She, palms out, says 'open wide dear'. Sleeve rolled she reaches into my mouth down my throat felt around the blue and white lukewarm like old bathwater she's bent over the white porcelain splashing my insides out pulls the drain and i drain my lungs are empty. She takes my breath away pulls it outta me folds it in fours slips it in her shirt shakes the ocean from her heels and turns. 'Au revoir'. She saves it for later. Back home in Paris and Paris Texas She will roll my breath in cheap cigarette paper with weed sugar basil and chips of caked dirt light up and smoke my memory my reason the songs I sing in my sleep, pentatonic scales i don't know when my eyes are open. i am breathless. i have no use for outside air so soyanara.
i'm digging now. Down and down into the ground. i keep my company with the dead. i breathe in soil and sediment and earth, it smells like gasoline and then it smells like a rain-soaked Houston curb. i taste the fossils of ancient fish and pour on primordial soup like soy sauce (it is an acquired taste). i dig further in the soil and come out the bottom of a cloud and grabbed a hold of it as i came out and hung down for a bit before lettin go.
It is the rainyseason they say. i am six miles over a white blanket named Alaska. It is old and worn and the people count its holes in degrees celsius. She's packed me into the earth like luggage into the hills like a round Texas belly, pregnant, She made Texas into a mother and She's made me in the Pacific's likeness. i have come out of this cloud dirty. i have planted my arms inside my own formless frame palms out fingers stretching out like tree roots stretching out a waking sore Morning.
With one hand i hold myself together, caught hold a second wind and my blades spin again they stir the thin air and whistle out a song which becomes another sky for You. With the other hand I hold this gale and hold it hold it till i cough out six miles up. i sound like thunder and look like a storm comin.
i part the haze like a curtain slit.
And then fields made of neon lights humming red white red white yellow purple ah ah kay kee kay oh kay. It shines a different shine. It dresses up in brushstrokes. Ink. Cherry blossoms sing and sway west, bowing down and down into a Far West i call home.
i am reaching for the furthest branch.
i learn its song in all the pink,
a sedative
hymnal, nodding off
and shot cross the sky.
i skirt my way around the dimensions of time it is two moments at once.
6:07 in the pm
8:07 in the am
565 milesanhour
909.279 kilometersanhour
31869 miles traveled
51288.184 kilometers traveled
26000 feet up
7924.8 meters up
and years and years yet to go
how many i know not.
In my dreams it seems all I do is move
faster than my eyes can focus on one thing
see,
these are the most real.
We are at the crest of this Arc.
Midway through it all it open-mouthed where only thin threads of light are left.
You fill
in the yawning
blank.
This Boeing ain't a plane no more. We stand on a Great Stage falling stuck in a tailspin on fire. i am dressed up like a pilot, scarf goggles jacket patches and all. We all fly alongside the Sun dog fighting across the Pacific "comeandgetit" written on the soles of our boots razor teeth painted on the sides (i am
warhawk
tomahawk
kittyhawk
spitfire
zero
oscar
betty
bomber
flying tiger
you have met demons masquerading as airplanes
seen them dance like birds and whistle birdsongs through giant fuckin' turbine engines they got booze and fire on their breath the illegitimate second cousins of dragons.
i am allofem).
this is me, doin' that dance now hands around the Sun's hips stepping on her toes on accident. If you fly close enough and stare into its blindness and out again you will see a small girl with ashy grayed hair and cheeks blackened with soot pullin' the Sun westward that same fishing line over the big Blue gaping between far East/West coasts on the other side of the timeline bent where alpha meets end. She is small and insignificant and invisible against all the burning yellow and orange but Her hands hold great things, anything She wants. Her small fingers tap islands like piano keys push fault lines like organ stops. At night She skips home to a pocket of space that She carved out her own hand and watches you peeking through her bedroom door slightly cracked open 'cause She's scared of the dark of metaphysics and can't sleep with theory hiding quiet waiting under the bed. She won't come out all the way, no not for you, not until it's her turn to carry the fire and the light so she pulls it west like a wagon filled with lightbulbs illuminated by the static-electricity! of her imagination. She is shuffling around now, rubbing Her feet and the socks on them across a sunspot-stained tanbark that will tell her stories if She blows dust off her lips and puts her ear down flat on the floor. Her tongue is glass with a copper tip. Falling further down this line She will one day kiss the ocean mouth open with tongue, set the ocean bed on fire, magnetize the islands to reverse the continents outward drift and show us Eurasia again, i can dream can't i. ok.
Out of the airplane window i ask her name. She says She doesn't know and even if She did, She wouldn't tell me. (In time I will learn that name, for now we shall say 'She is Ameterasu She is blinding and and tidal and radiant.) With the other hand She tugs at our plane, the string running on the inside and through us.
We are marionettes. All of us.
Strung together in rows suspended at what was it? 36000 feet over the Bering Sea. The lines are thin, so thin they are invisible to the untrained eye, so thin you have to be utterly covered in gasoline and/or gunpowder to ever notice them. They are tied to the drums in our ears. We can't hear from all the blasts. A man two seats over holds up his string and we frantically tie together our loose ends in a bow and still we do not speak the same Language...
(maybe if we turn around fly the other way round and round the years and find the coast of age Two, the terrible polyglot two's, that ain't sand on the beach it's sugar.)
So i open my mouth and put my fingertips on my tongue. It is tied up in a tangled ball of string like fishing line allfuckedup on the pole She threw in the gasoline garage corner not lookin' twice damn idiot kid. shit. we're goin down. i try to pull it out and undo the mess but the string is caught on my teeth, that same fishinline diving into the wet brown rocks down there at the end of the jetty, watch where yer castin' the thing Idiot Kid, out to the left come on now. we're goin down. and so i sit...
at the end of this jetty. i am tied up in the fishin' line (Idiot Kid right?) my ear remains tied to the man at my side. We each fall asleep and listen to the others' dreams. i hear in him the Pacific stirred by the sharp point of a spear while his mother hums an old kitchen song, ocean churned like butter to create islands and typhoons. The other man hears in me Bing Crosby for the first time ever.
we're goin down.
we are marionettes all of us.
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