thin_blue_line raze the wind punches plastic garbage pails to teach them humility. no lids to keep the dirt inside their heads from getting loose. i hold my fists where i can see them, guarding against whatever assault to the senses this weather might invent. some wounded animal on two legs moans or sighs. i choose not to interpret the message, though i spoke this language once. cars with tuneless voices sing songs that won't stand the test of time. a blue line of artificial light makes a thin beam in the dark sky, a dull blade that won't cut through anything it can't keep, and i'm only wounded enough to wonder where the handle went, and what the hands that held it were wet with when they lost their grip. 220118 what's it to you? who go blather from