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Jean Rojas Apr 2015
Sky Lord,
Airborne, you are without equal
Unsurpassed in your ballet of the sky
Cloud dancing, rainbow colored hues
In this, you have paid your dues..

Born with a poetïc face
And a mind that raced in numbers
You walked tall among men
In riches degenerating into rags..
What began of dashing beauty
Became a scourge of grotesque painting

Aviator, with your broken bones
Break their hearts
In the mystery of your misery
Compensate what you lack
holding intimacies in your hands
Merge their bodies with empty promises
And the poison of the loss
Of your genius
with the disintegration of your sanity

Repeatedly in circles
You repeat your words
A hundred times
Sans grace of rhymes
Paper airplanes torn in shreds
Lie wasted in the grime
Of deathly dust
Like germs permeating
On blackened windows
Walls that hear your wails
And tales of woes

In the end you have lost all reason
In the sadness of your gloom
Many men have spelled your doom
Like an outcast in the desert
You were but an empty shell
No one there to care for you
Though they all gave in to you..
Silent tears deprived the laughter
In the midst of all the fame,
And all the fortune
You have died a lonely and
Neglected man

But, you are up the skies now
And I can just see you smile
Waving like a shy schoolboy.......
with delicate delight in your eyes,
Maybe there, in your spiritual might
You shall be free at last
For airborne, you are without equal
Like a true conqueror of the constellation
You shall sleep in an eternal sleep
Where all but peace shall stay awake
In your heart that is already mended
For: Howard Robard Hughes Jr. (08 September, 2009)-   When the name Howard Hughes is spoken, a picture of an unkempt old man, severely underweight with long hair and rotting teeth  comes to mind.It is an image that persists to this day.But it wasn't always like that. In the beginning he was a handsome young man,heir to his father's millions in the drill bit tool, an excellent aviator and engineer, an astute businessman and a famous movie producer.He was a man of immense vision. His slow descent into madness came much later and many of his aides took advantage of this fact to rob him of millions.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

Shitt!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Inspired by William Butler Yeats 'Beautiful Lofty Things'

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