The Man on the PlaneThe man on the airplane
said-- Just keep flying West You will never grow old. This place is a museum Dusty leather boots From yesterday’s seekers, They belong to tomorrow too. It is West (in the airplane way) the delta (so to speak) emptying relics from Roman times with glaciated steps; God’s footprints run rampant, shaped like a moon cycle And dinosaur bones. To think that some people live without breathing in and out In one motion Moving about in lines without realizing that straight lines are relative only playing childhood connect-the-dots without panning out to admire the whole photograph. Most people don’t hear the deep voice of ancient vibrations the bass line underneath that soft sweet melody We can all sing it (if we try). I’m uncertain if memory is now I keep finding dead hairs (are they alive?) Underneath my feet looking down to shade daylight from the lick of morning. And flames caress the spaces between my toes and fingers forgetting permanence for another day of neurotrickery God lives here in the mountain heart. She was excavated—raped really-- one-hundred years is a speck of dust It happens day by day. No one knows how to put her stones back; we marvel instead at Hollywood days before the burst And try to stand on top of her excavated brain space. |