My veins were so happy when I had you rushing through me.
It's day two day.
My veins are twisting and tightening.
I've been a thousand places today. The gym. The train station. Boy's Latin. 7-Eleven Bank Kiosk. Yahoo Mail. University of Phoenix online. ETS. The sunroom. The Baltimore City Teaching Residency website. Confirming my precense to the BCTR information session this evening.
Getting one of the little crying kittens inside the bedroom.
All the girls in the house at the moment are here with me: Goober, Gracie, and my Rukiebaby.
I'm the crazy cat lady. The crazy cat lady without her nicotine and sweet scent of tobacco.
Good thing is, my GRE scores are just high enough that I don't have to take the Praxis I exams. Nope... I only have to spend 400 dollars on Praxis II tests. Ok, I'm exaggerating. I'm only going to take two, which will be 180 bones, but fucking christ; why do I spend so much money on a test I will most likely do horribly on?
Side note: these cats are nuts. Gracie is staring at the wall with such inquisitive determination that I'm afraid she thinks she can somehow become one with it.
And my cat, Ruke, is an obssessive licker. She takes after her mommy quite well.
That's Ruke and me.
I was happy in this photo. I was an active smoker.
Ok... I'm done with the fucking rant bitching.
You want some poetry? Here's some poetry:
To Compose the Perfect Type of Poem at the Perfect Time in the Perfect Pace of Place
“all truth must conform to music” – Richard Hugo
she asks for words that’ll show
no way to stray no way to fall out
without the absence of solution
words that beat and beat
the muse changes, my dear with every second spring
or fall or winter summer’s haze into words
medusa’s hair each strand a pair of eyes
needs words words inside the muse that falls or fails the internal of me
the fingers that spit the fingers that touch in that space only words know anything about
I write. I read. I eat. I sleep.
I'm a blue collar b.o.i who thinks a lot and who has tendency to never follow through with the big BIG stuff that will make me rich and famous.
Rich, well, not really. Famous, well, only among other avant-garde poets and artists.
I'm always hungry and always writing. In my head.
Both are diseases affecting the same juices in my brain.
Both are uncontrollable, like my addiction to nicotine and tattoos and skater shoes.
Here. Now. Words.