Flying things

I'm reluctant to draw my pen because I know its deadliness, and with one prick I could bleed you down or scrawl on a bathroom wall as I fought a dying feeling I shouldn't have. Yaw set in the moment I arrived. I hoped a little more right pedal and time might set things straight. As we took off from Jeffco airport I was temporarily taken to the beauty of the earth and forgot about the internal confusion. I was intrigued by the fallen trees and rusting hulks on the farms and we touched down at the chicken farm and I'm sure the farmer knew about "The red wheelbarrow" and you had no idea. And all I had for the rest of the day was my quietly impressed incessant wandering. Even when Eric arrived the Yaw did not abate. I watched your cute pilot trainee, sandwiched between you and your wife, cover for the both of you, the air drenched in arrogance. I sat wishing for gumption but tact and diplomacy are a too tight wool sweater on my naked skin. And I'm neither Allen Ginsberg nor Jeremy Handrinos, But how I wished I could just stand up and pull something from my mind heavy and concentrate like a wrecking ball and swing away levelling everyone at the table. The yaw never waned. If it weren't for the last minute trip to the book store and Pablo Neruda, the day would have been a waste. Finally I let you go and drove to a place to sleep and got none. All night feeling my legs aching in atrophy, and all that kept running through my mind was the vision from the air of that dead god split triple-trunk-tree that fell in a perfect "Y". "The red wheelbarrow" is a poem by William Carlos Williams