Well, she died. Despite all the internet jokes at her expense, Terri’s case was incredibly difficult and sad for all involved.
I only wonder if we’ve seen the last of this, or if the Schindlers will slap Michael with a civil suit or some nonsense like that.
this recidivist
is sure his god exists
but can’t define its fibre
or paint its weight,
except to say his Deity is
twenty tons of chocolate,
sunlight slanted burgundy—
a runny egg, a bit of thread, a cherry tree.
this recidivist
is sure his god exists
but only the throes of sleep
and even so
he only knows his god is
water, boiling.
10 butterflies, three dead,
a bulb, a fist, a fingernail—
a telephone, an adjective like ravishing—
a verb like sleep, a noun like bed.
this recidivist
is sure his god exists,
as salt or cake or seafoam grey—
as pencil lines or cotton socks,
coffee cups with lipstick marks—
rust, cream, glue, smoke.
spiderwebs. clay.
this recidivist
is sure his god exists,
but can’t refine its cane
or frame its face.
He only knows his god is
water, boiling.
It’s a rockin’ list this week. \m/
For those who think that upcoming Windows Longhorn’s Avalon graphics system will be all that and a bag of chips, why don’t you take a look at the sort of thing that will be rolling into GNOME (Linux, BSD, Solaris) by that time.
That is all. No more reading. Just Wobbly Windows.
Death, hold not me dear; when pressed,
we juxtapose, but never have we met.
The mean of man and shade is graves,
more stone than home, and row on row
the holy go to sleep.
I have slipped through smoky pastures,
morning heavy, morning light,
while breathing deep and bowing low,
the holy go to sleep.
I am red, and rest in ash,
the embers dead, the salt so sweet;
the powder soft, so soft, so
soft the holy sleep.
Death, hold not me fast; when pressed,
we juxtapose, but never will we meet.
I have crept a circle bright
around the holy mountain, a spire steep
reposed in smoke, the dead below,
so long their sleep.