Kerouac has

all interpretation and meditations leaning toward more. More exploration, more scenes, more looking around and acknowledging Now. Nothing behind, all ahead and in front of me asking to be experienced. What am I doing here, accepting any order, any regulatory, any institution. More, on that Road, the music, lights, cars, families traveling in winter or whenever. Sitting on unfamiliar boards, me…

Leftovers and red…

Wine never needs to frame complicated. Wine should never direct prolix. She’s inviting, approachable, narrative and affectionate. What’s surrounded by curved glass reads a presence, a prophetic face and storm of versifying lines.

After a day, working, wine waits, debates her approach to me, my life and day and immediate room. The room, now, connotative in resonance, assurance, a perceptive seat. I’m at a table with her, being instructed, listening,eating leftovers and coaching me on Now, this doesn’t have to be layered or codified, and sort of sophisticated set.

Haven’t touched this glass. But the visual and nearness has me. Inward recite, and known night, thrown toward a lone vinified light.

9/19/18

Bagel and Coffee

Break after meeting.

Telling self I won’t go out to lunch. I won’t. But Oliver’s, one of those burritos, sounds too joyous. Just too good. Hoping this bagel helps with that tempt. One other person in breakroom with me. Quiet. Smooth day thus far. Will have time to grade when I get to campus, unlike yesterday. Another bite, another… Last night’s lecture with the ‘100’ class, replayed. I need to tour with my ideas, the writing, the workshops and seminars, sharing what I’ve learned from the habit and practice, maintenance of Craft. Another bite, first sip…

Wine telling me

that tomorrow morning I will wake early.

This is my glass last.

There will be several pages propelled before kids and wife wake.

First tilt of the little plastic, more impassioned harmony than night prior. I’m with the wine, multiplied ways over, manuscript coupled and unmuzzled. No stop or pause or lull in its voice, step, song.

Scribbling like the Hatter mad, or Jack on the Road with Dean. Me tasting wine through valleys with one of my vino brothers…thinking, now. On this floor, all these notes, another still shot…

Convinced. Ever, forever, and never a never, with wine. She reads me and sees my eve to more ease. Leaving pleased…

Slept in a little.

24 hours of fasting. Cause? Didn’t eat at all really, yesterday, then got Chinese takeout from an amazing restaurant down the street–or, down San Miguel then to Waltzer, then Marlow and Piner–and had a bit too much. Not a revolting amount, but too much for such a desert of a stomach. Having coffee on floor, and thinking about everything. Work, this house, my car, writing… I’m very much at the drawing board. And I think I found something. An idea first birthed in my fascinations of having my own wine label and tasting room. Too afraid to write it, as I don’t want it hexed. But I’m working this morning, not wallowing. Not me. Not this poet.

Just realized fasting won’t last 24 hours as I have dinner plans at parents’, later. Just eat light. Little to no wine, and only wine. More water. Want that full marathon later this year. But I have to train more. I know. Tonight I’ll make it to the gym. Run, maybe diversify with some weights. Wine is a symbol of life, and I would purposefully contend health. At the drawing board, I’m seeing more, more… Today, my day off, but not letting it be any kids of ‘off’. I will stay at this drawing board till I’m not thinking about everything as I now am.