Notes.

There's a waterway outside my home called the Coal Bank Slough.  It's called the Coal Bank Slough, because a slough is a tidal waterway home to the whims and scoles of the weather, the moon, and my own emotions probably.  Sometimes it's brimming with coal, the product of burning so hard and so fast that like a candle breathed on heavily by a step aerobics instructor, it has produced coal.  I don't know how coal is formed, but I understand that diamonds could be created by the lack of support which subsequently causes a massive burst of pressure from a nearby dam flooding the ocean.

There's a waterway outside my home called the Coal Bank Slough.  It's named after the deep sadness suddenly realizing that my life is dedicated to sometime I'm pretty good at but have no interest in.

There's a waterway outside the place I live.  It's not my home because, it's just filled with my sparse aesthetic, my transitional sense of self depended on supportive community and collective interest with peers, dashed against a wall and then collected, and swept into the dust bin.  It got broken in the move.  No.  It was dashed against the wall.  I packed well, but there were no selves here labeled.  They had to go.  It's called the Coal Bank Slough.  A slough is a place where birds and seal and sometimes egrets come and sometimes regrets come and the egrets and the regrets have to fight about whether they really want to live by the Coal Bank Slough so that when I finally get that kayak.

The waterway, coal bank, the otters and the regrets.
It's the saddest place I've ever lived,
And I've lived in the central valley,
And I've lived in Tennessee.

There are big trucks here today and I saw one that said border patrol,
And sometimes I feel like I'm too young to be fighting this shit.
It's like, wars are for old white men, and I'm none of those things.