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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
Sarah Mclachlan - Plenty - the one time you told me
i was Eastern European, of long-forgotten Europe....
and you were Irish, then i knew.... time to breed
a knuckles's hello....  should i really mind reality?
you, godforsaken paddy skin-head?
throw a ******* paddy / potato
at me i'll get clued in at where
Chelsea gets tribalism of Hammer-smith...
oh lucky you, the Irish tentacle...
maybe the next Irish in me ought
ti dance the ******* leprechaun dance
for new years'... cos' that had to be minded
in newspapers...
                     i'll the be ****** of goth to mind
enter the dragon, starring the ill fated Brandon...
                   an you be the anonymous ****-wit
pardonable journalist with angst prescription
                      when mommy ****** the
milkman and daddy said: huh?
  or shave my head and become a fake neo-****...
                 or the atypical Irish-head...
       some said Celtic, but some said: Sale-tick-ticking-blah...
the meat-heads bashed their heads together...
                          wedlock northern:
every Mc-Noodle.
                      later read Mac.                                tosh
                                                       or Celtic
in the Glasgow curriculum, as said: Mac. arched Ranger...
    for the clover leaf brigadiers
                                               aye... spoon the
shovies! banknote worded:
                                                two pence a punch...
                some call it a London mo-cheese-sum
(mohican - heir to a higher phrasing: cannot but
will do) - and so the Australian banknote came
sooner than the migration points system:
as ever, plastic first, spooning baked beans
and later the "trouble": as Glasgow estate shimmered
the saying: concrete does two blues,
                          Hertfordshire horseradish:
alter. marketed green slime: or: guacamole...
   god, i wish i was soppy sometimes...
                             at times when it was least
explanatory to mention Vaughan Williams...
                  perfectly now...
        snotty curiosity ever went as far as
a hanky... or later read: a chappy chopping
wood with echo, blistered with
e-oh e-oh and the faked yawn, done, repeatedly,
  for purpose of a masquerade:
                 or Apache tribalism etiquette
saying: oh... h'allo'h h'allo'h h'allo'h;
pompous blues and said Peter to mind
                            while some geezer did the beat
          for the slang while regurgitating an attack
of the Zeppelins.
Jon Tobias Feb 2013
The answer sits awkward in my mouth
Like an Egyptian vowel
Some language I have yet to learn

And I stand like a third world country that there are no commercials for
There are no heartstrings to tug
No Sarah Mclachlan songs
No one sees the hunger
Building in the bellies of my motherless country

But if there must be indifference in this love
I want to love you more than you love me
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2023
I am a Taken Poet ~ “The Wreckage of Your Silent Reverie”^

<6:45 AM Sat June 3>

again and again, a peculiar lyric
more than provokes, ******, injects,
no mere head buzzing, sledgehammer
beheaded, no under skin, in my pores,
shedding,reabsorbed, replaying the replay,
until I, will-less, commanded endlessly,
induced, besplay my irritants into my
“take,” for I am an overtaken poet, searching relief

too well, the wreckage refuse of these
silent reveries consume us, and I shriek,
contemplating the years of holey falling,
not hours or days, not weeks or months,
spent in rigorous dreams, facing & escaping,
my guilts, my fork failures, bottling & pouring,
with no relief from screams, head-banging,
nightmare visitations and inarticulate moans

until they form words, projectile ejected,
pollutants upon a clean, white background,
and dispatched to the heavens or nether land,
and to you, here in poem form that brings but a
modicum crumb of relief that empties, buying
time, knowing full well, my cup runneth over and
fresh replacement troops are eager, readily available,
by joining the seesaw border war, splitting my halves

my halves for I am not whole, I am deboned,
and slices fall off of these trough of words,
these statements of fact & fission, uninformed forms,
even worse, formed formlessness reciting repetitive,
inescapable  escapades, dead-ended hell highways,
these poems, all carcasses of me, roadside ****, until,
someone unseen, unknown invisible, removes them
to the largest refuse pile in world, a inutile poem heap

even this epistolary of diary entries offered down for
your bemusement, my expulsionary relief, give but
the briefest analgesic, and a newest version of an oldest
reverie, old friend, comes like the unending beeping,
of a dying battery of a fire alarm, squeaking, unrelenting,
unresponsive to curses or begging till the last ounce
of its energy is consumed, so too I, impatient squeak words,
too many contemptuously familiar yet well hid in new combos,

temporarily pulled from the wreckage of my silent reverie


~~~~~~~~~~~~<7:45 AM>~~~~~~~~~~~~

^ “Oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees
In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie

You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here”

Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Sarah Mclachlan
gray overcast chilly Saturday morn,
listening to the chirping of a dying battery,
reminding me of my mortality and
my other stuff.
I was just chillin, watching tv
When Sarah McLachlan looked right at me
She was holding a puppy, abused by its owner, I couldn't understand why
When I saw the poor pupper all whimpering and sad, I couldn't help but cry
My tears landed in a *** of dirt I keep next to my sink
Out from the *** a kush plant sprung, i knew it by the stink
My boy Rondelle
He smelled the smell
And rolled up with some papers
We rolled it up
We took some puffs
And breathed that sweet and sour vapour.
This really happened to me I swear.
night unkind Jul 2020
new words for an old day that’s just begun

even I, author of the conundrum above,
confused but let us sort it out as we
descend into the elixir that is our combo
of noises, prejudices, limited vocabularies

time noted, not even the nine o’clock mark,
so the day qualifies as new, but it’s an aged
sun rising, skills displaying, historical precedent,
ancient practice, adjusted for atmosphericals

the lawn is speckled, mottled, as light ray guns
through the defending battalion branches and
platoons of leaves facing up, to a certain death
later than sooner, no killing fields till September

the oak tree generals, wisdomed experiential,
prepare plans, take light a prisoner in sufficient
quantity to nourish the troops, yet, not too much,
for the sun can be fickle, a flame thrower machina

all that vision leads me to this pronouncement:
*Oh Lord, bountiful be provided, beloved, inscribed,
this day, its mega-millennium predecessors and
successors gifted precision amounts needed, then,

Cast me gently into morning,
For the night has been unkind,
Take me to a, a place so holy,
That I can wash this from my mind,
The memory of choosing not to fight.


Sara Mclachlan “The Answer”




9:18am Thu Jul 9 ‘20
Glayz Welch Jul 2013
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPWzy7wpy8Q&list;=PL670F87AB4B45683D&shuffle;=412
I love the cover of the song "Yellow by Coldplay" <3
Also "Angel by Sarah McLachlan" <3
Those are my two favorites!
These people are AMAZING!!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
a day a bit like sarah mclachlan's
thumbing toward ecstasy album,
not much too it...  some say frailty, some say the
plumbing,  some say apathy breeds no pathologies,
well, not musical enough for rhymes,
a vast vault opens, there's a piano
inside but no pianist -
let's say without education and training
in the art someone comes to the piano
and gets a natural feel for it,
feminine hands, anaemic and frail,
thin fingers, not something a labourer
could sustain his work with...
a poet became jealous of Liszt...
but no one became jealous of Chopin...
the japanese adore him more than
his fellow countrymen... after all, they
took his heart out and entombed it
saying: 'this is your place, this is our pride,
sit here, forever!'
horrid story, akin to the one where a president
in an unfortunate plane crash received
all the honours of a kingly burial in the Wawel (vavel)
castle... not in the cemetery for presidents,
perhaps near the Belvedere (the white house
of the east) - that skromny pałacyk -
an entombing procession of faithful people,
yet no crown in sight, simply a tie noose from
the political suit... and that's why a distant
voice almost wants to trip up on the question
whether there's democracy in that shady part
of the world... or as the canadians put it:
america and it's lollipop women - tartan tarts
of criss-crossing ventures back into adolescence
and opening up a macabre wardrobe -
we have the aces, they have but four queens -
the fifty five belgium sized countries in the
mid-west... open fields and tornadoes -
but these sort of moments do not come directly
from you - it's bound to happen
upon the plough of dried ink on page  525
of the LXXX... so many influenced J. Joyce,
T.S. Eliot...and his own work rather, crudely -
left to rot in the slaughterhouse,
an animal slaughtered for no reason other than
to hang and rot... sheered by neglect,
or the ad hominem principle not understood -
obstructed - a thousand black-shirts from
the Mussolini tribe left the world in lesser rags -
it takes a lot of patience to not see certain
pop-ups of words are directing, geographically
orientating in the mind - it's not an instruction
manual sometimes, there's no 4x screws of such
and such to put-together a table... sometimes
music takes over - and the sounds escape like
helium from balloons in an air-tight room -
one person in it, maybe two -
not necessarily an instruction manual, a worth
a copy manual - but still canto LXXVII or LXXVI
were overcome like his overcoming the
cage-cell he cited in at Pisa in the heat and
wet-donkey-slobbering of the snout -
they say it's all downhill after the escape from Pisa...
well... an intelligence in an asylum will hardly
make compliments on the matter, hence a second
return to the land of ice cream and Renaissance
painting galleries... where they craft a beauty from
stone like the mountains majestic... very few geometrics
were minded for the finishing touches -
they kept the buildings low on purpose,
not unlike the sky-scraping majestic but left with
a ² grid: ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ,
where then the Roman Belshazzar? nowhere,
not even with the first roman-jewish war,
suckling up to the **** of Nero's oblivion in song
on the lyre while comparisons were made
between him and Casimir III of Poland -
in proverb:
zastał Polskę drewnianą, a zostawił murowaną -
after the great fire of 64 a.d. -
rome, rebuilt in stone and marble...
hardly a reason to claim equal the incident of
the Reichstag fire of 1933... only in remote places
where much harvest is to be done,
does a solitary house equate itself to a city -
we'll never mind the baker,
but we might as well mind the words:
                we have a pretty witty king,
                and whose word no man relies on,
                he never said a foolish thing,
                and never did a wise one -
after all, why not insult when no one recognises
the insult - for fear of being reminded
of the guillotine... no, the guillotine was yet to
be invented... imagine all the lumberjacks of
spiny bone having to desecrate an entire host
of de Pompadour all pampered - then suddenly
without wig or perfume on the scaffold.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 3
8:28 Sunny Sunday Marching 3rds
(3/3/23)

<>

as per usual,

(tho my fingers strangely type ‘per Isaiah’)

commencing at my beginning with no
direction home, an entitled title asking
for complete composition, and your
attentive compensation, threatening
to sue for “failure to finish,” a crime
for which I’ve served many a year behind
the bars of my ever increasing
TO DO file

but struck am I this morn by the poetry
of the common place, the phraseology
that we use without momentary cognition,
the every~day verbiage that, within lies
perhaps veins that deserve mining for
nouveau riches

and we get what we deserve,
no more, no less, but when
I inquire who has decided this
measured cup of justice and
painted the lines of liquid fluidity,
or just vanilla inspiration, a one
hand clap and a mocking hoot is
returned  reverberating as in an
empty spelunking cave

we are all experts in the ordinary
diurnal doors that require opening
by morning, closing by night, while
waiting for that “break that would
make it ok…from the wreckage of
your silent reverie”^


yesterday was my birthday,
no, it was not, but I’ll pretend
to have that right to make the
summary judgements that the
spirits and harlequins, who,
now revealed as my silent mockers,
none
the less, no more, no,
lessening,
I am rendered,
split asunder, by the sentence I’ve self~
impose down on my conscience and
constitution

balance does not require balancing,
more bad than good, wrecked and wracked
by the un~proportionality of my unbalanced
imbalance, what flaws, what traits,
what genetics,
what misapprehensions, foolishness, led me into
this straying straight life, of no more, no
less

and I quit here for the answers do not appear,
and that voice says you need a shave, go!
look in the mirror and revelations will dance, emanating from your eyes who bear witness to all,
no more, no less




^ Sarah McLachlan, “Angel”
ellis danzel Apr 2016
i had just given up,
on coffee,
when i met you.

but your life is coffee.
so my heart just agreed.

i love when you put your arms around me.

but listen, i need you to pace this out correctly.
i need you to just hold on to me.

cling to me like a spy
on a grappling line.

and i swear,
i honestly don't mind
if you smell like wine.
sometimes.

i've been meaning to write more poetry.
but i'll probably never use this.

for it to turn out presentable...
i guess would my only wish.

because i needed to find a way
to say i love you
without having to stumble
over a bunch of other words.

that can wait till Wednesday.

but i bet that is something,
you already knew.

look, let me just say that
i am afraid of falling for you.

my track record is not so great,
and i've got a lot of activist work on my plate.

and what is the distinct possibility
that you and i,
could give each other what we need?

i'm just so terrified,
that you might leave.

my life has been full of a lot of ****** things.
i don't need another chance to be broken.
and it's been a few days since we've spoken.

i don't care how long it takes...
i'll stick around.

i feel like something
you picked up from the lost-and-found.

or a pathetic puppy from the pound,
like those dogs Sarah Mclachlan talks about
in the ASPCA videos.

i was homeless once.
does this mean that me i qualify
for this new space
to take the place of my new home?

the first time we ever had breakfast together,
you made me sit on the counter
while you were busy at the stove.

little did i know.
i fell in love that day.

and i hope you can find that to be okay.
because *******
i love you.
i don't know what this is. i guess this is how i feel.
however, there are all different sorts of love that exist in this world.
i don't want to categorize mine, but i do know that everything that i said is true. this person makes me feel a certain way. very much the closest thing to love at first sight that i've ever experienced. i am not gonna be hung up on it too much. they just make me feel a way that no one else compares too.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
drinking a kalimotxo gives me the blushes...
and if i could... substitute... my dosage of "terrible liar"
*****... or ms. amber... and i would... gladly...
give my mind and body up to the wine and coca-,

but who's up for...
       recycling wine bottles...
and standing in queues... we're talking...
     8 x 2 =...             16 units...
your typical bottle of wine
is 9 units... circa...
      roughly 2 bottles of wine... per evening sitting...

- clearly someone was busy...
reinventing drinking and...
a "time-machine":
more like... the cameo cinema of memory...

or... candyfloss...
             i never liked drinking with
people...
too much conversation and...
"idiocy" of stressing the moment...
or whatever moment...
evens out... smiling... having a head filled with
a hebrew definite article that's
also... one of the H's
in the tetragrammaton:
i call it... the vowel-catcher...

but if one is the vowel catcher
equivalent to: ah... (a sigh)
   and eh?! (the question being
reiterated with an already presumed faulty reply)...

the laughter: ha ha ha ha...
  beside the point...
       who the hell desires to drink
wine for the taste: a connoisseur...
i'm pretty much sure that i've subsribed to: to drink
a wine... one mustn't "deceive"
oneself with: a spartan detail of a body...
or a spartan body of detail
              (coin flip on in)...
"free will": but still a reminder
that there only consists an argument
of choice for either A or B... etc.
"free will" and the constraints
of choice... give than... eventually:
only two revolve around pushing a vector forward...

or the "thinking thing": i think to **** the sponge...
the brain that i trust to be guided by
its unconscious: nerve central...
and also... a proto-life-form...
i need it to be: an... "empty thing"
    (res cogitans / res vanus respective)...

i drink... and... wait... for pinching
this sponge-life-esque-and-form...
******* flushes of "in vino veritas":
good that the ancient romans
didn't taste *****...
      talk about giggles when being
trapped to crucifix stilts...

  still... the baptism of poland: 966...
the baptism of lithuania: circa 1400...
the emergence of islam: circa 960...
complicated: well sure...
it didn't spread like "wildfire"...
                     only in place where:
prior to: rome left a footnote and mark...
the germans converted...
with the promise of being the revival...
or whatever...
            
                   that's the difference
between a confederation... and a simply: federation...
                    it's a work of ingenuity
that by export: there's the united...
    which isn't exactly "united" at all...
i digress... the wine the candyfloss...
and... the vanguard...
                nibbling on history while
journalism is asleep...
and this is very bad nibbling...
this is how you don't eat a drumstick
of chicken... unless...
you are fond of your dog...
or you entertain the idea of vultures...

journalism and history...
                and something of a poetry in between...

how was the "united" implied...
                         the circuit... and d.c. stresses
that there be no confederacy...
   like... it's a nice chant...
        u.            s.                    a.!
       finally h'america opened up and
we stopped hearing the music and stopped
watching the movies...
and no one really cared that much
about walt whitman over "    'ere       "...
truth be told: or better still! no truth!

here's a lovely bunch...
                  meredith brooks...
                            alanis morissette...
                  cheryl crowe...
                                      sarah mclachlan...
                          suzanne vega...
                    
         oh i'm missing my: have to find
the proper hound to shoot down these angels
from the sky...
                            
             something new: something's always new...
something to be it in the bottom drawer...
to settle for the niche...
to be the better grieving when the tsunami
politely asks for the key to the lock:
bursting forward...
              it was promised... some time ago...
that jack johnson was going to be the next
bob dylan...

                      yep... a hammer is going
to be a "new" hammer and all those... stubborn
nails... and all those... stubborn clouds...
mmm... yep: and all those stubborn constellation
of stars...

to drink: is to giggle: and keep the truth
as a postcard: pushing it into a mailbox...
without a stamp or somehow underpaying a
fraction of the stamp:
having the receiving end of the "matter"
to cough up the... "details"...

           perhaps this part of history is about...
being resolved to having a period
of: history as nostalgia...
perhaps it's not exactly: a repeat mute button
of groundhog day...

perhaps this part of history is:
nostalgia as history...
      outside of a refernce pointer:
          joan jett or susanna hoffs...
                      all that and the posit of:
well... d'ugh... no **** sherlock!

exhausted or there's still that flicking
of a flame a lacklustre fling for a / with a past...
               as ever: a portion wakes up: while the rest
are gladly falling asleep in the forever dreamworld...

pour the wine! choke on the bloke jokes!
pour the wine! we can fathom the idealists...
we can fathom the romantics...
but we'll sooner come to grips with:
gimp masks and snares of the idealists...

that ol' case of love: in theory...
never muddled: never muddied...
never to be exhausted... by the already available:
grey: elder world of people making
happiness from an unobstructed commute...
nor that: emblem: of tapping a stand-still
"perhaps" dance of a bus arriving late...
minor conflicts: that most certainly
become major elevations to
transcend the day...

                     a questionable narrative...
of all thought: no pen put to paper...
a "questionable" and "narrative"...
  "thinking" and... all of that baggage: shucks!
into the aether it goes!

      as ever: a welcome goodnight...
with christopher young's: hellraiser II soundtrack...
and... for all the ***** that... a rod stewart...
he's still mostly adamant on...
his train-set...                with that sort of reality...
i can, with ease... check in and out of...
for: however many years rod still has in 'im'
consecrations and bull-sacrifices...
and a yawn of moloch... a good night's bargain
of sleep.
Vincent Singer Jul 2018
With the proceedings completed,
What remained was recollecting:

1, A Vigil

Where the mourners aligned themselves to weep or stare
Into the casket, amazed by the skills of the mortician,

“She looks at peace,” they said to us, calmly brushing her cool
Head before walking back to their seat, thinking about when they



Last saw our mom alive, something her
Friend Rhonda remembered vividly,

Barley able to walk from the diabetic neuropathy, Rhonda worked her way
Over to the couch where my sister and I sat, leaning heavy on her right
Crutch to outstretch her left hand:

“If I close my eyes, I can still see Kitty thumbing the tab of her Coke can at my dining table.
We were going back and forth about our New Years plans. She was a good woman, your mother, and a great friend to me. She will be missed by so many. I’m sorry.”

She was sweating and had swollen eyes, we smiled and
Nodded and squeezed her hand back, we said thank you and
Took the first opportunity to run downstairs,

Sarah McLachlan’s version of “In the Arms Of An Angel” played as
Theme music to the eulogies. One given by our dad, who reminded
Everyone that our mom worked nights at the hospital. He said by his
Count, she had probably held over 10,000 babies before she was sick,
10,002 if you included my sister and me. The thought lingered,
The silence persisted, and the song played again,

Now the background to a tribute given by our mother’s parents, who remembered
Raising a daughter that bought a motorcycle and decided to visit
Them on it as often as she could, no matter how much they disapproved, she was
A rebel but they loved her, they said they had six babies go to God
Before she came into the world, in the arms of an angel was the chorus of the song,
And they believed this is where their daughter was now,

In the parlor basement I overheard these snippets in between
The fizzy sounds of Coca-Cola being poured into my cup,

2, A Funeral

Everyone together in mass, listening to
“On Eagle’s Wings,” sung by the choir,

Everyone smelling the Holy Smoke being wafted
By the priest as he approaches the casket, now
Positioned below the altar and colored by the
Dappled light of the sun piercing through
The stained glass,

In sermon he says to double-down on worship, and rejoice
That Kathryn will soon be in the halls of Heaven, a sorrowful
Blessing, a product of the paschal mystery,

“It was her time,” he said,

Everyone prayed the Apostles’ Creed and the priest
Asked for us to focus on the part about ascendance
And everlasting life, how we will see her again when

It’s “our” time,

I focused on the part about descending into hell and
A three-day resurrection, I wondered if there was
Any way my mom could be stuck in purgatory,

Leaving me without her in that other world,

With my family and I in the center pews, we were
Surrounded by stares, everyone consoling from their
Various positions in the church, friends I played
Recess football with were now looking up at their
Parents crying for us,

Instead of meeting their eyes, I gazed straightaway at
The six-foot crucifix looming above my mother,
Sullen and skinny, pale and bleeding,

I wondered if it had ever fallen from its place,
And if so, whose job is it to remount our savior?

As the pallbearers lifted mom from below the
Altar and headed toward the door, my dad noticed
Me crying and said to not wipe the snot on my sleeve,
So I sniffed it up and proceed to leave with the congregation.

3, A Burial

In a five-car procession, all my family drove
From our house to the cemetery after a breakfast
Of sliced and sugared grapefruit, in memoriam  
Of her favorite way to start the morning,

Her casket was already on the lowering device
When we arrived, the wind was strong, pulling
The grass in between the headstones from left
To right,

I decided to wander around the
Other plots, spelling out the names
Of the dead and feeling in awe about
The fact that I’m standing over someone
That was buried in the 1910s,
I started to hear the bagpipes play “Amazing Grace”
When over my left shoulder I noticed my dad calling me
To throw a fistful of dirt as the grinding gears brought her
Casket down.
CJ Sutherland Aug 10
How do you know
      What you don’t know
 If you don’t know it?

Do you know what I mean?

How do you know
What you forgot
   If you forgot it?

Do you know what I mean?

How do you know?
   
( it’s A pet peeve
when I hear that phrase )

If I knew what you meant,
there would be no  
need for Conversation
extrapolating, an explanation!

In the blink of an eye
He climbed the corporate ladder
Known for his business acumen
Now He stares off into space
speaking to no one there

Losing our memory happens
  to us all as we get older.
We walk into a room and
forget why we entered.

We forget what we
were going to say.
Constantly losing things
that are right there
in front of us

I can’t even imagine
looking at my love of
40 years and don’t know
who that person is

Alzheimer’s or Dementia
is not only ******* the patient,
but it’s devastating
for the people around them.

It happens so gradual
people don’t notice.
Until it’s unrecognizable.


Inspired songs ;
1)I will remember you,
By Sarah McLachlan 1995
2) memory by Barbra Streisand, 1981
3) Old photographs by Jim Capaldi 1981
BLT Webster’s Word of the Day
Acumen 8-9-24
Keenness in depth of perception, the ability to think clearly and make good decisions, especially in practical matters to discern

8-5-24 Joe Biden was speaking on his memory loss. He said He knows what He knows.
How do you know?

— The End —