"Flight Twenty-One Thirteen"

"Flight Twenty-One Thirteen"

The beast wakes beside me,
harnessed to the wing like a
creature of labor.
Sputtering in disgust,
the engine drones wearily
as it pushes along,
circling the tarmac
like a poised hawk.

The engine whines in pain,
a captured stallion,
as it lumbers down the runway,
a whine quickly crescendos
into a wail of agony
as the pilot whips it
from the safety of the cockpit,
taming it anew every day.

As my prison lurches skyward,
I feel a certain kinship
toward the creature to my side,
trapped in this steel shell
like tinned tuna,
hapless of escape,
wedged between a
perpetual grandmother and
an Old Spice extremist
(A nasal terrorist in my mind)

Desperate for reprieve,
I stare down the icon before me,
as oppressive as any military coup.
The seatbelt blinks out,
and I make my escape,
forging pass the fellow beside me
(his odor no less tangible),
and into the aisle.

Peanuts (of all things)
block my path
as the flight attendant
struggles with the cart,
granting me a horribly
fake smile.
(Not so pearly whites)
I lean heftily on a nearby seat,
flailing my left arm like a drunk,
attempting to keep balance,
a man devoid of sea legs in air.
The passing cart forces me
to dig deeper into
a tangle of legs,
an awkward moment.

Back in my seat I did despair
as granny slumped over,
asleep on my shoulder,
gaging my gaze to the right,
where I beheld the sight
of two peanut wrappers
peeking up from seat hamper.

Mr. Spice stole my luncheon.

Stuck in this prison,
I glanced out the port,
and somewhat beheld
an epiphany of sorts.

Clouds sailed the heavens
like long-forgotten angels,
watching over the world
like mystical guardians,
granting reprieve
from the well-meaning sun.

And the amber sun,
brilliant as a fresco,
was saying its goodbyes,
a circle of honey
in heaven.

And though this mixture
of milk and honey
was food for the soul,
it never compared
to the sight down below.

Forested mountains,
and mountains of forests
painted the ground with life,
natural life, empty of
the corruption of man.

Yet man left its mark,
a beauty of its own.
Highways ran like veins
across the land,
clotted with traffic,
pumped by the beating
of cities galore.

Rivers ran twisted
like forgotten
strands of yarn,
flowing, pulsing,
the true blood of nature,
feeding the foilage,
muscles of nature,
which seemed to flex
in the bright sun.

Then came the beaches,
born off the shore
like protruding nails,
yet soft as
freshly bleached sheets
pulled straight from
the dryer.

And land the plane left,
and huffed over the ocean,
a brilliant hue
under the endless blue.
Sails dotted the sea
like particles of dust
in a shaft of morning sunlight,
that is if dust
was born of feathers,
and could ripple the sun.

And beyond in the distance
there lay the endless,
shimmering horizon,
a razor's edge
able to slice the sun
and give birth to the dawn.
It spoke of promises,
of lands unseen,
of days yet to come.
And in the horizon
all days are one;
what was, is, and shall be
all breathing deeply
within the same womb.

Although my body
was trapped
within the bowels of
this capsule,
my eyes were forever free,
slaves to no one;
not even to me.

Spice gave a start
and my mind smacked
back into my head.
Granny snored louder
and grunted into my shoulder
making me wish
I had been much bolder
and throw off the lady
and throw out the hatch
to swim with the eagles
and fly with the whales.

Yet here stuck was I,
so I took up my headphones
and pondered the sky.