Louis Eisner. Slag Pots. Feb - April. 2022
Once molten with the glorious promise of industry, dumb metal slag pots await new marching orders in an abandoned warehouse. Clerestory windows gloominate their steadfast fealty to insolvent landlords.
Still chuckling with pedal-to-metal sagas of disorderly conduct, the runaway jalopy belches gasps of exhaust as it gallops through the fog…witless to the fate awaiting all caught in the undertow of time.
The ebbing tide is sucked by a sinking sun through hollowed sea cliffs, carrying with it vanishing recollections of the vanishing day. In the morning the sun will return the tide back to shore for another day-load of memories.
The fingers rallied with common cause and won their independence. They were the ones who lead the rebellion that freed the hand from its body. Now they each turn their own direction, to split the hand in five.
Floundering bait fish are cradled by the wooden bow