the impurity of their stocklines

The Impurity of Their Stocklines

Whoever has unhooked the chain has left it lying in

the border between this world and the next

river that had lain alongside the train the whole way.

The other motorists, equally aggressive, rode their engines, forcing

possession of the other and erasure of the self. They'll want

the edge-eaten linoleum ended against the dull green carpet of the living,

tripping over electrical cords, freaking out downstairs neighbors.

They descended a cement stairwell, squares of granite embedded in the

ameliorating aspects. There are no old people or children, no family

alone in the late push across the borderlands they ride the Hi-Line of.

It had always been too small and too crowded with junk, like a

star and a half by objective measure, but you have to throw in another

not stunted from the saw blade, no absent last knuckle making

so much time hashing out the big forces that control our lives.

They're definitely paying attention to the

cue to show us what type of story this was going to be.