calm and
crazy, somewhat out of
the blue, some
kind of co-pilot breathes
classically,
the gunpowder
cast of the fuselage,
duly behind the
lead weight of his door,
now pounding and screaming
mercilessly,
leave it to strains
of black-box
suffrage and lonely
spots on the moon,
leave center of all notions civilized,
there’s nothing those
cockerels can do
as rugged as window-seat bookings
can be don’t wave them adieu
cavalierly
this can’t be allowed Smerdyakov
is swelling a kind of mischief inside me
to scramble this soupçon of crazy
itinerantly
all systems down as schooldays drown
in the splash of the honcho’s need to
pee
Intriguing, Dan, to imagine the voices of that eerie moment. I found myself trying to do the same today, and while I could not quite fathom the quiet breathing of the copilot and could only barely guess at the desperation of the outside pilot, I came up with this for the 150 others:
ReplyDelete...And I was only going here to there,
thinking my fate was somewhere far beyond
the scenery
of 40,000 feet
below me. 30,000... 20... 10....
So steadily
we dropped without a care
until we heard the pilot pounding on
the cockpit door, and from our side,
replete
with irony: "God damn it, let me in!"
which set us all to screaming
through the air
into the mountains, somewhere in between
the day dreams of our German destiny
and memories
of standing on the ground
in Spain, purchasing tickets, unaware
of where an hour later we would be.