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Symptomatic Bouquet





July 21





My bouquet of symptoms took root in alcoholism.  I displayed these blossoms to few.  I thought I could keep these problem posies to myself.  No need to worry, everyone has a bit of manure in their lives; mine will hardly seem strange.  Planted in addiction, things grew in a dramatic way.  Pruning became unworkable; drastic measures were required.  Uprooted and exposed, these virulent stalks created the need for help from better gardeners than I.  Thinned and repotted, these character traits have fruited with many a lovely harvest, none of which could have happened had I been left in the family plot.



Make your mind a womb you can return to.







There are rules about breaking rules.

You can do it this way, but must not that way.

Cross this line and you get dragons;

cross that line you get a good natured slap on the wrist.


Beneath the reflective surface of law

I have found many shoals and sandbars;

rocks and outcroppings,

layer upon layer of blue depth I can only partly chart.


I also find inquiries in this matter meet with the

same reaction as asking about: yeti, crop circles,

or what was kept in Uncle Author’s spare room.


Those willing to talk about it I often fear to hear from

and the reluctant to speak I fear to pursue.

You see this investigation is just another thing

from under that sea.