Sunday, June 31st. 2019
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Indeed, stranded I am. Please refrain from comments if you can.
The heap of books are weathered yellow pages and telephone books. In bygone days
these were left underneath people’s mailboxes. The books fluttered and rustled in the wind,
swollen by rain, faded by sun; their shape transformed wearily.
Transient information turned into a symbol of life. In tatters that what we knew.
Also in tatters that what once could have mattered, a technical logbook bound in aluminum plates; inside, a sticker of the Voyager, Mojave airport. What it really concerned is hard to tell. There is not much logged in, it was never really used, never further cared for.
Just leave me, my own voyage has almost ended, my attempt to avoid the collision was futile.
Oh yes, you Starling bring it on, your metal-tipped dark swirls of horse hair, twisting and splitting. Should I wonder what it means, that wich you bring? Perhaps I already know.
When night falls, you‘ll drop them on me with laughter, just go ahead.
I tell you, my heart was ripped out, so I can't care anyway.
II’ll bind these strands on my feet as jesses, so someone can catch me once more.
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The owl was found close to the abandoned house. Young he was, struck by a truck.
Heart ripped out by a vulture perhaps. I put mine in.
