Tangled Flight

A Poem

Spit out from the posters, the ones that are there to grab you and make you do something. You must insure your life. It doesn’t matter that you have one foot in the air, right now, one foot making headway by itself. Your hands are busy, but at what no one can tell.

There the spinning air goes wild with clapping. The trees are clapping. The sidewalk looks up. And the birds have lost all their energy.

Talking has become a manner of advertising the shit left over in my head. The wonderings and wanderings have not given birth to any songs, only diatribe. The moon can’t curse us. The spirals are no longer golden and we’ve long forgotten what we loved about gold in the first place.

Given over to an island of remorse, the flight finally lands. Upon disembarking from the grammatical plane, the sequence of illusion hands us over to the island’s police. In chains and masks, now gnashing at bars, trying to straighten out a line to help, there is a tangling of the signals.

A prelude to a crash.

J.D. Harms 2020