What I am thinking.
what am i thinking?
I traveled to Austin again. I didn't want to again. I had a decent time again. And that's the brief. Along the way, I wrote down some thoughts as poems - varying, but invariably short. When I initially left for Austin, I'd imagined that there would only be a few, but that was not so. 15 little poems. Apparently, the bustle and din of the airport is my picturesque landscape, the towering perch on which I find inspiration. Go figure. Here they are, topically all over the place, but listed in the order I wrote them, accompanied by no context or title. I gathered myself
And put my best foot forward, But the other had to follow, Lest I commit to a strange And contrived lifelong of hopping, Failure foot in tow. -- Bundled under covers And coasting down The long lane of unconsciousness, A memory jumps in front, With no time to slow down. Crumpled hood And crushed windshield - The remains of my dream car. Heart thronging, Injected by semi-conscious adrenaline As my eyes snap open To a calm, dark room, While in my mind I see my thumb In halves Pouring blood Like some hellish teapot, Rusty Xacto knife abandoned On the workbench Beside a now-secondary project. Echoes of the pain Scream fresh through my mind. The wet blood rolls down my forearm, Just as it did before. Certainly, I think, Once was enough, Turning, shaken, To my side to have another try At my nightly migration. -- Flying above, Clouds cast polka dot shadows On the flat, endless expanse of Wyoming, Doubtless waiting For a more interesting role in the water cycle. -- The seat back in front of me On the 737 Max Must have studied somewhere droll, If this safety information pamphlet Qualified for its “Literature Only” cubby. -- The chicken in this sandwich Is as dry as wood, But at least it’s full of protein, Unlike its cousin, regular wood, Which tends to be high in fiber, If edible only with great concentration. It really is much better than wood, In spite of Cafe Daz Bog’s best attempts. -- Today’s airports: Bellingham to Oakland to Denver to Kansas City to Austin. Is it any surprise That the ceiling of this plane Is subtly convex, Like the inside of a whale? -- I had wanted to travel to Santa Barbara, Land of my home and the HQ, And after numerous prior trips to Texas And more folks in SB, I knew It was time for a trip to the sunshine, To my family, but boo hoo. My boss lives in Austin, so Austin it is, And my plane now descends again Into a humid dusk, a flat expanse With one lurid, dammed river and hardly a bend. No shimmers of color from ocean or sky, Just a monotonous gray-brown blend. The plane leans over, and I see in my mind The ranches, the city, the trees - Orange, Avocado, Sycamore, Oak - Spread across the landscape to the sea. Beautiful buildings spot the hillsides with their Terracotta tiles balanced on white adobe. But no. My eyes see darkness and threatening clouds Hanging over endless expanses of grass. I’m given loneliness coming here, A gift I’ve accepted for much of my past. Someday soon, I hope, I’ll travel South And be paid to see my family at last. -- So many cars lined up - Cans on the grocery store treadmill, Rolling forward and stopping, And forward again, Clumping and stringing out, Dancing in their collective, contained irritation As I watch the streets From my high rise perch. -- “I could never live here”, I said while on my business trip, Looking out at nothing But reality. -- I am a consumer. I consume, Always hungry for something - A meal, A new bike, A new house, An old house, Any house, An old bike, Another meal. Give me what you have. I am indiscriminate, At least in my interest. It’s when I hold it That I get picky And realize that in fact I have too much in my life And maybe, Just maybe, Am better off dead. -- When they forced us into lines, We said nothing. When they stopped us, Groping our arms, legs, loins, We said nothing. When they forced us through x-rays And took our belongings, Turning through them For objects of their desire, We said nothing. Palpable nervousness. Children crying. IDs. Shoes Off. Laptops Out. Pour out that water. Don’t. Pet. The. Dog. I can stay silent no more. Your reign of terror Must end, TSA. -- Over the intercom In the Austin airport, The accusation is made For the entertainment of all people. “James Ortega, we have your boarding pass. You went shopping, and you dropped it.” Flat tone followed by chuckles Croaking up across the terminal Like a chorus of frogs. If only Mr. Ortega too Had an intercom To offer his rebuttal, But it is an unfair world And he is merely our jester. -- Who writes? Don’t all people listen today, Rose buds or seed pods Nestled in their ears To coo to them In low pulsating hums And high trills? A massage gun Pressed at the base of the skull, Vibrating away anything That might have been output. Singers and screamers, Melody and harmony, Baselines and refrains. 16-beat mix-ups Mixing messages Of creation and consumption. The truck passes by Carrying with it a weather system Of heavy choric sounds Gushing from the rolled down windows. Who isn’t filled up and drained By preoccupation With the little singing toys? And so, who writes? -- The woman with the boots Knows what she has. Mid-calf and camouflage With a clear vinyl wrap. Ugg indeed. -- Now what? The book is finished And my plane doesn’t arrive For two more hours. But of course, It isn’t really my plane So much as a plane Which I hope to fly in As soon as I’ve concluded Staring out the window Into the open desert, Imagining a sunburn.
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