last night’s writing, with wine

Sipping the last of my wine, and I need to take a minute to do something, but what, after this long day, and all this content gathering and taking pictures and video, can I just be a writer for a second?  Want to run in the morning but you and I know that won’t happen with all this St. Francis Cab I’ve had.  So…  I just enjoy the quiet downstairs before going up to Alice’s and my bed with my slow self from day.  Need to write more poetry.  This morning was on pavement at 6:11 or :12, but tomorrow I will be up at 4AM to WRITE.  No other goal.  Tomorrow I focus and fixate on not visual but this— words, me, this poetry.—  TV was on mute, music station, Jazz of course as Mike Madigan will forever be a beatnik, poetically thinking and speaking to and within and outside himself with verb’d meter— action and subtraction, in such scattered and saddened traction.  Now I just want to read, have fun, recite to crowds.  more wine?  Why not?  Not in the mood to edit so the capital I just forgot I didn’t so much forget as I just didn’t want to fucking edit.

Should go upstairs, go to bed, forego the night but I can’t cuz I’m this type of goddamn writer, so obsesses and unable to stop— oh, but what if I did what I convinced myself I Couldn’t do, or what I thought I couldn’t.. how would that change ‘things’.  Have to wake early and writer, so go upstairs, Mikey!  Go the fuck to bed!   But what if I can’t, what if I’m stuck in this writer mode till I know that something will happen then it doesn’t then I keep bloody trying?  Night just dragging me into it’s isthmus, and to what I again have no idea.  Right now I have no ideas, just these wine-wrecked yawns.  (8/13/16)