A chain becomes a path becomes a trap becomes a home. Slop boys inherit
and hold the hands of the inheritable like inheritance. Why fight? only smile.
Rattles below as something done – as movement keeps things moving forward – the
inevitable decline of movement towards fragmentation and inheritance blues. In
the short sense, there’s a lot there to bare. The mirror looking into itself
and proud of its ability to reflect, to respond to – to let the original image
be more than remainder. A justifiable difference of tops on stilts and split
backwards – deep like tackle – fishing for a better bet between. For now, a
soft stub of nature pummeling toward the mechanical soon, with an ink pen stuck
in the neck, by way of reminder, of holding on.
