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waning poetic.
it's tiptoing through an open window. Pittsburgh street night. the
lights are on, we're awake. the cats are padding about on hardwood
floors. I'm happy for a little while, settled, still.
well, Nik's not so settled. she keeps making these exclamations about
ass kicking and red hair. I am thinking her delirious at five in the
morning. but Ysobelle is just a tad crazed anyways methinks. in here
closet are two or three huge posters of Duran Duran.
(she's gonna kill me. she's gonna kick my lil ass back to Grove City)
(of course, such speculations could prove stimulating for the entire
family. quality entertainment.)
okay, where'd the muse go. Whack. oh, pardon. I suppose it isn't very
Keats like to lite out after the spirits with baseball bats.
then again, when have I been concerned with gentle and proper decorum.
doh. ys is on to me. gotta send.
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