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Some more musings on Flight.
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There is a wing of this city that is an intersection. The armpit of feathers that have spilled out of the pillow fight and into the streets. This is the escape elevator that has gotten stuck. Main and Hastings is high. It’s a passenger plane with an explosive cargo. The entire place is up, up, up in smoke. A whole other level above our heads and below our heels.
Main and Hastings is a crossroads that is flying, spinning like a throwing star. An intersection is the shape of a cross and these people fly to Jesus on trampolines spun from overdose catapults that throw them up to heaven like a lawn dart. This is the East Wing. It flies in circles.
The pilots here are blind and the flight attendants are dying. This place is 911 on a loop tape. I see them and I marvel at how close people can get to death. They can snuggle right up to it for years without leaping off the cliff.
They are divers that leave the Olympics shamefully behind as they dive from heights that can’t be measured without metaphor. They are angel wings above sea level. They are a gas tank in a two-seater laughing at the ocean they’re diving towards. They are jets with wrinkles and laughs that can’t stop. They are biplanes with handguns in the hands of the pilots flying through cracked summer skies.
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I think a semblance of something is starting to emerge
tags
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There is a wing of this city that is an intersection. The armpit of feathers that have spilled out of the pillow fight and into the streets. This is the escape elevator that has gotten stuck. Main and Hastings is high. It’s a passenger plane with an explosive cargo. The entire place is up, up, up in smoke. A whole other level above our heads and below our heels.
Main and Hastings is a crossroads that is flying, spinning like a throwing star. An intersection is the shape of a cross and these people fly to Jesus on trampolines spun from overdose catapults that throw them up to heaven like a lawn dart. This is the East Wing. It flies in circles.
The pilots here are blind and the flight attendants are dying. This place is 911 on a loop tape. I see them and I marvel at how close people can get to death. They can snuggle right up to it for years without leaping off the cliff.
They are divers that leave the Olympics shamefully behind as they dive from heights that can’t be measured without metaphor. They are angel wings above sea level. They are a gas tank in a two-seater laughing at the ocean they’re diving towards. They are jets with wrinkles and laughs that can’t stop. They are biplanes with handguns in the hands of the pilots flying through cracked summer skies.
-------
I think a semblance of something is starting to emerge
tags