Feast and be merry

Before me lies a feast, a scrumptious dinner of opportunities. Here we have the seasoned biological anthropology, right next to the chardonnay of seminary. Our first course is a choice between sociology,theology, or biology, though be warned the biology takes some chewing to get through.

Might I add that the chef seemed to indicate that whatever first course I choose will determine what the rest of the meal looks like. Will it be delectible no matter the choice? But of course. Will I wonder what the meal could have been had I chosen the tender sociology over the tough but-oh-so-worth-it biology?

But of course.

Late night stretches

Alright, dear one, I'll stretch and groan and at last be full. I'll reach up into my soul, yank twice at it's ethereal innards and demand it find for me a muse.

Alright, dear one, I'll scream and sob and at last be empty. I'll let go of my knees, rise up to my feet, and admit it's time to walk again.

Alright, dear one, alright.

My hands have carpel tunnel. They ache when I write. They spit fire when I type. They are coals that keep my coffee warm. They are teeth that nip at my wrists with each text. They howl when I blog and coo when I bathe.

My writing has a sprain. It grumbles when I outline. It gurgles when I rhyme. It is the alveoli that keep exchange my poison for my oxygen. It is a rain droplet on my tongue. It genuflects when I laugh and whispers when I kiss.