Saturday, August 28, 2010

airplane nocturne (a notapoem)

Time's irrelevant.
No one's famous in economy.
14 hours to remember scrapes
___and Mondays you wouldn't
___otherwise think of.

She asks me about an ex,
says she likes hearing stories.
___I tell her.
___lose my appetite.
"If it's all done why did it put you in a bad mood?"
"Life maybe, the whole of 2008
feels a bit like I got up too fast."

and when we land, gravity is restored.
___put back on its shelf.


The handsome man besides me opens
a letter addressed to 'Mr Big Muscles'.
All our troubles, and yet, these women still love us.
(I have a note on my cell phone that reads:
"I've left a secret message for you, under one of the books
on your shelf. Good luck finding it")

Every time I board a plane I feel like I've left somebody behind.
The woman to my left says she has a 2 year old and a 4 year old waiting for her at home.
(I think of the drawings you made in the dust of my bedside lamp.
Two hearts and a Star of David. A whole astrology
___when I return will be hidden)

"Dear Mr Big Muscles"
secret messages under books
an astrology of goodbyes.
a devoted science.


It's dark
A few reading lamps here and there
The red control panel digits
strange noises of shadowed figures stirring and breathing.

Darkness, splattering of light,
noises that can't surmount the silence -
my god I think, s p a c e .


"Will I come to the gate?"
"no, this is fine."
"ok then."
"uh huh."
"no kissing other boys while I'm gone."
"die. I hate you."
"I hate you."


like memory.
the volume inside your head
unfolds and expands to fill the emptiness
the whole of the inside of Moby Dick
some misshapen resemblance
to a universe with my name on it.
though i don't recognize it.


time's irrelevant.
no one from economy will follow you into reality.
it's just a graveyard.
an alley-side smoke break.
Waiting for what's left of your day
to digest into memory,
and for memory to digest itself into an ulcer.
One day someone will write something to explain it propertly.

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