ruined entrances
The Historian
Thu Feb 6, 2020 01:38


took a room at the Colonial Motor Lodge, sat down at the
and began to write.
"What began as a dream eventually developed into a log
cabin, over time eroding into ruins, memory, and finally
dream again."
Outside, winter laid ox-bows of wet light onto the park.
Life forms clicked and clawed at the soil that had locked
them out.
A kid stood there, about to break a green bottle. Life was,
once again, very lifelike.
" that the dead are anyone's property."
A man sat on a park bench, seemingly torn between waiting
and remembering.
"I'm haunted by the insistent pulse I hear while scuba
diving, by the idea that the mind might climb to wider
scopes or simply cram the night with taxis ..."

A cardboard colored dog paused downwind from the offices
of Southern Pulmonary.
" ...torn between waiting and remembering, our minds are like
candles in a crevasse, potted plants in an unfinished
It was here at this very intersection, two hundred and ten
years before, that the governor's carriage had come through
and turned over in the rutted road.
"but the now keeps coming. It's like wrestling your
father. He pins you down and you cannot move."
The heap lay silent. Wig powder billowed out the windows.

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