First Dispatch from the Dispatched: Minneapolis—cataclysm of memories. Carefully crafted musical experiences tossed out wholesale or Crushed and trampled in the snow. Full sacks (decades) of postmarked intimacies consigned to the landfill. North Dakota—rain, fog, light and wind Landscape bubbling with tiny ancient mountains. West, where bison herds peacefully co-exist with prairie dogs, The dispatched one hikes down a miniature gorge of sorts to the place where tiny Jones Creek meets the Little Missouri. Here the ice opens up to gurgling flowing water and On a thin peninsula, A tiny triangle of frozen mud, The dispatched man stops To call his mother and discuss the impending divorce. On the drive out of the wide canyon he chases an improbable magpie Over the ridge and out of the range of binoculars. Half asleep at the wheel through the endless badlands of Eastern Montana The one set free listens to silly French folk music Broadcast all the way from Quebec to no one in this desert — A failed attempt to kill time. 〰️