Brought laptop to work, but surprise— no chance to work. Rimes and sentences, narratives tormenting me about wine when in the presence of incredible wines and people sipping wines. So no, downstairs listening to KCSM, in jazz mode with my glass of 2014 William Selyem Zin, thinking of my winery and how my coworkers reacted to my 12’s— more poetry in me than ever. This will be my last evening glass, to wake early, and run, then come back and open coffee machine, load it with fierce cups for writers, this writer, to dive into. Headfirst. Looking at the rushing vines, rushing toward their vintaged identity and story, I think of me in this vintage, the ‘2016 Mike Madigan’.. what is the Bottled Ox meant to tell, impart or intone in his tone and talk. Je ne sais pas. I just keep walking the vineyards hoping for some formidable and formed answer— today I got it. Assurance I’m doing the right thing— reciting when looking at the mirror, see self with no moving mouth, just knowing I’m thinking in poetry, like this jazz track unplanned and just forwarded, fold, my fold and thesis to be free, music in ever ample atmosphere; the Dry Creek Road drive, all vines coming alive and knowing they’re a project that WILL see fruition. I become jealous but keep driving, to the winery to the bottles I’m to pour and talk about in my own paginated quirkiness— like new tracks everyday, and something to recite and fly away, away from any cage stay. The vines tell me I’m alright, that I’m close, I’m close to flight and the Road, to tell my story and speak to the other speakers and musicians on the Road— doing shows with them and telling the story of an adjunct, putting all faith in education just to be duped and deceived, receiving no reprieve only a cut sleeve. So the vintage changes, I grow faster; necessity, invention, that old additive—
Hypnotique, ce vin… telling me to listen to the vineyards, always be out in the blocks like Glenn, like Blair, my sister, any winemaker worth a damn. Touch the ground, breathe deeper than your lungs will let you— in fact, forget your lungs, breathe with your thoughts, your pen movements prior to making them— wine, me, more than a synergy or simple expected marriage, but a chord; harmony; neverheard note. I type like the pianists soar across the ivories, me smiling to the hat, that guitar light and airy but pronounce; Je parle dans la musique, maintenant. And I’ve never felt more alive, my speed passes the vines growth but I still learn from them. A friendly rivalry, the blocks, me. Glad I didn’t write on property, this session with me on the floor, legs extended and Selyem glass to right, meant. Already written. This is how the story wanted it. Wanted me. Wanted me with IT.