345


leftover water
from boiling rice grows plants best
no life is wasted

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10 thoughts on “345

  1. The cat is in the kitchen wondering why the rice was not left to boil into that delectable concoction that makes pudding almost blush for its breakfast. I pee in decapitated two-liter sans-label bottles for the nitrogen and trace salts and currently am owned by seven 32- to 55-gallon compost bins which include unsalted water from veg-boils (only potatoes and perhaps corn I find require salt in which to boil edible young life…ever hear a radish scream or a carrot cry is my query to a young wanna-be vegHiterian much to the unamusement of her mother. We do what we can. I am much too (or is that three?) traditional in my arroz…lentils and rice let cool and served with blanched cubed carrots and celery and served in mix with cubed cucumber and shredded salmon with fresh dill and flat-leaf parsley amongst others. Later, Juice.

  2. forgot to add diced sweet onion and sliver-chopped green onions with tops…the dregs of leeks cry for potatoes and cream for their final passage after I harvested their just blackened and bursting with life progeny. My okra is glorious and I shall ask how they’d like some rice-water.

  3. Juice: it is poverty which imposes lifestyle. Spend as much money as you can on sin and the remainder forces frugality and improvisation…after all, spilt beer is worth a good cry…spilt milk can be sopped and either secretly supped or turned into cheese or made into makebelieve ghostblood. I first need to find out why The Mob wants to blogme to death and whom must I appease so as to deflect the fame (or is that blame?). Do advise and I promise to try to find someone to sell me a prepaid card with an acronym at least if not a suspect usurpation of achievement on its face thereby allowing what little wit withal wherein I may share (or inflict). I go now to harvest handheld cannons posing as okra and may have to forage in the local foundfood store for eggplant so as to add to a plucked piece of Foghorn relative to make for a greenish cast to a wonderful soup with rice and lentils and such accompaniment as escaped the last General Sherman forage foray through what passes for Georgia above the non-frozen land of Mr. Carrier’s failed attempt to cure Bad-Air in Pensacola and thence turned all our bedrooms more likely for horizontal excursions.

  4. Poverty is an imposer of many kinds of greatness, my thinking man’s Rambo. You have a unique and compelling writing voice and that cannot be faked or taken away. If you ever get a chance, read the Gingerman, novel of the early 50s, the author Donleavy might be related to you, or at least your style… Stream of consciousness and rapids of conscience in prose is where it’s at…notice I left out poetry or verse which is the red headed step child of American literature or ligature…enjoy the struggle, old son…

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