Two poems to type. Won’t tonight. Feeling lazy and tired from morning run. 8.5 miles, surprised self— Didn’t expect to go that far. At desk with nightcap, felt like being naughty and I was opening this ’12 Lancaster Estate Cab. Running out of wine and I was in a wine mood, so what’s a writer to do? More and more ideas flooding my form today in the tasting room as I sold the winery’s wines, thinking of how I could and should be selling my own writings like mad. I mean that is the goal, right? Stray $10 bill on desk, under cord from laptop to phone— wonder where it’s from then I remember, tip from some guy from Nebraska, from today. Tempted to take my wine outside, that Summer temp’ with nearly scribed breeze pattern. Starting pile of poems to type— one I wrote today, saying “Door open, come sip/with a scribbler”. I started with poetry, need come more back to it, its rebellion to form, and within such standing situate in its own form. The Cabernet I’m tilting into my talking now telling the writer to keep with verse, don’t budge, just keep going. I’ll be on stage soon, reading. That’s what I want. And the blog, keep with the freeness of prose, like poets in their throws. Both poems, saying something about a moment, and strike back at time for being what it is— something that ages us and steals moments. My verses and lines are meant to immortalize moments. My moments. Make them OUR moments.
I can see tonight is meditative. Coffee already made for morning, sitting in the tumbler urging me to set alarm for 4 or something and wake early like Sylvia and finish two or three, maybe even four, pieces. Permanently returning to poetry, and if this is a “lifestyle blog”, then it’s the stylized life of a poet, with his constant playfulness with form and verse, rime and meter, setting his own style in his sensibility and structure. Before I go upstairs, need one new poem written, just typed so I don’t have to type it later and put myself in a position of procrastinating like I am now. I remember writing poetry in that intermediate algebra class (no caps, intentional), my first moments of practicing zen, but unintentionally, some sort of meditation to escape that classroom— seems like lightyears ago, and here I am, finally coming together into some sort or code of coherent character, returning to poetry but being more mathematical about it, or at least I will be, that I ever have been with anything else. My “style” is dependent upon a return to studenthood, learning and re-learning about what’s around the writer. Two babies, a wife, a winery, wine— and here at the desk: son’s blankie, one of my belts, phone and Happiness Project journal, stemless plastic glass of Cab, the Garmin, that $10 bill, a pen and some random business card from a grower…
Don’t have time for readings right now, or going to any readings so I’ll broadcast the poems from here, my house. And if this doesn’t “work”, meaning change my reality as a writer and heighten exposure, then I don’t know what will. Just as people who can sing LOVE showing their voice to any crowd or small group that will listen, so will be me with my verses and meters—
Clutter enclosing around me, why what.
In the regulatory stuck, clock nothing but a short story cut.
Quaking poems and verses in my structure, so complicated,
one of the candidates but I never wanted to be nominated.
Feel like I could perform now, have another glass of the this LE CS and rime all night, until I have to have some coffee to stay awake, somehow make it to class and barely have adequate vigor to lecture and share what I have to about Esther.
Starting to feel the morning run, that 8.5 catching Mike. But I don’t let myself stall or stop or pause or slow. Not even for a second. Don’t think I’m going to finish this entry, much I want to. Should let myself be lazy, just sit in front of the TV and watch something trashy, like BRAVO reality TV or something that low. So what do I do? Would love to read some Plath, or Kerouac, or Hem… need to make time for one of them. I skim through Plath’s entries, or one of them, but I’m too tired and angularized by the Cabernet to give her respectful read. SO, I put her down. 37 as an age so far has not been able to mute or muffle or even slightly slow my growl and relentless rile.
Everything is poetry. Even the past writings from years ago intended to be prose, I’ll soon revisit and recapture them and conform them my poetic placements and cosmos. What I find in this, this day and night and day, this 10th of the 7th month, is gift; a telling of reason and rationale, leaning to one side and that side is of art, voice and truth. Me here next to Plath— no, I know I should wait for morrow. SO maybe I will, for once.
Next day, around 4:42, the whole day with family and me calling in my class tonight, just wanting to stay home and organize myself, have a beer on the patio. Need to collect, consolidate, build this poetry base I’ve started— By tonight, I’ll have seven isolated performance pieces.. some more scribbles in journal—
Interrupted then but back now, 10:12, with coffee already for morrow made and a Lagunitas ‘Lucky 13’ at right. The positive atmospheric pulses around me envelpo with such ardent angles I can’t stop with my coursings.
Don’t think I’ll type any poems tonight, as I’m too tired, too guilted by calling in this night’s meeting (even though I need to, for…), and I just feel like typing on this couch in my office— the couch that was in the living room’s now in the bottledaux office. Alice’s grandmother’s couch now situates in the other room, and I couldn’t be happier— thought earlier about just living the life I want to as a writer, writing and releasing and not caring, like so many of the artists I “follow” and admire. Another sip of this ale, look at phone but don’t pick it up, can feel the Road getting closer, and all boxes just eroding. Imagine that, them imagining me on the Road, thinking “Oh fuck Mike Madigan and his blogger shit—“ And that’s fine. I appreciate their thoughts, honestly. And even more honestly, I need to be more furtive with my passage and projects. Just go from scene to scene while hush-hush-ed-ly doing what I’m doing with the aux operation. And with NO negative accumulation. Only positive. My babies (Whom I just checked on upstairs, seeing both of them sleep, thinking to myself how lucky I am and even thought I don’t believe in any one god I know that something else has given me a tumult of terrificness with those two wees) will have a happy father, one who comes home from HIS office and tells stories. That’s it. That simple. And when he returns home from being on the Road, he’ll talk about the food he ate, the paths he ran, the coffee he drank, show them pictures and talk about the people he talked to in small villages overlooking some river way down in some narrowly vortex’d valley.
Everyone I know or even distantly know is traveling. And I’m sick of it. Old friend from the old neighborhood, someone I love and respect, posting footage of a lightening storm in Nebraska. I can only concede my jealously and imagine what I would be writing if witnessing that, standing under that cover sipping some coffee at an hour I shouldn’t be and just challenging those lights and flashes to prompt me. Older I get the more impatient I get but yet the more fearless I form with my lack of formality and fortitude, thinking I’m to be held under by anything or any whatever but in the past it’s been me that’s held ME under and back and far from the fortune— WHAT THE FUCK. Now I realize this? At 37?
10:38— bed has to be soon and close, nearing like a lecturer— Alice goes upstairs and me to soon follow, saying “Stay off my couch..” jokingly, she knowing how happy I am to have those cushions in my home office. Nearly tempted to call in sick tomorrow but I can’t, I need to see those vines outside “my” office window and get further ahead on the copy projects I have— and oh shit, have a blog entry due soon. So much for the writer to do, should I hit that fucking coffee now, do an all-nighter? Of course not, but it’s in my head, and for a reason I’m sure, but I’m not sure what or who’s the reasoner, not sure it’s me as I’m not that reasonable now, after this night’s capping.
Nearly done with the day, night, sitting. Another sip— toasting to myself to Dad and how at 70-whatever he can still move shit better than I can— still mobile and insightful, acute and astute, precise and meditative in a way I wish I could be for my babies.
Tomorrow morning, with that coffee I tonight brewed, I become a fiery A.M. Hunter S. Thompson— not caring, but too much caring a cosmic narrative blaring, telling the story of a fed-up adjunct and wine loving runner-writer-father. Expansive introspect, commence—
Sipping with Self, a sordid scribbler.