Flight is an inhuman endeavour.
The wingless do s-o-a-r
through jet-propelled
audacity.
Such nonchalance for the
impossible adventure.
We carry a little picture book.
Our right to identify, privilege
to defy.
Our confrontation of evolution, or God -
whichever you please
in such matters.
Each accompanied by a box: black, on
wheels, functional, unremarkable, as we
are. Our 'stuff', just 10 K.G's.
The crap to be strewn over an indian mountain,
shallow Russian bog or, if merciful,
incinerated to ash.
How I often stare at plastic, neon
headrests awaiting a fireball to
envelope us all. How remarkable we all are
partaking in the sublime. My face finally resting
on tabloid front pages.
And we do jostle, push and queue for what?
Overcoming nature and and and and? No.
I extend my middle phenotype at overhead
locker space. Yes!
And they want to charge me to piss! Fuck you.
I sit in a field of tall, lush grasses
and hand my vision to the skies.
We defy gravity for brief moments, little else.
And looking as the crow flies against high clouds
I am satisfied.
