Yes, Jill, I like this, too. The mesh of weather and syllables, in
particular. Yesterday I witnessed my father receiving a sonogram and
followed the monitor revelations of kidney, bladder, etc. It was so much
like oceans and cloudy weather in there, nothing stops moving. Leading to
the easy revelation (or verification) what shapes language on the outside of
one's body is not too much different from the forces of what shapes language
from the inside. Weather in, weather out - language, too. And, gosh, are
there mad big storm off and on showers, gales and big, bellowing clouds
going on here - too late to call it "the ides of March," but!
Hope that's not to hair-brained and confusing. The technician also said the
blood pumping into the brain is "very noisy."
Nothing is going to compare to right wing noise when this feed tube stays
out permanently and she who is clinically dead becomes real dead. This has
been a medieval mess!
Stephen V
> "is been dry for months"
> in the taxi and road slick
> fire engines, melange of branches
> and wish of asphalt
> fiddling with the ticket machine
> with the language
> have a cheesy-mite scroll
> if you're hungry
> can you eat your words
> while the wind gales
> sucking each struggling syllable
> drumming its old earth tune
> newly played round scaffold
> steel still holding
> and damp bowling club lawn
> squeaks a compact grass tune
> as the Concordia Club's German
> credentials flutter - yellow, red
> black - which folds into
> the story of this land
> with what intent
> it's just a day of gale force
> a lot of water
> and experience seeking language
> "is been dry for months"
> now rain blots the words
>
>
> Jill Jones
> Kogarah and back, morning, 23 March
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