Went to the court house only to learn the originals were never further than a phone call ( or email) away.

 

03.02.26 tuesday.

There is nothing to the end where the land stops , splintering it's self over upright /bodies. Old children like rocks . The shore is like tooths and knives, cut from the breast of the land until the main body finding it's own decay weeps across these newly formed lines. Following it's own reflection, lamenting the path. A violent drift to a death spoke often. These places that fall, folding over themselves, with bright lips and words that stray to deep discovery. Gaps prised apart/open in hands stiff with cold. lost derivations/ derivatives, a heathen thing. A calling to the void. The land, metamorphosing it's soul. MB

04.02.26

There's nothing but the burn, the sinking of the line, hope capsized, made tawdry. Bought into service, then fostered away. Scrubbed of all memory, like a lost line, to dead people. The last small link beyond the movement of the galley ships MB

05.02.25

She had nothing to say about the boy, about his life, about the forces that had undone him, bathed him in their harm, she was skimming above it, ignoring the drown, or maybe just fighting/waiitng for something to either click or pardon, She had been harmed in a way that was too subtle. It sat like a weight below the line, a kind of late tarryness of spirit, that said, the train/ despite one's best hopes; would not come. A combined weight that had walked away with too much left on the table. His share and hers. She was the feeder stream for both. His release valve broken. So she carried this rock, stowed, at eye level, always in view, flat and round, and wide. It obscured the horizons, with an etched sight line of broken, blessings, till she was no longer there. That was what was now disrupted. These old towns are all the same, drawn up behind nonsense, small people milling around, keeping to the board walks, eyeing strangers with caution; keeping their love hidden.. MB