Character Ride

Schedules and I, never agreed.
Same with it’s governor, time.
What happened to Living? Is
There another name for that?
Before darkened fuel, decide
What attitude I want for day.
Wires everywhere. So how can they
Not get crossed?

7:45AM. imaging this coffee tastes
like what i sipped in Paris. Daydreaming, and the day hasn’t started moving. I have started, either.
Trap everything in song. Don’t know
How 2do anything else. I’ll sing my
Way through this shift. Give self an

8:33PM. over. An over trials. No
Coffee now, but a glass. Mourvedre.
Traditions only baby themselves till
There’s an after. Only focus, no laughter. No away, stone paths by river.

Well, wine-full. Soul sell, a spine pull.
Re-vexed, wondering who chooses
What’s next. My syllabus, with pains a
Million-plus. Not present, truth nor trust. The plan, a bust; at war with The Man, because we’ve had enough.
Device dependency, not for a journalist. Give me a second while I journal this…

Untitled Cooking

Tell days to help, evaporate ruin–
Time uncooperative. Planet belt.
Only creating in brief breaks’ place.
Can’t put pen with it’s parental paper,
So I write on device. Not preferred.
Speaking in sermon to floor tiles
about the door’s riles. Wipe ‘way
muffled confession to isle locks.
Even if I finally make sense,
I’ll be lost in my own collection.
Sprinting towards stands, selling ideas,
packaged– absolution in new contusion. Counting backwards till
she loves me. Altercation envisioned,
in self and sentiments’ collective chasm.


Disturbed turtle through corporate whorish hurtles–cheetah with ideas.

Ancient plaintiff, aided; re-scribble my fiddle–two memoir missiles;

Looking for odd words, cops heard; my freethinking by BB mocked,

curved.  Sing a sonnet slung; unlock my gun; their clock just rung–

I’m a writer, stop at none.  Free thru paragraphs, what I’m about

2do at altitude; wow the Room, a crowd now consumed. empty

lots, plenty knots; ..recite to Self on flight to wells deep; thesis

carefully crafted, never sell cheap; a quelled creep, my approach

in a slow note’s anecdote throat. now I’m too poetic, ‘cause I’m

true, no edges. between my diaries and politician’s, plenty wedges.

other than this chair, my Artistic welfare, no pledges.  Simply my

tendencies, beget set empty breeze.  No more calendar marks

my heart can finally start.  surviving from scarred Art–partial

meditation like carnal martial; combat attack, not like Iraq.

papers flat from sitting on tables in such high stacks.  why

act when i can just relax?  evade the marvel–I’m hardly startled.

My momentum, decelerated.. need more air, so I can read more

fair; their pleas; pour, tear..  I’m implored, where?  Never respond

to dares.  Critics only get despondent stares, know I’ve said that before,

but now I’m on the other side of the door, soliciting more; clock stopped

at 4.


stigmata stone

2nite, no prose, avoid it in droves; ink marks, on

many parts of my clothes, bones; overdosed in emboldened

throws.  Recite forgotten rhymes to sidewalks, even when

my mind balks.  Time talks only to assigned blocks.  Even

still, the dialogue of interactions progresses ill.  The

IPA, why me stay.  Find Self in a tavern only lighted by

lanterns; decisions churn, while month incisions burn.

The following evening, only thought; each capillary in

clot.  Floor, officially mopped.  Reign, topped. Their lane,

cropped.  No need for grammar, formalism’s hammer;

or any meaningless banter; actual vivacity hampered.

Follow no lead, I’m of separatist seed; unsteady steed.

You rely on however many bands to help you stand;

my advice, find a new strand or be a true can’t; and then

you criticize and complain. What exactly is your strain?

Only far-fetched aims straining in your veins.  We, solo

Literary wild types, don’t aspire for sane.  Yelling or telling?

Maybe both, depends on the note.  Sometimes a poet’s

a bloke cloaked.  Hardly afloat.  My paragraphs, blare at

maps.  Hoping to scatter opposition.. but does it matter?

My stock’s in vision.  But a bit blurry.  Exploration sudden.

Hesitation button.  Certain circles I’m loved in.  But then what,

if I hit a block, or miss a talk.  Conversation laceration.  Need

more safety than a simple maybe.  Our contrast, ideological.

Ripples, seismological.  Temperatures, in rise high, so I oblige

odd invites.  Late nights, just in front of screens, the wine blended

with me.  Innings in 3’s, ceased.  These weeks, strong meeting meek.

De-clutter to free hover, in a tree’s stutter.  Interviewed in cinder plumes.

Hard to breath when the stars seep ease; paradox, but then my merit’s

mocked.  Alarm, loud.  Ejected from dream’s cloud.  Progress, makes me

feel proud.  No need for plans.. I’m with hand, holding pen, unfolding when

the table’s cold with ten blocks of ice, next to my laptop.  Enough of that, stop..

My life, only on pages; remembering what I was taught.. one of the avant-garde

sages, unable to be bought.  My consciousness in metaphysical knots.  Have

I written that before?  The moment, remolding itSelf in my pores.  Reservations

restored; my free thought deplored; I’m alive through 3 doors– I try to keep score.

(8/4/12, Friday, 10:55pm)


As many people are, watching the olympics.  Sipping the rest of that ’08 Cab.  Looking through the pictures I took today, how the grapes are racing towards their date.  Jackie, to bed early tonight.  Which means, early rise.  Alice seems to think, according to articles she’s read, that he’ll sleep longer.  I frankly have a hard time believing that, but, either way, I’m rooting for early rise, so I can get 1k out of the way before sun’s stay.  Met most goals on my hand-written objective list, for today.  The only ones that have yet be met: THE PRINTING.  Seems to be a bane against this penner’s gain.  Printing.  Tomorrow.  Something.  Not going to say I’ll run 10 pages for book, poetry collection.  Just promise to 1 page print.  That’s all, reader.  ONE.  PAGE.

The ’08 Kunde Drummond seems to have accumulated richness since its opening 24 hours ago.  Enjoy its avid devotion to its form, its event.  It’s above medals, accolades.  It humbly aims to greet, please palates.  Just poured the remainder.  Makes me think of travel, what I thought of driving back from the book store, only hours ago.  Had a vision of Mike taking an elevator to the hotel’s top floor, for cocktail hour, or something of like stroke.  He gets his glass of Sauv Blanc, one of three on the menu.  Walks around.  People approach with questions, he answers in short.  All he wants to do is listen to the rotating tracks, inhale elevated air.  The white bordeaux tastes more accented with down sun, on this high floor.  Mike, finally away from moving mouth motors, under their inquisitive streams, can enjoy the scene he’d seen since the flight over.  He was finally there, here.

I remember listening to Thievery, seeing what I saw when on the top floor of the Palms when in Vegas, ’03.  Or was it ’02…  No, it was 2003.  I’m sure as I had to be in class [grad school] on May 29th, my birthday, after a gloriously deep 5-hour nap in my San Ramon apartment.  I remember being horribly tired, still.  With a sleep hangover.


developing cloud throw

complications, think i’m crafting them. why? they

never tasted good. even mildly.

variations, making me 2nd guess what’s in my

glass. if i listen, i’ll be given some route, or

stream to follow. but my ear’s had extended

arms for years.


revolving sticks in circle.  have to go.

need coffee, like always. is that only

making this pattern further spread?

molecule chess pieces, anatomy

strategy. but what will that do?

maybe rush a little more. that would bring nebulae

closer to the barrels.  is that what i want. have to re

draw. new straw. too awed.



Won’t lie, I’m in no mood to write.  So should I just stop, essentially calling in sick, to my Self?  Or should I do as I advised to my students, and write through it?  Too much required to sort it all out.  Sipping an ’07 Cuvée, but it’s not helping.  If anything, it slows me.  So I should stop, yes.  But it’s delicious.  Like a bottled album, singing to cure its listener.  Feel bad for it, as it tries so admirably.  I’ll go along with its efforts, lie to it and say “I’m fine.” And I am fine, reader.  I just need to let go of what’s troubling me.  But I’m not sure what that is.  Or do I.

It’s “the industry,” again.  How these wine devils pull that carrot, amusing themselves in your struggle.  But what if you stopped chase?  What if you declared Autonomy, stopped telling yourSelf it was something you had to earn, work towards?  People keep urging me to calm my writing, as it may hurt my opportunities in “the industry.” What if I’m just tired?  At my age, and with a son whom I’d like to perceive me the same I see my father, I’ll take my chances.  I’m secure in my paragraphs, in my poems, in my persona.  Sick of the wine industry’s expectations for an Artist.  And that includes dim-witted one-dimensional, glossy publications.  I’m reactively expressive, not a mechanical wheel meant to write/repeat “facts” about a winery, hotel, spa, or wine country resort.  Those too afraid to speak Self can satisfy such nonsense.

A couple small sips left of the ’07.  Not sure how this one’s speaking to me, now.  Spending too much time thinking about it, I think.  Just looked at my word count log, here on the monster.  Counting today, I’m 3 days behind.  Should trash the doc, but I won’t.  Only going to log-  You know what, I am going to trash it.  Counting words doesn’t finish standalone writings.  Writing does.  Staying in the chair does, refusing to leave the studio.  Tomorrow’s challenge to Self: NO PROSE.  ONLY POETRY/SONG/VERSE.  The more cubist, the better.  vinoLit, still in my bits…

[3/29/12, Thursday]

untitled cordon

This morning, almost completely poetry.  Can you believe that, Ms. Plath?  Don’t have long to talk, but I’m a little proud of my commitment to verse, in recent weeks.  When am I going to read?  Not sure, when I can find time, I guess.  Tonight, no wine.  Had enough yesterday.  And honestly, I didn’t like the way it made me feel towards the end.  Well, now that I remember, even at the beginning.  I remember walking around at Pride, looking over one of those valleys, thinking to mySelf, “I should stop, but these wines are too incredible.  One more sip…” In fact, right now, the room is completely quiet, Ms. Plath.  Only thing I can hear, the refrigerator’s grumbly hum.  Tomorrow, first day off in six.  What am I doing?  Besides spending time with Captain Jack, putting words into the Chapbook 1.  Will there be verses in there?  Yes, but I don’t want it to be some college student-esque poetry collection chapbook for a class, excessively assignment-looking.  I want its dominance to lie in paragraph, narrative.  Then, the cubist strokes of verses I like to write.

My eyes, wanting to lower.  They hate me.  In the previous entry, I was going to do a writeup on the three wineries we visited.  But, I don’t want to write like that.  That’s not Literary, reflective, of any voice emblematic of ME.  That, and they’re not paying me to do so.  Few wineries would.  But, they would certainly take the free press, donated time, exertion.  Don’t get me started…

Can’t hear Sir Jack.  Maybe he finally fell into sleep.  Already noticing changes in his character, his physique, his motions, mannerisms.  He looks into you with analytical angles, seasoned with curious insistence.  Today, he holds 8 days to his little name, frame.  People say he looks like me, one friend even going so far as to call him a “mini-Mike.”  No, though.  He’s his own varietal.  Now small, but early vigor evident, promised.  How do I write him fairly, Ms. Plath?

11:03pm.  Need sleep.  Okay, for tomorrow…just finish the first chapbook.  Throw a bunch of older entries in there, write some new poems, and be done with it.  Mimic Mr. Shakur’s work habits.  Like he said, you “…don’t have the time or the luxury to be spending all this time 1…” project.  Especially a chapbook.  Just finish it, Mike.  Jack demands it.  Or maybe he doesn’t.  Maybe he would urge me to be more reasonable with Self, not to be like my past dictatorial “superiors.” Superiors, heh.  That’s hilarious.  No supervisor, has ever, or will ever, be “superior” to me, my writing, my ideas in any respect.  Especially with writing, wine, writing about wine.  Now I need some sleep, as my rattle warns these weary, weakening walls.

2/23/2012, Thursday