Verses in all scenes, my verbs curve in a word’s gleam…
Verses in all scenes, my verbs curve in a word’s gleam…
Demanding presence of a wine, I don’t know how many times over. From the deeply intended notes and dotes of the fruit and smoke assembly to the atmospheric propulsion and general narration of this bottle, I’m in my seat.. speaking to the bottle and what’s in my glass. More than appreciation of the moment and the intersection of her, me… wildly mad in our respective talk, words and songs, scene–
I’m taken back and forth into Washington’s wine Wonderland… wondering if I ever want to get out. Why would I with an offering and narrative with a tasty tryst like this. She knows what I think when sipping, and how I react to interpretations comme ça. So, onward my notes go, in her shapely and syllabic sense-throws…
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.
I’m a postulate materialized–
more than a realized guise.. not
after any kind of prize — strict
autonomy, not superficial ties..
verse eternally burn documented
Have to make up for 20 years in one–
Think myself no dummy, beers and rum none,
Focused on the plateau, though, so where does a
writer go. Understood much in the decades of undertow–
Read but not said, dead cuz I didn’t self-
fed, or fund, two minus one leave me,
Assumably, reluctantly and bluntly I’m a done
Deed, replete but never delete, take a kind
Seat… stars I catch from a distantly pondered
Patch, holy bath that chose me, wrath–
Why not give my
I’ll give me something,
Something that I need.
You can’t hold it.
Not an article or object.
But a state.
No, more than that.
So what, then?
Like I said,
A consistency, a continuance of
Some sweet singularity.
That I gift me.
This new me,
Or maybe it’ll
Some readjusted me—
No, hate that word.
But a re-calibrated me.
Circling myself in dreams and wants
This Christmas morning, so I jot further
Into this well, wishes and tossed coins stepped on and
Over but not
Ubiquitous umbrage over
Visions—one thing for the rest of your story,
Day night left and what’s right,
No one can be sure so just give yourself whatever it is
You have wanted for long, for always,
Music or a house on the beach, some trip
To wherever, now I’m just walking in my
Own lack of sense, sensibility’s with little
Scaffolding, not sure how secure the
But either way I’m giving myself something today,
A portrait, a scene of a structured and scenic me,
One I’ll just play over and over, like some Hutcherson
Tune in a San Francisco club, back in the sixties, smoke coupled with
Notes of beer, or whisky and…
Another page in my stretch or stumble, peregrination of
This new character. We just
Met, I just
Drew him today,
Gifted the current self a self with a more roaring
Current, tide and tidal waves, tsunamis of
Why be at the equator when I can write from the world’s
But either way, You,
Enjoy this new you, the new travel and chapter, story
And measures, three pages of the car rides, the
Photographs of mountains and sunsets in Central Oregon,
Visits to your old neighborhood, your old house,
The trips and the coffee in before-never-known
Haunts. This new gift haunts me,
Innumerably, and the life here now is garnished with Newness—
But not so much numeric as it is atmospheric, a clear and defined
Redefinition of self for this sitting and the days after and
And not so much qualitative either.
This new This is not in any dictionary.
So how did I find it?
How can I get it for self for ex-mas?
It’s always been here. I’m
Internal transaction of realization for this new
New. Reading this to myself and I see what I mean, this
Is a gift. The most electric and textural of
Ever. The harshness persists in delicious chords,
Listening to myself read the note, the gift,
But it has no language, undefined but I know
What it is? So how do I steer with this new sight,
This new life,
This new containment of types and career,
If you could call this a career—
No, it’s beyond that too.
So from the planet’s zenith
I breathe and know what’s next
And don’t know but this is a religion,
A wild dogma of…
I don’t know.
It’s a gift.
I wanted this, this new
Newness, view from a cliff in Carmel,
My first step on a New York sidewalk.
And it’s mine, delivered to me from
Never happened before and that’s the point.
I point to 101 south, over the Golden
Gate, the to PCH, where
Everything waits. That drive,
That’s antithetical fright.
What I’ll tell my kids, my
Parents and sister and other writers that think like this but this is coded.
And not even I can translate what I just unwrapped.
This is Now, collection of Nows finally collecting and
My pages. Language…
Why did I wait so long to give Me this?