No nap, today, fought against pull and push to do so. Thanksgiving over, wife out shopping at one of those shopping special eve whatever’s. Me, home. Wine. Just finished glass of Claret. The night passed with such cruel progression. Indifference. Babies asleep upstairs. What movie do I watch, my dilemma. My life’s trouble. Think of how fortunate I am with my family and to have such family, to be sitting where I am, here on this we seek to shed, new one one the way… Day of giving thanks, I need to show more giving of thanks, being thankful.

Tonight, I do intend exploring more wine. No aim to wake at 4am or 4:10 like this day. No. I may actually just sleep in. I will. What do I mean, “may”? May have to punch out. Take the night as it approaches me, describe and translate it, or in such order reversed… then wake tomorrow with more thought. More story. More ME. Tired now, forgetting I’ve been up since 4-something. Think 4:10. Has it been that long? Yes. It has. Me, that writer. Now. Time to Self and I sip wine and be here, writing. A writer.

Does the writer want apple pie or Chardonnay? Both sound like they sound, their own precise appeal and connection. I’m not torn between both but urge to be curved by both, somehow. 9:08. Feel like bed but I won’t. I can’t. But more, I refuse. Why can’t I be a human, just have dessert or drink wine. Is it that complicated? Are my thoughts the hinderance, the block and or impediment? I think it may be just that. Not in any kind of a writing swoop, and I can’t figure anything of it out. How does pine figure. What type a figure be me, I, this writer.

I feel like I’m not doing a thing, while doing too much. A mess. Should have taken a nap.

a thousand wines project



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…

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.


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


Start of poem–

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–

It Was Never Not Here


Why not give my




I’ll give me something,


Something that–

Something that I need.

Like what.


Something not


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.

For 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

Too harshly,

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

Structure is,

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

Top floor?

But either way, You,

Merry Christmas.

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?

I’m not.

It’s always been here. I’m

A broker.

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.

A boon.

A light.

A Road.

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.

Can you?

It’s New.

The only.



This is Now, collection of Nows finally collecting and

Congregating for

My pages. Language…

Why did I wait so long to give Me this?



À la fin… 

I feel better, more ME.  Not sure what it was about today, but it pummeled me up and down its block.  Maybe I deserved it for a lack of connection to self.  Spoken word in the vineyard today, as I’ve been meaning to do.  One victory midday.  But after that, I was surrounded.  By challenges and demands, hands stretched toward me for another pour, and me only wanting my own glass.  My own pours.  My wine.  My quiet.  Finally had all a couple minutes ago, just watching sprinklers throw water wherever they wanted.  Seated, safe, and finally composed, only at day’s end.