"piloting" poems
No thoughts, concerns, hesitations.
Worries can wait.
Happiness shouldn't.
Despite how fleeting it may turn out to be.
I'm happy with him.
Happy enough to forget
about the clouds that have a tendency
to settle into the snug horizon.
He's like a red balloon
that keeps me looking up.
Distracted from all the cracks in the pavement
that make me trip.
Oblivious to the wavering skies.
Focused solely on keeping my eyes
on patterns of movements.
Memorizing this new thing.
Piloting something unknown.
Let's refrain from using maps that lead down past paths.
I'll use my sense of adventure to navigate my way.
Illuminate the trails
with the colors of your mind.
If I get lost, I'll anchor down in your arms.
Clutching each of these moments
with a ferocity that
most will never understand.
Let them question why
I'm staring at reflections of light
through a bit of plastic.
They'll never know
that you gave me rainbows.
All the more reason to look at the bright-side.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
In the wild confusion of my life, I saw your face
A kind countenance making bright my days
Through rugged tracks when I stumbled along
I felt an unseen hand holding me strong
When bewildered by the horrid scenes of death
You assured that life extends beyond mortal breath
When lost in the dank and dark alley of wickedness
You diverted my steps into the well lit path of righteousness
When I gloated over my own trivial accomplishments
You reminded me of my littleness through mild chastisements
When I lost myself in the grip of vanity
You opened my inner eye to restore my sanity
When tossed by the currents of fiery storms
Lord! You made me seek the safety of your arms
When drowning in the sea of escalating pain
You sustained and strengthened me and kept me sane
Many got wiped out from the face of the Earth
Without seeing the New Year’s birth
Thank you for allowing me to see this glorious dawn
‘Extend your hand’, I pray, for me to hold on!
Make me feel, you are there in every rhythm of my life
More when life becomes burdensome with problems rife
Over the arid deserts and the stormy turbulent sea
I pray to be by my side as an abiding presence, piloting me
My Lord! Without you my life will be in peril
Never let me fall into the snares of the devil
Do not desert me, stay by my side now and ever
Be my guiding light and sanctify my every endeavor!
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
I did not know her then
nor do I now
but in between, I did
She swam for Barbados
fluid young islander
of affluent Germanic descent
Adrift, cultures island sought
she surfaces, bobbing
in the Red Dragon’s wake
House on the Bay,
overflowing camper van, brim
full of friends and fun
Over the Bridge
splashing loneliness, diving
into my bath and bed
Floating alone
undercurrents scratch, tides
sandy icing of memories
Locked lapping Bay days
drag
piloting others fun
sea blue horizons
debentures sold, goodbyes told
surf Ahoy
She jumps far flung
fun soaked, to sail
the Bay of Islands
.
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 9:09 AM UTC
in your high chair
you must have been precocious
with your alphabet soup
up there in that lofty charthouse
piloting gluten letters
through a steaming sea of blood red tomato,
making floating islands of toki pona,
"mi olin e sina"
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
These words you speak
These words you spin
Have infinite meaning
A definitive substance
Inject my mind
Flipping the norm
Unravel all the lies
They fed to us
Unlock my mind, unwind my eyes
Take me out of this boxes, boxes
Erecting all around me
Untwist my tongue, deject my terms
Pull me out of the sinking crane
Piloting all around me
Who gives the ****
Just give me a fact
All 7 billions souls unique
This linear life is meaningless
Fictions to act
One day I am frog the next a beauty
The mystery of the dark
All shrugged in blanks
They say its locked in your head
A crazy existence
Dehumanised to decay
The police can’t even help
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Piloting a rocket propelled spermatazoon
straight into the magma core of Arcturus!
And all the while our cute society
is humming a slithery little hymn
"Dip your toes and smile along
clap your hands and follow me home."
Alas my hands are golden waves
and bridge the space
where the monolith wades
Redemption plays
the poison harp
encouraging those forgotten
to never give up
the strings are dripping
and licking the ground
where flowers grow
the land is sound
there is someone at the door
always someone at the door
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
This useless meat sack. I am the thing watching behind the eyes of this empty meat sack. I am the one piloting this sausage of a body, directing it to walk, talk, smile.
Sometimes I wish that I could reach into my chest and tear it open. I want to rip and tear and slice past the epidermis, watch the white fatty cells and veins and arteries moving. I want to see white, bone-white, a cage for my useless heart. Watch my heart pump like those sheep hearts we used to dissect in science. I remember how they looked, white fat clinging like ivy, and greying in the cool room of the labs. Nothing but a cold, clammy lump of flesh. Maybe death smells like the butchers. Like bleach that can’t cover the festering smell of rot and ammonia.
I’m heavy on my ankles. I remember the last time I starved, and I felt as if I could fly, balanced on my tip-toes, poised to fall. And maybe falling felt just as good.
It’s so unbearably soft. My chest, my arms. I can feel my cheek meat. Fat on bones. Scrape it out with a spoon like pork cheeks, soft, tender, delicious.
A chrysalis. A cut-out, a hollow man wearing hollow shoes doing hollow things. How did that pupa feel, I wonder, trapped in darkness? No way out but forward. The growing pains, tendons and bones and muscles warping. Twisting and crawling but transforming, little by little. Into what, you can’t possibly imagine. The uncertainty, it’s almost as bad as the darkness. No change even when you open your eyes, like colours have frozen into little dizzying pixels. You can’t stop, but do you want to? On the precipice between weakness and a terrifying something else, what can you be but monstrous? Not one or the other but neither.
What are you turning into? A butterfly? A monster? Neither?
You can’t stop.
Dec 30, 2021
Dec 30, 2021 at 2:39 AM UTC
lifelessly living
drenched in the blood
of forgotten memories
you heartless bag of bones
i'm just another meal
on your diet of dying souls
this disgusting vessel
i'm piloting
will never find its place in love
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
My brother is a pilot,
Not just any old pilot...
A tail dragger pilot,
Champions
Cubs,
Super Cubs.
Planes made of spars and fabric,
Held tight
By screws
And dope,
And glue.
Airframes part wood,
Part aluminum,
Part steel.
Fuel tanks sloshing in the wings
Either side above our heads,
Set the mags,
Hand crank the prop,
Turn on the fuel,
Hear her pop
And roar to life.
We strap in
Single file,
Controls fore
And aft.
And rev 'er up
To join the winds.
Once up,
He yells, "She's yours!"
And I am piloting
Or rather gingerly sliding her
About the blue,
Skidding right or left,
Holding my breath,
Wondering how much I dare
To tip her up there in the air.
"I've got the stick!"
He yells, and I let go.
"Don't be afraid to fly it!"
"It's just a machine!"
"Make it do what you want it to do!"
And we are diving toward the ground,
Then bringing her up and tilting 'round.
"Give her fuel when you tilt to turn!"
He demonstrates, and we are standing
On the wing,
Perpendicular and looking to our left and down.
I know he's right,
That I am timid in my flight,
And he is brave with years of joy,
A pilot fearless since he was a boy.
"You want to land?"
I hear him say.
"No, that's alright!"
"Not today!"
To prove how safe it is to fly,
He touches down,
Then bounces high,
And vaults us back into the sky.
We flit across the fields,
And then,
He flies beneath the power lines,
To show how spray planes catch the ends
Of fields.
He skies the plane at either end,
Then bee lines it to the badlands' edge
Where suddenly we're swooping down
Between the canyon walls, and sinking low,
Then, rising, turning to our right,
He sails us toward sun's dying light.
My only hope is that we'll land
Before the night
Erases all our sight.
And sure enough,
The air is calm;
The night is coming on;
Gusting breezes are all gone.
We gently settle once again,
Back at the ranch,
I help wheel her then
Into her waiting hangar pen.
Life can be lived all in a panic;
Fear fills us with a lingering dread,
But we should live our lives
Just like my brother said.
"It's just your life, so make it do
Whatever it is you want it to!"
And when you're changing
Your directions, throttle up!
Don't let the fear of living
Bring you to a needless stop.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
you're scaring all the people off
the ledge where they have come to scoff
and now they all begin to cough
from choking on their words
atop the hill they'd rattled on
about how they were all the spawn
of everything that comes at dawn
especially the birds
it must be why they got away
with every word that they would say
they'd fly and hide and go astray
by piloting their wings
but feathers kept on falling from
every flock and turned them numb
until their throats would eat their tongue
and they'd stop saying things
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
One solitary figure guiding a vessel
Self-governing and alone at the helm
Through rolling and heaving of waves
Thrashing of winds and lashing of rain
Just hold on as you were taught is muttered through clenched teeth
Piloting through to the centre
Through to the eye of the storm
A place dark and eerily still
Charged air heavy on the lungs
A mere moment of time, a single thread weighted down by suspension
Muffled noises from below
Rise up to tug for attention
Must be the mind playing tricks
A stiff back is turned to them
Not the time for nonsense and madness a mind silently screams
But nonsense and madness defy time and logic
The eye becomes rife with their chorus rebellion
Voices invoke song and flesh and bone
And they dance out from shadow and gather round
Now is the time ~ We need you ~ You need us they sing
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
crossing over the x’s
of life’s yeild signs,
wisdom paused at potholes
alarming damaging obstacles.
appreciation of a flattened heart,
restored by breathing breaths,
repaired the elements that once,
depleted healthy treads.
ignoring warnings of danger,
living in a reality of denial
has fooled my internal equilibrium.
sapience surrounded my driveway,
i looked both ways and proceeded with caution.
foolishly piloting with a naive navigation,
is not within my futuristic visualization.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 9:35 PM UTC
And so I fall again
Into the blackest cycles
The dark patterns
Of dreary steps
Running on auto
Not feeling like I ought to
Piloting the craft through
Though taking many hits to the hull
And perennial pardon ,
Sure as the sun will rise
With the impending dawn,
****** my plaintive passions
Sickening and splintering the dream
One from which I awake with a start
Bloodshot grogginess
My purest art
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:07 AM UTC
Where am I?
Why are you looking so deeply at me?
This rush...I wonder if I can fly
Piloting dragons while my spine cracks
Alon e I feel yet complete
Contemplating these thoughts, love is what lacks
Cold chills shooting up my bones
My hands...are numb
A look in the mirror only to see a self
morphed clone
A cigarette to calm the sorrow
Every drag to release the pain
Uplifted yet so low
Wearing off now, a gag or a spit
My body starting to ache
I think I need another hit
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
Shoot your words through me
make me quiver
please
take me down
and make me feel again.
Show me what it is to
burn in love.
I haven't felt in so long
it's an unbearable drone
a lifeless sensation as though
I'm just piloting a shell
of a body.
I don't remember the last
time it was that I itched with
passion
when I was filled with emotion
and creativity that erupts from the hands
and the mouth
and the mind
and the soul.
It's been too long since I've felt
and now
I've got nothing left to
myself.
It has been much too long
since I've felt a thing.
Hurt me please.
Break me.
**** me.
I've got nothing left to
say.
I can't do this anymore.
I need inspiration.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
It is time to change the way things are, scratch that smell from our noses, like **** in a bottle chucked out the window while going 90,
The free fall fogs up the glasses on a blushed face, 40oz till we down the sound of crying,
Lie across the ocean
Lie across the land
Send truth over and watch it slip through the cracks,
Breached news of frustration calls "Canada is coming, what the **** is America doing,"
We do our best to travel against all odds, piloting a spoon made of silver into a greedy pocket originally meant to feed those eating mud pie, baking in an ever dying sun as fish float up to the surface,
Choking down the salt water to avoid drill, give them a gun instead, it will protect our false memories and concocted purpose,
This was paid for by ink soaked bones working in minimum oxygen to the brain, featured on rolls of film stripping off clothes covered in lust,
Taking hold of a crowd with merely this voice, conducting an audience with bed knobs and broomsticks, rhythmically grinding the **** awry, taste this sun from the lips of a fairy, mystical or not we were there to receive,
Open our hearts via chaos trained messages, massaging back pains to the point of tears, electromagnetism therapy causing the lights around the dance floor to flicker, moving at incomprehensible speeds relating colors between points B to Z,
On numbered grids the scale is curved to fit the description of another one biting the dust,
And as we finally rest on cold stones the Panic sets in.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
Chicken neocons—
Pompous, piloting war rooms,
Blood on their black hands.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
Rainy days and Mondays
Piloting my car like a
river boat captain
on a shiny Mississippi
It is morning but still dark
an eye dropper of blue has
been added to the sky
and what was once black
has now slowly spread to purple
A purple macchiato in the atmosphere
I pass by a convenient store
It looks like an oasis in the dark rain
Soft blue lights reflecting on wet asphalt, illuminated marquee
an old cinematographer trick
This is my time
This is where I live
This is me.
My true self
before,
I am stained by work
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
the clock is ticking on the mantlepiece and the house is empty and cold
it is dark, and the dogs are barking and i can't think, oh god, i can't think, because the world is imploding and the clock has stopped ticking and
it has been silent for a while now
there is no reason to panic, I tell myself, no reason at all
but this is a lie and while it might help me breathe better,
it won't put the bullet back inside the gun
it won't force the words back down my throat,
or put the glass on the floor back together
the walls are on fire and the glass is sizzling, and red-hot
the smell of blood - yours, probably - is thick and strong and metallic
the walls are on fire and i can't think, can't even breathe, because the smell of blood is,
quite frankly, overwhelming.
and then i blink and i'm back here, in the kitchen,
and you're staring at me like i'm something interesting,
like i'm not a worthless scrap that the dog just brought in,
but i can tell something's still wrong because you're talking but the words
don't quite register
and then everything comes spinning back to earth, and you're still talking
only i can hear you now
and you're telling me that it's not okay, it's not right, you've had enough and you're leaving now
and it only takes me a moment to realize
that the whole world is currently wearing a plaid button-down and old jeans with
a hole in one of the knees
that the whole world smells like apples and laundry soap
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world resides in a three pound brain piloting
rather attractive meatsuit
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world is walking out the door
and that he probably isn't coming back
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
i fill these voids inside of me with the things i don't need, the things that i perceive as happiness.
all people have their voids and all people have their fillers.
some have clothes and shoes and jewelry.
some have money and fame and colleagues.
some have *** drugs and rock and roll.
but when it comes down to it their is still that void, it's just filled to the brim with stocking stuffers.
so once you unclog the drain and all of the things come pouring out, your just a 10 pound brain piloting a slab of meat with a hole inside of you.
the hole that has been scratched out by people and misfortune and lies and deceit.
but you still have your brain... and your slab of meat, which is more than some could say they have.
so you have to move on to the next location with your void... to try and fill it.
but the thing is your still walking around with the problem.
you think that if you move and make new acquaintances the void will be filled and the past will be corked and thrown into the ocean like a bottle floating waiting to be found.
but you can't throw your bottle into the ocean because it's the only bottle you have.
it's the only life you have.
you have to find a way to not avoid the problem or try to get rid of it.
but to put the past in the past and live in your present and continue on with your future.
that's why they call it a present.. because it's a gift to even have one.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
with a throated frog
i re-digest
my sickness' exhume
(a thing i did
when piloting
a conversation
most polite)
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 10:12 AM UTC
My mind is playing tricks on me, my dear
I almost feel as though I'm home again
Passion Pit playing in the background and
Of Monsters and Men playing in my head
Cards on the floor slipping through the only cold floorboards
We're all shirtless again
It's one hundred thousand and ten degrees outside
the walls haven't quite crumbled down
over the cabins that we love
the clouds can't penetrate these green hills, much less roll over them
only we can roll on these hills in our hot sleeping bags
and almost fall into the green lily pond and the sky's green
but I'm not scared anymore
Because I've jumped off the high dive and
introduced myself to older girls
What else could there be to love other than the smell of cookouts
bad singing, and BO?
I painted my face for the first time to give a blanket
to a girl who'd never have a better night.
I got my eyebrows plucked in the same room and night
She plucked my guilt out like the hairband she was trying to undo,
her fingers said, "you're forgiven,"
my eyes said, "thank you,"
as I leapt through the fields to hug my friend because she was crying
even though I was naked
I braided so much hair during that time-
Held more hands than you'd wanna
Jesse McCartney didn't even know what a beautiful soul was-
My summer was set to the playlist of
the only twenty year old in the room who is trying to guide our ships
as we sail through the changing ocean tides
and summer is the easiest to handle of the seasons of my life-
There, I built my own wheel, learned how to take it myself,
and then I gave it to Jesus
and he's piloting fine.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
My brother is a pilot,
Not just any old pilot...
A tail dragger pilot,
Champions
Cubs,
Super Cubs.
Planes made of spars and fabric,
Held tight
By screws
And dope,
And glue.
Airframes part wood,
Part aluminum,
Part steel.
Fuel tanks sloshing in the wings
Either side above our heads,
Set the mags,
Hand crank the prop,
Turn on the fuel,
Hear her pop
And roar to life.
We strap in
Single file,
Controls fore
And aft.
And rev 'er up
To join the winds.
Once up,
He yells, "She's yours!"
And I am piloting,
Or rather gingerly sliding her
About the blue,
Skidding right or left,
Holding my breath,
Wondering how much I dare
To tip her up there in the air.
"I've got the stick!"
He yells, and I let go.
"Don't be afraid to fly it!"
"It's just a machine!"
"Make it do what you want it to do!"
And we are diving toward the ground,
Then bringing her up and tilting 'round.
"Give her fuel when you tilt to turn!"
He demonstrates, and we are standing
On the wing,
Perpendicular and looking to our left and down.
I know he's right,
That I am timid in my flight,
And he is brave with years of joy,
A pilot fearless since he was a boy.
"You want to land?"
I hear him say.
"No, that's alright!"
"Not today!"
To prove how safe it is to fly,
He touches down,
Then bounces high,
And vaults us back into the sky.
We flit across the fields,
And then,
He flies beneath the power lines,
To show how spray planes catch the ends
Of fields.
He skies the plane at either end,
Then bee lines it to the badlands' edge
Where suddenly we are swooping down
Between the canyon walls, and sinking low,
Then, rising, turning to our right,
He sails us toward sun's dying light.
My only hope is that we will land
Before the night
Erases all our sight.
And sure enough,
The air is calm.
The night is coming on.
Gusting breezes are all gone.
We gently settle once again,
Back at the ranch,
And I help wheel her, then
Into her waiting hangar pen.
Life can be lived all in a panic.
Fear fills us with a lingering dread,
But we should live our lives.
Just like my brother said.
"It's just your life, so make it do
Whatever it is you want it to!
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 12:56 PM UTC
Scene 1: A Night with the Time-Bomb
We sleep under paint and plaster: impressionist probably.
I slaughter my feelings in my throat.
My heart sends telegraphs instead of beating,
but you prefer the silence.
I hate that I could never enjoy this.
I hate that they all love the stars.
The only difference between us and them is where we’re burning.
The only difference between you and I is who we are mourning.
I never thought it would be me.
For you I tear loopholes in my morality
And find suffering in getting everything I ever wanted.
I pick at the plaster,
wake me up when it’s over.
Scene 2: Lunch with the Comedic Relief
I greet you with defense of my mistakes,
justifying the difference of these dog days,
comparing a grenade to a grenade.
Meanwhile the real contrast is in now and who we used to be.
You’re not laughing anymore.
I haven’t been the punch-line in weeks,
It kills you to look at me,
And when you do I hate what I see.
It’s all a waste of good material.
Cue the canned laughter and suddenly it is sloppy sit-com.
Scene 3: After School Specials with the Stereotype
You run to me: lanky.
You yell my name: cracking.
You’re my dollar store Halloween.
You’re the only reason I’ll go anywhere today.
You laugh: choppy.
You read from the usual script,
I say my lines from the in-between.
You’re the only reason I’ll feel genuine today.
We’re screaming at traitors in voicemail.
Strangers dive in the unholy waters.
I feel how I should have all along,
and I fear this perfection is solitary.
Scene 4: Piloting a Corpse
I lay in bed listening to the endings.
I measure the distance between me, everyone and everything.
They love all of me, including my worst enemy.
They take the ugly and wait for the beauty.
I take this desolation and try to dazzle;
I ignite like sulfur.
I fall deeper into my temporary bed,
of my temporary house.
Tomorrow I’ll tell you how everything changes,
Tomorrow someone might form a complete thought.
Tomorrow I’ll tell them all how I feel.
Tomorrow I’ll give up after “I love you”.
Tomorrow I’ll try to glow like neon.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Mice are endlessly studied
blindly piloting channeled maze,
but who among us
is not doing the very same?
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:52 PM UTC