Apologies to Mr. Eliot.
Hot enough to roast hog on the sidewalk.
|What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow|
|Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,|
|You cannot say, or guess, for you know only|
|A heap of broken images, where the hog wallows,|
|And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,|
|And the dry stone no sound of water. Only|
|There is shadow under this red rock|
|(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),|
|And I will show you something different from either|
|Your shadow at morning striding behind you|
|Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;|
|I will show you fear in a handful of dust.|
And a shot, the hog is dead.
|some bag head|
|horse that mysteriously went from $500 to $3000...|
|Head for Home|
|time we left this world today|
|LSP (center) at the Confiteor|
|Lift high the Cross|