What you need is an allegory. What you get is
a flight tracker. A 747 darned with popes into the sky.
You want to believe the heavens can contain every possible blue,
every deaf ending, every brilliant asshole that should go down—down
to the smallest sucking noise a lover makes quaffing before orgasm.
A girl dreams and dreams
of growing a perfect tit. A businessman next to her wants
to trim her hair while she sleeps. His high hopes break off,
piece by piece. The plane lumbers through rough haze—like
the color under her eyes—so that the music in his ears might
more clearly see the terror of his prayers.
The hours pile up.
The man doesn't know whether or not to use the emergency exit to
get to heaven. In her sleep, the girl has sold him her body
for nothing. He sits there very still, entranced by her foul
ear—hammer and drum—which is bleeding like a small bird.
| I : |
all the dead bodies you've gotten
yourself into |
| Should : |
what remains after a pudding or a
trifle |
| Trust : |
like a trip paid for by a philanthropist |
| Green : |
as an apple on the nearest tree |
| Leaves : |
the point of having nothing and knowing
how to share it equitably |
| Or : |
the minute of being in the world
but not of the world |
| The Moment : |
|
| Of : |
a piece of scaffolding pilfered from
Cleopatra's Egypt |
| Feeling : |
twilight idol |
| Thought : |
the perfect C |
| Without : |
a full-on kiss minus saliva |
| Traditional : |
when the same actor plays Captain
Hook and Mr. Darling |
| You : |
every last thing stars |