barf barf barf & a poem

ugh, I'm about to go to a poetry reading for my creative writing class. I'm sure it will be fine but my artsy friend is in Boston (giving a paper on the simpsons, how cool is she?) so I'm not alone, I'll know a lot of people there, but I'm not going with someone who I can fall back on so meh. And I get really nervous before readings. I'm reading a poem I just wrote two days ago but it's my favorite by far. Barf barf barf.

Things to do Before I Die
~by Leone (me)

memorize Necropsy of Love by Al Purdy which I wrote on my ceiling in lipstick when I was 17 going to high school living in my parent's basement with no older sisters my father painted over it when I left so he could turn the room into a train-room

read every book by Robin McKinley or just read Sunshine over and over again because vampires and dessert turned out to be the best book subject ever

sometimes I think I want to get my masters, in fine arts, in creative writing, in psychology, in education, but then I try to write a paper then I try to stay conscious during my class with the professor who likes to tell us what those feminists think then I try to study for a class where the only motivation is my GPA which I've never really fancied then I try to wake up at 6am to catch a bus that takes 45 minutes so this one isn't a concrete item

at least six more tattoos but no repeats, no dragons, stars, watercolour flowers, easy swirls, or skulls well maybe one more skull but definitely no more dragons

have some kids at one point I guess

walk into a classroom in excellent shoes and my unruly hair totally prepared for the year ahead with colour on the walls and a package of new unbroken rainbow chalk clean chalkboards and textbooks with spines not yet snapped in two and a crown with a name for each student on their desk before the bell rings

knit myself a sweater that doesn't itch or make me sneeze out of yarn that I dyed myself in my kitchen without poisoning anybody or permantly dying my counters pink and the yarn was spun in my living room on a wheel but I'm totally fine with someone else shaving the sheep and processing the fleece because sheep smell like crap

Paganni wrote 24 caprices for the violin and I just want to be able to play the last one, number 24, the hardest one, the most breath catching piece written for the violin and this one may take me the longest to complete but it also makes me cry

sing lullabies to children and hot have them place their hands over my mouth and say 'shhhh'

no more piercings because dammit those things just hurt then either my body rejects them or I never use them and they heal over, I mean, anything that heals over should you really be getting it so anyways no, no more piercings for me

always own a cat not just to embrace the spinster stereotype but also because when it's night and I have to go into the basement I know it's safe if the cats go down the stairs with me

what is that clique again? dance like no one is watching well I already dance while no one's watching so it doesn't apply to this list. I'd rather dance with the ones I love in the room dancing with me or eating cheese and bringing me homemade jars of raspberry jelly and books with dogeared pages

one of these days the entire day spend it in a tree in a treehouse with a kettle for tea and possibly hot chocolate depending on the season or the location and books that haven't been read just yet and are waiting for me shade from leaves even if there is no sun just leaves for the feeling of secrecy from the astronauts -shifty bunch- and of course a perfect skein of yarn and all my grandmother's needles and no pattern just the stitches my fingers have already memorized and maybe music drifting in and out because the windows of my house are open

paint a wall in any house in any paint paint faces bodies paint line of flesh and stroke of colour

never stop writing never put down my pen or my pencil or stop typing even if nobody else reads it even if nobody else likes it even if it is never published and I'm known as the knitting tattooed teacher with the cats who writes poetry that nobody wants to read never stop writing