If I were writing this on a shaking plane, unsure I'd get to Syracuse alive
would there be meaning in these lines besides the one I'm behind
serving? One eye blind with having nothing to see but polyester seatbacks,
the other at the window casting for a view of earth, brain geometrically gemmed
on its surface with neon (city's lurid neurons), matched in the mind
of the observer by one inside the body‹safer than unseatbelted in a cab
perhaps but try to think of something else, my sister's dirty jokes
about snowstorms men and inches. There's snow in every chainlink at the padlocked
basketball court and cursive Walgreen's logo, and like the fan in your waterglass
reduced from fancy restaurant ceiling it seems an illusion, these
propellers on the wings. High wind delayed takeoff, lake effect hits as we land etc.
I don't think about death except in movie theaters. Now in row 9
last row on the plane which rattles with animadversions to continuing
I watch the shadows differ on the wing. Metal steps I'd want to climb
down to tarmac fit like a cozy backflip inside the exit,
not added on at the end like a hero. Going to the bathroom I saw
the cockpit curtain part and all those gauges exposed in dyed light like a
headbanger's catscan! I wrote this when I wasn't sure I'd live and
writer's block reversed like bicycle pump applied to aneurysm. Inflight magazine
crossword puzzle filled in, they assigned me to seat E which looks up the center aisle
if they crash, hammer on the scale, I fly up like the weight that bings the bell.