Cultured

Well, the culture came back to my doc and the bacteria still lives! I have to go onto 28 days of what is usually a five day dose of Cipro to hopefully kill the little buggers this time. Only problem is that I don't do well with antibiotics, so this 28 days isn't gonna be fun. I'm already dizzer and nauseated from the first dose last night. Who knows what may turn up in my blog over these next days...This was meant to be a poetry/graphics/haiga blog but it's turning into a personal journal in the last post and today. Oh what the hey. Variety is the spice of life, right? On the whole, I think I'd prefer Rio, though, as they say.

Here's how the Page Transformer site sees me this morning. (Link to right of my blog)



or maybe...



and....here's a poem I just finished (I think) a few days ago.

Song of the Primroses

...and so it is
Damien Rice

I still keep that old photo you snapped.
Eyes just past childlike; china masked by steel.
The edge of one breast peeks from my half-
zippered jumpsuit. Primroses cluster
beneath the far rail.

Men hustled me then, 
hard as street side gamblers 
when the dice were red hot, but
I chose you--you with the Bob Dylan eyes,
wraith-thin legs, white cotton socks 
peeking furtively from beneath
your creased jeans. Gold ring,
third finger down.

You loved us both.
You never said it, but I knew.

That day. So heady with sunshine,
bright colored birds swooping down 
to the grass for plump lazy worms.
That day. You fell from your straight arrow
ways and finally bedded me.

I settled for a man from Peoria
with legs thick as an oxen's.
We lasted eight years.

The birds are slower these days;.
too many worms get away.
The sun swells like a heartbeat. 
Sweat runs down my back.
I plant extra primroses along my porch rail,
sometimes imagine a westerly wind rising
to carry their scent out to you.

Last month your name lept from a magazine-
some obscure article about spiders, so
I ventured a note.
Your hair has gone gray, you write back.
Work still goes well. Your jeans don't fit, anymore.
You enclose a photo of your grown daughter
and your eyes stare at me from her face.

'I never forgot you', you add, 'but isn't that
how life goes??'


Pris Campbell
©2005