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Baton Rouge health care systems
Benjamin Leger October 26, 2021You probably saw the news about Mary Bird Perkins Cancer Center and Our Lady of the Lake Regional Medical Center parting ways earlier this fall, amid fireworks and strong statements. You’d be forgiven not understanding complexities of the issue—most are keeping tabs on who gets payout, or car, or who ultimately serves facilities we use.
Peace fulfill, grace transform; rapture predict--Seven Seals holdin' firm in Lubbock, Lonestar.
No music long, nor flat for chaotic careers made of clay--unfinished life on Earth among compost, struggles, and sadness--crying red-eyed love in a recycled dress; seedy, naked, winkled saints abandon me for moments of escape into euphoric lands where impossible-to-snare rarebit rabbits dream of hops and barleycorn -- where vision demands you respond too much the moonlit sparsity--too bright its vegetal, embedded, wakeful bats who flit, 🦇 riffing incoherently, four-to-the-bar vamps--supernal Rags--banjo plectrum-fingertips take-off on a theme borne of bordellos -- frailing, flapping, and fondling stern mule-tuning in unfamiliar, uncomplaining, dinning parlors--clawed or plucked--not an ounce of romance to be found. Tourette's verbal insect bites concoct childhood in newly cleared television studios, or test kitchen experiments -- ululating clerics round concentric columns of forborne inertia, wanking on floor; however, unlike the dead, the alive come ready--tomorrow becomes them on their way to live anonymous lives on the lam--all inherent pitfalls falling off, sallying sidesaddle, they remount ignoble, nigrosine, nacreous, coarse🧥 in every design and color--Nature's Versace--mysterious, shiny to magpie-eyed sister of Hell. Morning, sadly exuberant--bitter, sunlit hotlines lay unclaimed--fumid of sweet endurance, satisfying serviceable young women in successive, ever-developing sexual awakening--real-time, real-life. Imperfect memory leaves senses confiscated, hard away music reaches heights--notoriety drowns exposure in a seven-foot-pool--perceived inept, erring experience reaches crescendo--rises and falls in final glowering, end-of-world, equidistant triangles inside triangles--laid bare on square sparkwelders--last 90-degree x 90-degree meet--no angles meet at 180-degree bisection, no angles yet--but angels.
Bud Powell and guests {left blank} marked haints (Thelonious Monk, Phineas Newborn, Jr.), or maybe Bud threw them out with the old lady from deep inside his Glass Enclosure -- the only fit person to live there -- rented from present owner, Tennessee Williams to Mr. Bud Powell and guests. We 'Go' that way, not thinking 'only a tool for a fool' -- one says the way to go one time may still be the way to proceed -- or the arrow points wherever the wind blows it, and that destination been raised for years -- closed like the mule-end of a Flying 'V' -- strong potation plunders energy, makes rivers deep, mountains high--follow less saints in that number.
Jimi Hendrix and soporific folk follow in autonomic diagnosis, having reached antonymic apogee, wherever one finds it--not hiding, but laying-in-wait, may this occur -- automatically storming onomatopoeic sensibility down on the roof, into the house, onto his head. sciiihl'uols
... High whitey privilege makes young folks immune to the only God-given thing never impugned, common-sensical device you yourself heed, because no one can say you've done a good deed; it's yours to exhibit, not Elon Musk's to limit--Holy Ghost altitude with no Glorific interlude--do this for me: high preoccupation, high the Mountain, but I'm only changing at the top.
Rubor—red tears released, calor—hot embraces, tumor—swelling of forgiveness, dolor—pain of new birth--far from attention shown, early morning Breakfast Club treacle used by cult-leaders, whose immovable aspect betray love and money at any price--for all the world--which insinuates heat--some organism approaching empathy or capitulation, dour incitement when they really get what you're selling--and not because you are selling it to obliterate witnesses, brainwashed and programmed--realization once it occurs, deeply ensconced in the universe of a true market.
Apocalyptic charlatans, death-dealing wolves in Ray Bans tweak amphetamine, say 'yes' once--medical bills and rent--now the decision is whether to leave your brainwashed child with cultic nanny, or die with them -- the jungle preferable to the jungle encampment's endemic camouflage--vicing, clathrate jaws pop open like Mercedes-Benz 300 SL.
Pete bed Australopithecus -- Limousin d'abattoirs -- one man's garbage -- la rouge de la puta.
She thought of them now because the pot she smoked was primp Humboldt, specifically Eureka, outdoor grow by two Navy SEALS.
One day choppers came circlin' down, watchin' the light bill match for hydroponic fixtures--they drop over, down, and on top of some Mothers who'd been sitting there quiet, just waitin' to sprout 14-year-old red whiskers--kif, grunts on a beach, peachfuzz tickles from a 30k plant-- some fuckin' HUMBOATER's gonna fly.
David Koresh's eponymous revelation: they don't come, they don't need anything, they wait without LEDs, they write in large letters, they commit to heaven for entertainment.
Dead and beautiful ladies with spleens dance against your sex.
Screaming donkey. Little girl loves donkeys--unties donkey.
Not stunning, South of North America--Tijuana, ugly cities, terribly fondled--simmered, refried, and larded, self-satisfied, upended, appended.
asleep ten AM, May 22, 2020