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Hanging out
In your blind spot
You'll accidentally
Notice me
An aviation sleight-of-hand:
Random flight plan

Strange admission
This war of attrition

No friendly skies
No wings of hope

Flagship wanderer
High above the clouds
Gliding like a phantom

Holding its place in line
By sailing incognito

Without a stitch of cargo
Or living company

No laughter
No banter
No bag of nuts
Nothing for the flight recorder
To remember

Only a lonely figure
In the cockpit
Throttling down
A descent into madness

Keeping slots warm
And bodies cold

“Ghost flights” of the aviation industry: Chartered to fly around the world – sometimes just around an airport – simply so airlines can hang on to takeoff and landing slots.
I saw an old man crying at
the precipice of his sanity,
ten stories above the sea,
and the world at his feet, a helo-deck:
a principality that had the worn out lay of home.

So trivialized.
So fantasized.
So immobilized.
Transmitting pirate-radio-waves eternally.

Seized the tower.
Hoisted the flag.
Crowned the queen.

"I've no blood right, only a passport," he said. "But do have the right mindset: I can't leave, we're so dangerous. Don't be a stranger now, we'll never be this dangerous again..."
I see you looking back at me,
but I have no memory of you,
no name or event to link us
as kindred soul.

There's a sun playing
expressionless games
about to fall from the shelf,
my feet may burn, but never my heart.

My mirror is a broken window,
the broken window, a city,
and a man and woman
are crossing into it,
—crossing my mind,
fused together.

Their laughter like
claps of thunder,
bursting forth in a sky
devoid of any signs of me...
where dreams
and laundry
there are vast
wardrobes of imagination

of dawn:

a sunny place
for shady people.

Long shadows
on the lawn
of a thin pixelated
in parade
of blood red

But your curtains
are always

You hide
smooth and sterile

Finish your
and stay for

Buildings aren't
people are.

"Leave the lights off and on,
I feel mysterious tonight,"
she says.

"Every time you look different,"
replies her careful ecstasy.

Practice makes perfect,
and from chaos comes 💋 (kissing).
She floats free from
her own body's outer reaches:
The mirrorball and the mystic circle.
The mirrorball is a light
for attracting attention.
The mystic circle
is an unsustainable trance.

"Will I dream during the process?" she asks.

"Only if you know the wild that wants you," chants the infinite unsayable yes.

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