got the time tick tick ticking in my head.
maybe you're too young to have listened to anthrax back in the 90's,
but damn if i don't have that song ticking in my head,
as time ticks through my hands in real life.
it's almost hallowe'en,
and i'm over here, bringing my costume equipment with me everywhere i go,
so while i'm doing some tattoos, and i'm also troubleshooting the time constraints
and construction issues that come with freeform patternless piecemeal pats and labor.
i'm certainly not distracted by the zipzaps that i'm humbly,
and to be honest, somewhat luckily, grinding away my days on.
it's basically been a whole bunch of nice ladies,
regularly getting regular sh!t,
which is keeping the lights on,
while we generally enjoying animated and interesting single-serving conversations,
inasmuch as my raspy wheeze of a voice will allow.
the tattoo scene is seriously infinging on my makery of masks an' that.
don't get me wrong-
i'm working it,
and i'm working on it,
and for the most part, it's working out.
the only thing i could use?
and not for nothin',
but my little boy-o?
as in- the terrible terror of a terrier we love to hate?
the misanthropic missile-headed miscreant monster we all call
is F*ing killing me.
hours of walking, in ice and wind and rain,
fulfilling my responsible adult obligation to the
lousy life that relies on me for maintenance?
not great for time management, and worse for ailing health.
no question about it, when i say killing, i'm not using hyperbole.
what does a warrior poet, short on time, and long on hunger,
do to assuage the shark-gluttonous appetite that threatens to undermine
all eveningtime efforts to be excelsior?
i go crazily lazy,
and make a little pasta.
pasta just seems so, i dunno, EASY.
i'm not proud.
i am less hungry now.
check the teleport:
i repped a little rousing rustico jaun,
quick-fast, and in a hurry,
so i could get back to work on hallo-winning.
i do love it when a one-bowl batch of big action satisfies
in the spot where food goes.
olive oil, garlic, onion, homemade vegan sausages,
pre-boiled bitterness-busted broccoli rabe,
with nootch-boosted and GPOP'd salt and pepperishness throughout,
over tricolor fall-apart butterfly bowtie farfalle fresh-to-deathly 'ronis.
y'like that italiano plate?
rustico, bro. i done already told you.
i can't blame nature for not cooperating.
after all, i had a whole year to work on hallowe'en.
i should've known it'd be a paint-proof 100% humidity rainfest in the clutch.
i do love adversity, if only because my true calling in life is the fine art of complaint.
compliance with murphy's law might be one of the few things i actually look forward to.
hard styles for hard-headed, harder-hearted, heated,
hot-fire-spittin' heavy-handed homeboys.
that's how i do it.
a little rain;
a surprisingly busy schedule, popping up out of nowhere;
it's all really hapening, and by now, i should be able to predict the pressure
of the in-the-pinch last minutes that routinely erupt and disprupt my poorly-laid plans.
i make things harder for myself.
rules is rules.
i'm racing around, and the finish lines aren't visible.
bleary eyes and rainy skies have seen to THAT;
never quiet, never soft.....