paper air planes made out
of tiny pieces of a torn up heart
they are red
but they have these streaks of black in them
it is a terrible blackness like rotting
thats unhappiness
it is poison
paper airplanes
tiny paper airplanes
he folds them quick and quiet at the stone wall
end of the driveway
at the bus stop where little old ladies dither away
long summer afternoons
tiny paper airplanes dogfight in the air
watch one go down in flames
made of the ripped up pieces of a broken heart
they are red
like fire trucks for the burning desire for her soft flesh
like alarm bells to warn off the unwary
they are red
tiny paper airplanes
one slips free
sees a cloud high up there where no paper airplane has dared
so far up in the wide open sky
none have ever even dreamed such a thing
he slips free and climbs
faster and higher
he climbs
free

I had to run to the store today at lunchtime
we were out of paper plates
we had a party last night
and didn't want to have to do dishes again

While there and while moving quite quickly
although in the shape I am in, "quickly" is being very kind to myself

I came across a man
In a blue blazer
with yellow shorts and
knee-high yellow socks
in beige shoes

My first thought was
I need to get paper plates
my father-in-law is waiting for his lunch
he's eighty nine and flew over the Pacific
during WWII in a PBY Catalina
one of the most beautiful flying boats ever created
pulling pilots out of the water
who had come up short in a dogfight
or of fuel
I needed to get paper plates

This isn't Bermuda old chap
or a cricket match in Rhoorkee
the british invented great campaign chairs there
this is Connecticut but then

I realized that I knew the man
I had worked with him in a previous life
in a long dead company
that burst before the internet bubble did
He was a former British Sergeant Major
and as such took his colonial British very seriously
that attitude fascinates me
his office I recalled, looked like a colonial governor's office in India

So I said hi
and we talked for a bit
and wished each other well
and said good bye
as I needed to get paper plates
my father-in-law was waiting for his lunch

i miss the dogfight
of our teeth squaring off
in a shiny mirror.

you could call our canines
moon kernels or portents,
but the sentiment

is sharper. the poem
tautology to a bracelet
of crescent dents.

self-portrait: light
shadow, shadow, light.
a plane reflecting

other planes, an edge
biting an edge, biting
an edge, bitten.

the bracelet tautology
to a skyline sans sky,
one wedge of evening

held in your periphery.
i press my fingers
into a warm glass throat.

Under a big tent
Topped with stars and
Smelling of elephants
A couple of daredevils
Toss in their trailer
Restless in the Midwest

Their golden suits shimmer
In the Iowa half light
The cornstalks talk in
The breezes passing by
At night the daredevils whisper
About what it would be like to really fly
And not just on the trapeze
They kiss goodnight and dream of impossibilities

Times are changing
Since the war it's been mostly women
In the crowds the circus draws
They scream at the lions
Roar at the strongman
Gasp and applaud the two daredevils
Enthusiastically
Happily
Making love in the sky

Times are changing
Since his number came up
She's been lonely
Oklahoma, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri
Her gold suit is covered in farm dust
Growing nothing much
Her husband is on a bombing raid over Nazis
He's finally flying
Helped by an airplane
B52s and bloodshot eyes
No longer dreaming of impossibilities but
Missing his safety net

Since he left she's been thinking about cannons
Popcorn, scrap metal
and hoping against solo acts
She's been dreaming of
What it's like to be shot at
Really take risks
Really feel out of breath
And her husband's been writing her letters
About white picket fences

"The daredevil life that we wanted is so much worse than we thought it would be. Let that sweet silent net catch you and lie quietly thinking of me."

Times are changing
And so is he
Times are changing
And she feels like world shaking
She can hear the wolves blowing it down

But she keeps up her stunts
And keeps up her spirits
Till one day the bearded lady is screaming
Her name from the floor of the tent
Up on that tightrope she pauses
A second
There's two grim faced servicemen
Her daredevil husband is dead
Flying a mission over Dresden
Just another casualty of a world at war
Another daredevil in a dogfight and
Now one less mouth for the circus to feed

Suddenly she's high up in the stratosphere
Breathing fumes
And from the tightrope she faints
I've given him my heart, given him my onliness
She rests in her gold suit
Cradled by the safety net he warned her to hang on to
And in her dreams she can't help thinking
Maybe she dodged a suburban bullet

Times have changed
And since the war's end
The leftover men
Have gotten married
And she's been doing nothing
But lying awake in her bed
Thinking
Picturing cannons mauling
White picket fences
Her body in a gold suit
Broken on the green grass
She needs distance and airtime
To cull this restlessness
Get out of the Midwest
**** his conspicuous missingness
And come up with a solo act
To keep her fed

In the morning she finds the ringmaster
Hungover in the hay of the elephant stalls
In the morning she's made a decision
To fly like a cannonball
Through a dreamland
Times are changing
And since she woke up
She's dressed in her gold suit
Setting fire to the average
Dreaming of impossibilities

two barks don't make a bite
but
it takes two dogs
to make a dogfight

i used to lay on the snowed-in flowerbeds
of nan's backyard. once it snowed enough,
you couldn't tell that a ****** of perrenials
slept peacefully there: all crushed
and crooked beneath
dirt and ice.

some days she'd come and join me
if the ground was soft enough:
we'd stargaze up into the cosmos
of pine trees overhead and listen
for the stillness of winter - the hush
of silence that lingered in the air.

ivy and henbit writhed
gingerly underfoot:
a quiet dogfight
of frozen earth
that begged a
sluggish spring
to come out of
hiding.

we went out to the desert
my young daughter and I
looking for the pilots
crash site shot down in a dogfight
over this strange landscape

we found the memorial
to their sadly shortened lives
and my daughter who had
collected shells from the beach
to take home
placed them as offerings

tears welled in my eyes
and I thanked them for their
sacrifice and this precious
moment in my life

Sipping cider on the Saturday porch
while the bubbles and dust moats dogfight among the leaves.
      Paradise,
                   with a breeze.
Catching zees while the sounds of traffic and children,
water gun arsenals at the ready,
**** up and down the street;
the sing song sounds of birds as the flit to meet
on the cables and branches high above.
      Paradise,
                  the only way to ease
into the languid living
of a hot weekend.

I was out, looking all night
In a time that it felt right
Could have stayed in and slept tight
Couldn't go on with it, this life
  
Now I know in the twilight
Gorgeous blondes, Yeah, they looked tight
But, their plans had me fist fight
That idea in a dogfight
  
Stoli made with fruits and berries
Gave me thoughts of that girl, Liz Cherry
So close to connect, burr
Got the chills, then just left
  
Waiting to find someone young, like you
Finding the wait for young, someone like you
Can't buy the bait no more;  Don't need a clue
Waiting to find her young, someone like you

Convergence
Two lines drawn
Non-linear episodes flowing
jet streams of ink
What matters in this dogfight
Matter vs. anti-matter
Longitude and latitude
There is us
Page upon page we desire sequence
A door forced shut
Shutters blow open
Life arrives unleashed