this morning

IMG_0805Cold.  Ice everywhere.  Now with a 4-shot mocha, doing all differently today.  Shrieking as I always say that—  So, the people around me in this Starbucks, some reading the paper and others just talking.  I’m at a corner sofa seat with a low table, leaning over to type with forearms on laps.  Listening to beats and thinking about today..  Go way outside of character, I tell myself.  Yesterday, two people I took around the winery and vineyards, telling me they loved the way I speak of the vineyard rows and wines that were in front of them.  Funny, I thought, as I’m rather tired of the language I use, much the reason I throw in French every so often, or find some obscure and technically dead word.  Bespoke, today.  For me.  For this Mike Madigan that woke up and can only think of the scenes in verses.  I turn up volume, see self bobbing head then stop, focus on the paper I’m writing, what I’m doing today.  Don’t stop writing, I tell myself as I do the student but I’ll stop to sip the mocha or look around, pat nose with the folded paper towel I brought from home…. The outlet to my right which I don’t need use, charing the laptop yesterday… the mocha… this chair, me, saying something but what.  In a deconstructive dive, hearing one voice say “I don’t know what to write about or how to get self closer to travel, this morning.” Then the other which orders me to write about everything, everything around you no matter how seemingly bland or without-gravity.

Why do I write about wine.  Wine is Writing.  It’s Literature.  Every bottle is a letter, a note, poems storming to your senses and thoughts, making you think of things from the past and what you want from the current installation and splash of sight.  Nothing today me trammels.  Not with wine here with me, the vineyards and all the dimensional activity and delightful visual distraction…. Like randomness of thesis, rhetoric and ravishing beats everywhere… The business plan for the day becomes clear.  But I won’t write it.  Won’t hex it, or put some unwanted block at my 12 or the day’s.  In the eight hours ahead, I write a collection of poems.  Put all on blog… wined poetry, wine in poems and poems in wine and the people visiting from everywhere to taste wines and take pictures, spend time with the other.  I spend time with the day.  The day’s my date.  I rush further into my sitting here, at this coffee spot I barely knew was, till recent.

The Romance of the day is the day itself.  What’s in front of us.  US.  This is not a me-piece but a paper addressing and heralding what’s already present.  Can never grasp why so many grieve over absence rather than celebrate the already-present.  I probably will never understand it so I can only do what I can do.  Wine… more than wine.  Last night sitting not he floor and sipping what of the Chardonnay I with me home brought, deconstructing and internally reviewing the day… thinking of the day next, today, NOW, what I do.  How do I get myself closer to the world, seeing more of it.  Contextualization.  ME, here, thinking on song, combination between wolverine and fawn and philistine acid dream—  Unseen lean, atmospheric in her frenetic furnishing.  Wine… doing things to writers like me.  Every morning.  Day.  And especially when I’m not sipping.  She’ll take me to travels, I know.  I’m almost there.  Feel the plane seat and the landing and what I’ll think, first steps off the vessel.

Two prophetic shots of the 4-shot, sipping deeply and intended.  What we want.  This is turning into another me-piece.  I realize.  So, more of US.  WE… living and able to have whatever we want.  The panacea is tirelessness.  In whatever effort you boast and, or envision.  Hopefully both.  Then, soon, hold.  This sitting, showing that we have time and time has more of us than we of it.  Love… love your moments and everyone in them.  These people around me that I don’t know, haven’t said a word to, probably won’t in this coffee shop visit… adored by me.  They are the moment, part of it, part of this sitting and sight, even though I only partially see them from the eye’s corner.

Business plan for day… don’t plan too much.  Educating myself as the morning educates me, us all, everyone around me if they’re open to being instructed.  I have 29 minutes till a writer has to rise and get in car, drive to the winery, set up for day, open wines and start with poems effort.  Funny, had that feeling again that I’m sick of what I’m writing and deplore my word select, topic election— Then I tell self to tais-toi!  Shut.  Up.  That will do nothing for you.  The truth is in the moment and the moment is musical, more than me or you, or even us. It’s an intangible collective.  Poetry…. I’ll die for it, I’m realizing.  Or, I would.  Wine is poetry, music, rime and something for-pined and metaphysically timed.  More than impacting… not bottled.  I swear, if I see one more winery use that ‘wine is bottled poetry’ utterance by RLS, I’m lid-flip.  Wine is free.  It is NOT bottled.  Yes, it’s in a bottle, but it’s activity and composition and intrinsic philosophies and didactic makeup is not in a bottled state.  The wine is in a bottle, but not bottled…. How I see her.  The sense is blurred and clear, concurrently.  That’s why I write so urgently, and I pray purposefully.

No breaks, no time for pauses or lulls, anything that begets the dull.  Keep self in motion, and reciting… the goal for the day, a salable MS… poetry… odd prose.. wine-honed and no.  But everything in my life revolves around her.  So…. This chair, now too comfortable.  I could just hide out here all day.  No… have seen people from sister property here.  I’ll be found.  So, I charge into the day, saying “L’amener sur!”  Student, me, being taught… more French, all poetry, more wine, more people, soon travel.  Morning thoughts, rhythmic and relaying delightful divots.

I am, I am, I think…

Two poems to type. Won’t tonight. Feeling lazy and tired from morning run. 8.5 miles, surprised self— Didn’t expect to go that far. At desk with nightcap, felt like being naughty and I was opening this ’12 Lancaster Estate Cab. Running out of wine and I was in a wine mood, so what’s a writer to do? More and more ideas flooding my form today in the tasting room as I sold the winery’s wines, thinking of how I could and should be selling my own writings like mad. I mean that is the goal, right? Stray $10 bill on desk, under cord from laptop to phone— wonder where it’s from then I remember, tip from some guy from Nebraska, from today. Tempted to take my wine outside, that Summer temp’ with nearly scribed breeze pattern. Starting pile of poems to type— one I wrote today, saying “Door open, come sip/with a scribbler”. I started with poetry, need come more back to it, its rebellion to form, and within such standing situate in its own form. The Cabernet I’m tilting into my talking now telling the writer to keep with verse, don’t budge, just keep going. I’ll be on stage soon, reading. That’s what I want. And the blog, keep with the freeness of prose, like poets in their throws. Both poems, saying something about a moment, and strike back at time for being what it is— something that ages us and steals moments. My verses and lines are meant to immortalize moments. My moments. Make them OUR moments.
I can see tonight is meditative. Coffee already made for morning, sitting in the tumbler urging me to set alarm for 4 or something and wake early like Sylvia and finish two or three, maybe even four, pieces. Permanently returning to poetry, and if this is a “lifestyle blog”, then it’s the stylized life of a poet, with his constant playfulness with form and verse, rime and meter, setting his own style in his sensibility and structure. Before I go upstairs, need one new poem written, just typed so I don’t have to type it later and put myself in a position of procrastinating like I am now. I remember writing poetry in that intermediate algebra class (no caps, intentional), my first moments of practicing zen, but unintentionally, some sort of meditation to escape that classroom— seems like lightyears ago, and here I am, finally coming together into some sort or code of coherent character, returning to poetry but being more mathematical about it, or at least I will be, that I ever have been with anything else. My “style” is dependent upon a return to studenthood, learning and re-learning about what’s around the writer. Two babies, a wife, a winery, wine— and here at the desk: son’s blankie, one of my belts, phone and Happiness Project journal, stemless plastic glass of Cab, the Garmin, that $10 bill, a pen and some random business card from a grower…
Don’t have time for readings right now, or going to any readings so I’ll broadcast the poems from here, my house. And if this doesn’t “work”, meaning change my reality as a writer and heighten exposure, then I don’t know what will. Just as people who can sing LOVE showing their voice to any crowd or small group that will listen, so will be me with my verses and meters—

Clutter enclosing around me, why what.
In the regulatory stuck, clock nothing but a short story cut.
Quaking poems and verses in my structure, so complicated,
one of the candidates but I never wanted to be nominated.

Feel like I could perform now, have another glass of the this LE CS and rime all night, until I have to have some coffee to stay awake, somehow make it to class and barely have adequate vigor to lecture and share what I have to about Esther.
Starting to feel the morning run, that 8.5 catching Mike. But I don’t let myself stall or stop or pause or slow. Not even for a second. Don’t think I’m going to finish this entry, much I want to. Should let myself be lazy, just sit in front of the TV and watch something trashy, like BRAVO reality TV or something that low. So what do I do? Would love to read some Plath, or Kerouac, or Hem… need to make time for one of them. I skim through Plath’s entries, or one of them, but I’m too tired and angularized by the Cabernet to give her respectful read. SO, I put her down. 37 as an age so far has not been able to mute or muffle or even slightly slow my growl and relentless rile.
Everything is poetry. Even the past writings from years ago intended to be prose, I’ll soon revisit and recapture them and conform them my poetic placements and cosmos. What I find in this, this day and night and day, this 10th of the 7th month, is gift; a telling of reason and rationale, leaning to one side and that side is of art, voice and truth. Me here next to Plath— no, I know I should wait for morrow. SO maybe I will, for once.
Next day, around 4:42, the whole day with family and me calling in my class tonight, just wanting to stay home and organize myself, have a beer on the patio. Need to collect, consolidate, build this poetry base I’ve started— By tonight, I’ll have seven isolated performance pieces.. some more scribbles in journal—

Interrupted then but back now, 10:12, with coffee already for morrow made and a Lagunitas ‘Lucky 13’ at right. The positive atmospheric pulses around me envelpo with such ardent angles I can’t stop with my coursings.
Don’t think I’ll type any poems tonight, as I’m too tired, too guilted by calling in this night’s meeting (even though I need to, for…), and I just feel like typing on this couch in my office— the couch that was in the living room’s now in the bottledaux office. Alice’s grandmother’s couch now situates in the other room, and I couldn’t be happier— thought earlier about just living the life I want to as a writer, writing and releasing and not caring, like so many of the artists I “follow” and admire. Another sip of this ale, look at phone but don’t pick it up, can feel the Road getting closer, and all boxes just eroding. Imagine that, them imagining me on the Road, thinking “Oh fuck Mike Madigan and his blogger shit—“ And that’s fine. I appreciate their thoughts, honestly. And even more honestly, I need to be more furtive with my passage and projects. Just go from scene to scene while hush-hush-ed-ly doing what I’m doing with the aux operation. And with NO negative accumulation. Only positive. My babies (Whom I just checked on upstairs, seeing both of them sleep, thinking to myself how lucky I am and even thought I don’t believe in any one god I know that something else has given me a tumult of terrificness with those two wees) will have a happy father, one who comes home from HIS office and tells stories. That’s it. That simple. And when he returns home from being on the Road, he’ll talk about the food he ate, the paths he ran, the coffee he drank, show them pictures and talk about the people he talked to in small villages overlooking some river way down in some narrowly vortex’d valley.
Everyone I know or even distantly know is traveling. And I’m sick of it. Old friend from the old neighborhood, someone I love and respect, posting footage of a lightening storm in Nebraska. I can only concede my jealously and imagine what I would be writing if witnessing that, standing under that cover sipping some coffee at an hour I shouldn’t be and just challenging those lights and flashes to prompt me. Older I get the more impatient I get but yet the more fearless I form with my lack of formality and fortitude, thinking I’m to be held under by anything or any whatever but in the past it’s been me that’s held ME under and back and far from the fortune— WHAT THE FUCK. Now I realize this? At 37?
10:38— bed has to be soon and close, nearing like a lecturer— Alice goes upstairs and me to soon follow, saying “Stay off my couch..” jokingly, she knowing how happy I am to have those cushions in my home office. Nearly tempted to call in sick tomorrow but I can’t, I need to see those vines outside “my” office window and get further ahead on the copy projects I have— and oh shit, have a blog entry due soon. So much for the writer to do, should I hit that fucking coffee now, do an all-nighter? Of course not, but it’s in my head, and for a reason I’m sure, but I’m not sure what or who’s the reasoner, not sure it’s me as I’m not that reasonable now, after this night’s capping.
Nearly done with the day, night, sitting. Another sip— toasting to myself to Dad and how at 70-whatever he can still move shit better than I can— still mobile and insightful, acute and astute, precise and meditative in a way I wish I could be for my babies.
Tomorrow morning, with that coffee I tonight brewed, I become a fiery A.M. Hunter S. Thompson— not caring, but too much caring a cosmic narrative blaring, telling the story of a fed-up adjunct and wine loving runner-writer-father. Expansive introspect, commence—
Sipping with Self, a sordid scribbler.


Running Pinafore

She responds.  But where flies her beats?

I’m wandering, like random waves no one

hears.  At least they’re captured.  Wish she

were the cage.  That’s what wishing’s for,

I guess.  Comments in flocks, but the voice

bends ignorantly.  Somewhat amusing.

I guess.  Only music, with

her steps, breaths,

sets.  Only a follower.

Perfect gallery.  Guilty.

Take the images away, scraping

at sanity.  So I’ll keep them,


Here.  Consciousness commandeered.



Haikus don’t hit palate right.

Nor do sonnets, sestinas.

What do I do when this happens–

No, not paragraphs, punctuation.

Get sick just thinking about it.

What about not write at all.  Let

the page sit there.. lonely, hungry.

Is that wrong?  Am I a cruel penner?

Keys fell out of pocket.  Why pick them

up.  Garage open, when I hoped it shut.

Pencils, spilled from cup.  But, still stuck.

Heavier, the moment.  Uneven, probably from

tempo.  Don’t have time2proofREAD, or go slow.

Thoughts, puzzle’s pieces in yarn globes, not at all rowed.


4/28/13 poetry-ing

evaluate how to take the cost, pay,

and how long will it be b4 applause, praise?

long and lost day–  Count dow: June, April, May.

Stay, go, I don’t know.  elicit Self complicit, hope

fortune pays the writer a visit, made 2B a fighter in

digits.  containing plights to a picket, they hold my

rights to the rigid– blood boils at frigid, what do I

continue2?  No more clocks, or obligation shocks..

Lines Thin

Tireless, but I’m wired, stress.. Dive
Into the fire’s press; caress my
Notebook, as I have to capture it
All.. Hope I can laugh when trapped in
A fall. No time allowance to stall.. People
Finally reading my releases.. Criticized if
My other Self sneezes. No idea what meek
Is. Followed by cameras, lights.. I stand
To fight.. Tell Big Brother switch rudders. On my dish,
Numbers. Challenge mathematical laws–
Trapped in habits of flaws– look at
Skeptics, flashed and racked in a draw.
My pen grip, a shark’s jaw.. Hemingway.
Anyway, when we lay, tighten my scope.
Steal to my ideals, see how it feels.
Then my presence repealed, but they’ll never
see me squeal.


illusionary droplets

drop sense at fortune’s lobby
fun here in formality’s stead
done more cards conveying sense
more away from pocket
And i keep doing this
hardly budgetary, think I’ve finally
tired wheels, so i break
and if a cliff closer gets
I push harder, i’m a writer

Not with mocha, I talk more sane
I hope
Ignition, waiting for fog’s flee
water by sidewalk telling me not
walk, at all.. Run, till breath’s left



Not after a certain word amount, quite scatted, I’m

blurbing the dirt about.  Rush to the furthest lurk

and scout my re-evaluated dissemination, I’m

left complacent; paragraph abrasion.  The columns

of the temple, like golems with a pencil, small dolls

run and embezzle; surveilled by devils; never walk

away, rather talk and stay.  Critics dissolved 2

dismay.  Airborne, my sky’s designed in my shape.

Peddle faster, crack the level’s ladder. Drown in my

symbols, anxiety dwindles.  Decelerate fate, if able.

No time to compose parables, or fables.  All papers stapled

on table.  Now what.  My mouth, shut.  Lines sprout, but..

they quickly retreat.  Shovel removed, time to dig them up.

My shuttle’s improved, mind’ll swig and strut.  Not on

par, but anyway putt.  No time to sob, too many a job.

Each critic, a goblin; no longer in their review-coffin.

Immediately see needed leads for me, Creative

feed.  Sip more red while I skip towards dread.

Forgot what I said.  Did I write it down?  No.  Scribble


(Sun, 7/15/12)