img_1717Nearing 40… lachrymose, lazy, frowning and furrowed in my paginated intention. Winemakers bottle some fermented result, all the way professing how laborious it was rallying praise for brilliance and some chemical familiarity and sagacity, while we writers are looked upon as slanted, odd and over-narrative or all-too confessional. Wine has too much divinity, laced in professional propheteering.
My decision pivots to something more optimistic or yay-saying when I look at my legs stretched, toward that far wall in this house, that my parents paid for. Could be one of those homelesss chaps in the under/overpass. But I’m here.. have to somehow infuse parents’ story… Mom, from Jewish parents, then Daddy from Irish Catholics… so who am I? I’m like Kerouac in that cabin trying to find himself when he knows damn well where he is and cooking what I can till some sense comes from this senselessness. SO, what I now next do, too, maybe look at the TV, off, but like it’s playing something, some baseball game, so who’s playing?— Not sure.. but I’m still here on the ground, on this hard wood floor that softens me, elevates me to some weird sky.. who am I? The caterpillar doesn’t fucking know, even after all that effort I put into the master’s thesis… I’m not a master, not at anything. ‘Cause if I were I wouldn’t be struggling the way I fucking was, am— now… ‘nother sip. Winemakers do the very same, but travel, act like they’re sages, sagacious in ways we can’t fathom or categorize— “Meet the winemaker!” a sign says. Why? Who cares? Will their remedial syllabic symmetry make the wine taste better? Why do you look at them that way? Why do you ignore us, writers? I’m going to drink more. One fast move…. Away from any lean at whiny winemaker—