Like Flying
When she said yes, I had no idea
that gravity was about to flip into reverse
and hurl me out the window and into the sky
like a dollar bill on a prankster's string.
But it did.
She waved once, her mouth a startled "O,"
sparks dancing between our outstretched palms.

I found myself bobbing over the suburbs,
picking up speed. Traffic stopped.

A woman in a SUV pulled onto the curb,
and her oldest son stopped hitting his brother
long enough to press his nose flat against
the safety glass. He whined, "Mom, can
I be a flying man?" And with weariness
she felt something snaking out of her throat
to say, "Maybe when you're older."

A pigeon was pacing me for a while, giving me the evil eye --
"hey, buddy," he said, "ain't got no right" --
but the clouds were soft as candyfloss, so
I flipped
him the bird and kept on swooping.

As the air got thin and the sky got dark, storms
below me and stars twinkling all around, I
almost got to thinking about bare skin
and the vacuum of space.
But then it dawned on me,
as the sun peeked over the edge of the Earth:
Who am I to need air? Who am I, to float past the moon
fretting over minor details, sweating small stuff?

Let ice crust my astonished face, my eyes turn into mirrors.
Let Saturn tip its hat to me, and Pluto fetch my slippers.
Let my lungs swell full to bursting, my heart cook in its blood.
Andromeda waits to dance with me and stroke the face of God.

Very nice. Especially the image of "a dollar bill on a prankster's string," the line break in "I flipped / him the bird," and the whole bit about the SUV.

There is poetry in my soul.
Sometimes he tries to crawl out,
but a boot to the face fixes that --
and he tries less often anyway,
nowadays.

I really don't know why I bother;
most nights, he sits there in his s**t
and pokes at and plays with his food,
making little tangles out of the dailies
and clippings and sitcom sauces. Sullenly.
And it's not like his droppings are
solid gold anymore, or his steaming vomit
worth plating up and passing around.

I'd complain, but it's not worth the trouble --
and who has the time now to cook anything?

So what's the point? Half the time,
he just paces back and forth, banging
his head into my ulcer and calling
for his lawyer. I haven't had the heart
to tell him.

Used to be good times, him and me.
I'd drop down scandals and smile,
and get similies back. We spent a whole day
hanging up paintings my first time in Paris
-- and even if he didn't really come through
for me that time, at least we had fun.

But he just doesn't understand. I've got
things to do. I'm married. Got a house.
I don't have time to take him to the park every afternoon. Computer job.
And it's not like he's housebroken.

A few mild shocks might help.

In the days when the sweat-shined sun hung high,
Quiet as mice were we before the windows;
Palm to glass to palm is no less palmers' kiss.

But now beneath such cold and harsh fluorescent glare as this,
We tap electric nothings in our studios
PDA a false memory, and I

When I sleep, dream not of local skies
But cool air, mild days, green and orange meadows,
Sitting on the gates of apple orchards; this dream is

None of our lives, but a stolen season:
Waking to perpetual summer, I rub my eyes and wonder what the lesson is.

Copyright (c) 2003 Nicholas Liu Sheng

By the way, Tom, I loved your poem, but I think it could be strengthened by removing "...I/almost got to thinking about bare skin/and the vacuum of space./But...."

Prelude
Earth is an earthenware container,
containing this:

Thoughts

Who set these limits for me? Sight, sound, touch and all of sensation - why not something
real and immediate? Unfathomable passages is what they are, mazes leading into the mind
that cannot be followed back out.

Time: why is just this one segment of my life’s long serpent here for me?

I feel like I am on the verge of something.

Sensation. A membrane of skin streched across a four-dimensional manifold. The feeling
of time’s flow against it.

Not yet night... a gray sky. What a thing it is to stand beneath a gray sky!

These blood vessels move like mechanical parts - it’s not my will that moves them! I am automated flesh. I feel like a corpse in the making.

[This message has been edited by Destineer (edited February 21, 2003).]

I.

smell the fire: this
is pitch-song. fastitocalon drowns
in a bowl of fire: his
own sweet smell betrays him.

II.

she is the sort born too late.
an earlier age would offer more
to rage against: cf. the burning of bras
cf. the raping of locks
and oh, oh the joys
of picketing the makers of whale-bone corsets.

III.

I eat the flesh and skin and eyes
of fish sadly unschooled
out of their bass natures.

I take inventory:

sockets, rami, branchial arches
muscle, cartilage, pectoral
fin
pelvic, dorsal, anal, caudal
fin fin fin fin fin fin
fin

flesh and skin and eyes.

IV.

fastitocalon passes
water passes fire passes
wind and notes and burns in schools:
you can hear it
but is it keening or siren-song? fastitocalon
drowns in fire.

V.

It is failing of school system! Come, we have
beautiful time. Collon is make crisp and bright,
for your benefit:
Harmony! Artistic! Providence!
Do try our Nippon.

VI.

But during the above speech the play fades, overtaken by dark and music.

"of fish sadly unschooled/out of their bass natures"

And hey, I don't blame you. I'm not sure I can forgive myself for that one.