Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Girl on the Beach Pantoum [in process]
Like ledger art of places no one has ever been, with the off-smell of kelp burners
In the distance. Beyond the maze of access roads, pipe-fittings before their red-lined
Pit. All right for one mystery, but two! Of all the stories you know, the animals steadily
Get bigger there in the rocks. Therefore you do your running as the gray brush marks
Of rain spackle a private recess. This thought strikes you as fortune's single, red-lined
Suit with the bottoms worn mostly off. Only it was your tieback reworked by wind and streams.
At first alone and feverishly marine, it seems surprising, so why not rest? With brush marks
If to provide the flux, she reasoned faint volutes on the chalkboard, the lessons suddenly gone.
The bed smells of where a dog has been,
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Benedict XVI resigned two weeks after reading this book in Italian, and then corresponding with the writer, which indicates that he did read it, and could not go on with the lies.
https://dafyomireview.com/438
The scandal of long-known pedophiles in the organization notwithstanding.
One of the tragedies of my life is not having children; only then to be bitterly disappointed by the two children in my life, my brother's children. It is more appropriate to say that I am saddened by the responsible adults.
I had a dream midmorning that the middle of the yard beside the house where I live had a terrible wicked neighbor who dug trap pits in the ground. They were at least twelve feet in depth with hydrated copper sulfate (a glowing, crystalline blue) at the bottom. I was trying to discourage my cat whose tail had been cut off in a door a few Julys past, who had since then recovered, from going near the pits.
Somehow, I was induced into a pit in the ground by a door with an elevator that appeared to be an apocalypse bunker with these wicked people. I knew this was hell, but a foolish hell that its members took every precaution to conceive in order to fend against the eventuality that they, too, would die.
I have this premonition that my brother will be found dead in his bed, the mother will be wasted away from methadone into a failure to thrive state before dying an early death, her mother will be demented in a nursing home, and the two casualties of the situation, the children, will be left to me, my mother and Walter to raise at the Stephenson house.
The medical center here, and my role in it, will expand every year to fund this eventuality.
The deck was replaced there this week. The increasing property taxes in this area and everywhere concede that one stays the course.
One student left, and I have another new nurse to precept. She is insecure and mispronounces drug names; nevertheless, she is hypervigilant of my practice like an external regulator. She asked me if I ever called in, and I told her that I knew that being put off on someone else is like being picked last for dodgeball, so I would not inflict this experience on her. I have another student with her, to make two shadows, who will critique everything that I do so that I stay on the straight and narrow this summer and fall.
The deck was replaced by the contractor whose brother sustained a heart attack replacing the roof of this house where I reside. He had a CABG in 2020, and we discharged him warning him that a deep sternal wound infection was terrible. He died this year with complications from liver and renal failure after his chest was packed by me and my students.
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1015958413000638
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Zx5tpFmv9M
https://www.strawberryfield.salvationarmy.org.uk/garden
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8sNiAgEKGo
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