Flight Time

by Albatross, January 2015




Off a pillow in morning dark
my companion chirps and sing-songs me from dreams with a timely tune
and remembered night click at an a.m. arrived decision
could I have been wrong?
my sleep addled head drunkenly calculates and misappropriates
some skulking time hidden between my bedsheets
No, my friend, we are both incorrect and sleep the tap beneath waking is the bit tapped
Back to my pillow
Hello!
Good morning again my friend
My companion, who I grasp and agitatedly, with blurry eyes
seeking searchingly for lost time, once again greets me
OK!
and slide to the bedside with a deft piece of practiced clumsiness
My companion remains in his nightly dock
whilst morning ablutions drag me robotic
through splashing water, creams and raking threshers that scrape face grains
buzzing blades, humming bristles, cellular murder scenes that scream, I am clean!
Clean!
I am an un-animal preened
Then, uniformed and blend-ready I hop into the saddle of my wheels
Cobalt blue steely speed that once inside I set my companion in his co-pilot place
sink in the pitchfork of usb, and say,
my friend play me something warm under this cold starry sky
and reaching through space, he in concomitance with the entire,
the whole in completeness sounds out boots of Spanish leather
and I think the times they are a-changin'
Three of us in concord ricocheting the streets with swiftness
the turning sphere tuning tones of magma over us
Stay right at the ramp, my companion warns, the airport is but a song away
Goodbye now my trusty speed I must gallop to something faster
and long striding, hauling house in tow through long autonomous walkways
as quickly as you can, my companion says, slow down my friend
We rule the world albeit nature still tells us when we can move
Flight is yet a privilege
Sat in wait my companion tells me stories of friends and fiction
He sings songs only for me in voices few used to hear
Around electronic campfires we wait for battle
and he teaches me to speak Spanish and German
He sends out his carrier pigeons with messages of love to those we love
We are sound in our – what's the word my friend? Travails
Thank you!
He weaves the wrack for me for me
Boarding flight 5723
Up and on we climb aboard the beautiful bombardier
She's rough and tumble, a tiny growler surfing shining cloud wake
The props hum hard and at times certain sung tones will shake her body like shivers
or goosebumps on dips and drops
Spread in her blue dress over fluffy pianos at eighteen thousand feet
she serenades me to sleep
Drowsily after her foot stomp we spill into anthill number two
and the throng carries me along to our next site
Drop down delayed and once again, my companion, he reads me Hemingway
'Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction
and he learned to think and could not fly any more
because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been
effortless.'
My companion is dimming, his energy is fading
Indeed it has been a long day I say to him as his lids close and face darkens
He drains, is drained, and I unawares
I search for some means to keep him sustained
Don't go, I plead, at least tell me of our damaged wings
A last mistap misleads my friend and quotable quotes an app his last gasp,
'Computers are useless. They can only give you answers.'
–Pablo Picasso
Making my way to a stranger screen it boldly announces:
CANCELLED
And I wander the Terminal unanswered alone