gas station,

laughing past like I’m the last patient—

no forego, more Poe & Thoreau,

run fast but think slow, meditate for Zen, for a

when and then… again.