Fawn Not

Start then pause, what for a— new talk, or tick

Tock from a biased clock?  Poetry not coming to a writer

Easily this morning but that’s the game, I’m being toyed with,

same, annoyed my veins, so I avoid the train of pattern

And uniform, I assume no form, adorned in new theses from

A singular species, me, expediently…. I stop again, and send self

A new note, one a true cloak, invisible to bruise those that only

gawk, too afraid to roll down their window and ought— they

Say nothing and just keep driving, while I’m journalistically

thriving, further into the meditation, writhing.  Ten minutes,

My pen fidgets, ask, ‘When give it?’ How ‘bout now, recite

Proud and stand firm in the dirt, soldier trenchant in his senses.

Thinking about my next letter and how to make it better, not

Necessarily more clever but … with more measure, more un-

tethered.  My language, riddled in odd axiom and tone, from

the finest molecules of artist bones.

Sit in the forest and jot every sound, scene, color and beam—

Crawl into a ravine, finish the book there, no stares, no impaired

chair—  begin again with another attitude bend, pretend there is

No end, only a consistency of my orated fervency.


Woke early, feeling nervy. Circular
Rationale, mental roller derby-
Driving 12 east, resell peace, for
1 minute at least. Then I park,
See three sparks. Look for a new
Lark, outside an enclosed break room–
Sabbatical, take soon. More revenue,
Another boon. Uncertainty over me
Looms. Uncomfortable, critical states.
Moving slow, result of subliminal wear.
Difference.. Apple and pear. Annoyed
With despair. Clarify my penning eye,
With more red wine. Unsure if I’m what
You’d discern as fine.. So I readjust the clock,
So it eventually locks. Immobile, inactive,
Stationary, with traded rarities. Language
Chemist, banished descendants. My
Stream thought, tangential.. Answers to
Their criticisms, oh, I’ve planned several.
Wild writer, I am ferrel. Take my Cab straight
From the barrel. Till I can’t perceive or
Paragraphs retrieve.. I write this still in teeth
Grind, waiting for takeout, no trees climbed.
Is there a potion to see dollars from dimes?
Mechanical pessimist, I stumble with
Tested bliss. Amphibiously scrupulous,
Take to two miss. But I’m still a followed
Diarist. Now with wired lips. Sick in this
Tired tryst. Distance myself from devices;
I’m on the left where the right is. De-vice
My routine so my sense is clean. Cold,
But only when ordered or told. Wings expand
So I eventually see rings in sand. Symbolic,
Systolic.. Jackson Pollock.


Set Seperatist

Covert note jots– no work, show locks
Merits of burglary, perpetuated artfully.
Self-sustaining artist, it’s hard to be.
Far from me to halt in session.. After a
Walk on a Monterey levy, on faults a
Lesson. My call, delicatessen. After 3
Books. Ones I just stuffed in a drawer,
Still in mind’s scales like meathooks.
I’m a freed crook, with specific alignments to his assignments. Not vending my work on any kind of consignment. Sign of times in binds–
All perimeters confined. Miscalculate
Older sakes. To a cabin remote escape, by the Great Lakes. Drive in
Tireless acceleration, no brakes. To
The Party, selling my words should be
More deplored than drug dealing. You shout “Revolution!” A roar implored, we’re done fleeing. And I’m finally


Pan Right

4/29 – Grape grips, in this early hour.  1 more glass after this.  Then, done.  Tomorrow morning, COFFEE, the French I stocked from Stacey.  And, I need a 128 roadside session.

9:02am.  Didn’t wake in time for 128 writing.  BUT, I did just discover 96 PAGES (!!!) of writing about which I all but forgot.  The doc is titled “BOOK1,” here on the desktop.  Don’t have time to read through it, thoroughly.  Just did a quick skim, and quite liked what I read, surprisingly.  Can’t wait to see little Jack tonight, his mom, and then read through this forgotten book.  Still warring with Self over what to do with biz stash.  Do I want to make wine, or publish a book.  Answer obvious, as writing wins over wine, every time.  But I still want to meet with Kaz on Thursday, to see what possibilities exist for me as a winemaker.  [Just cringed a bit, re-reading this paragraph, seeing mySelf referred to a winemaker, not solely “writer.” Funny…]  Somebody asked me yesterday if I was the winemaker, on the tour with the man that tipped me $80.  Actually, it WAS that man who asked.  Huh…

10:23pm.  Tomorrow morning, rising at 5:15am.  “I’m up before the sunrise, first to hit the block,” as 2Pac said.  Want 1000 words written, for BOOK, before I leave for AV.  So glad little Jackie’s back, his mom.  Or do I want to write for the blog?  No, that’d be typing.  Maybe I should have a straight Comp Book session.  All poetry.  Speaking of, need to buy some new songs I heard today in the AV tasting Room.  “Smooth French Café,” I think the playlist, or Pandora station’s called.  Has tracks that I hear in my envisaged Wine Bar.  Tomorrow morning, early, I need to have a session that trumps all before it coming.  Need to make more coffee than I probably need.

Tomorrow morning, it’s commissioned..  All verse; music; rhyme.  The prose, anymore, tires even me.  Yes, I love journaling, logging my day, recording Now’s.  But, I need music, song in step.  Still dream of crowds, no lie.  My little notepad, after today’s AV hours, full.  One note:  “Flashing green light at 3rd & Brookwood”.  Thought it could be a sign, of some kind.  Now I’m sure.  It was telling me I always have “green light” to write how I like, what I feel right.

10:44pm.  Still not sure if I should go forward with the purchase of SB grapes.  But, if I don’t do it now, I may lose my chance to make wine, indefinitely.  And, as I wrote in the little book today, asking Self again, “What would I rather do, make wine or publish a book?” And, in terms of owning my own operation, I’m positive that writing will get me to what I see faster than any wine effort, anything in a bottle.  That I know.  And, around here, it seems like everyone makes wine.  But not many write, or least write seriously.  I don’t know many writers, to be honest.  In fact, I can’t think of ONE right now.  Certainly not one SERIOUS.

Random topic switch: watching a show where it took a lady two weeks to finish a song.  Two weeks?  More than too long, for me.  In two weeks, actually less, TS had an album finished, in addition to some songs that would later be released as “unreleased’s”.  And I don’t want to even guess what Lil Wayne could produce in 14 days.  Me, in the same speed category.  And that’s how I want to be remembered.  And that’s one of the realities that keeps me from diving into winemaking.  It’s an art form that simply takes too long.

a.m. rushed rime, clutch climb [verse 2]

Speak in rimed curves; 2 much 2day, cuvée, my mind

slurred; she, like a domesticated, purred; preferred the old

world approach; for me, no coach; in my own boat, a lone

coat, like mutated amphibians in a moat, hungry for

epidermis, my letters word this, rather pragmatically.

So what am I, one to just vocalize?  Probably, my second chapter

should have been third; I’m a theory nerd–  weary, absurd.

Out of space, my cloud is based in something just to the

left of fiction, with postmodern anti-structuralist

vision.  Another incision, and why should a writer

listen?  Being responsible, just acceptance of convivial

prison.  Not for me, I’d rather stay in song, delay the long;

a full tray of wrong–  I’m okay, just bombed.  Evaluatively

oblong.  And in the woods, I can only hear good.  No

proposed would, could.  Solitude, the finest neighborhood.

Self-induced spell, well-to-do sell.  Voluntarily fell in biblical



a.m. rushed rime, clutch climb

Change my situation, re-arrange my

consideration. Avoid evisceration, manuscript

mutation; delineation of my logic, analytical

optics, like hot spots in tropics,

Struggle, I, navigate collections of crowds,

inceptions of Nows; Me, the author with

sharp eyebrows.  Shapes in clouds, deconstruct the

plates of loud politicians that want city limits in constant

contrition.  Never the freethinker; we isolated,

remind the stated, words in irregular tapestry.

My Self, mad at me, oddly.  It’s the poetry-

caffeine blend, probably.  Never still, forever

anthologically thrill.  Gothic undercurrent, prose

and verse, my chosen nerves.  Cubist derivative,

I’m the truest superlative, with Petite Sirah dripping

into my works’ flaws.  Mended, reflectively ascended.

[4/23/12, Monday]

vintage notes, leftover — verse1

No longer visit these job gimmicks.  They’ll be ended

in blemish, my position 4ever defended.

Pyramid construction, something Orwellian,

I fear it is induction, not clear if there’s

instructions.  But either way, I’m finished

with this meager pay.  So I write like every line’s the

last one.  And I’ll stay in the chair until

I tap done.  Increasingly harder to pen

time for mySelf.  Gather dimes from a well

so I can disseminate my stories and tell what

exactly I’ve observed.  And what I think

I deserve.  I’m on the brink of a swerve

into a more lucrative containment.  A

sovereignly intuitive derangement.

But what type of Artist do I want to

be?  ‘Cause one in a famished battle’s a dog, diseased.