I'm sitting on Chicago runway tarmac. Planes taking off up over me draw my body again and again into a crucifix. The dark body of her voice is lowering down on to me. And she's peeing on me. John Fogerty's singing "and still the rain kept falling." My hands are in the shape of a pigeon's skull. Janet Holmes says a guy read for over an hour in Boise. Adam Clay says that's no big deal. Two hours forty minutes, he says. Yes, he heard some guy read for nearly three hours. My soul's flapping out of me and I'm hitchhiking through Bolivia and Spanish's pouring out of me like sweat.
(sure beats a cage in Oklahoma)
We're marching into a city. Parthenon West perhaps. Thousands of us. Suddenly we fall to the ground and kiss it. Windows are shattering.
Pigeon-racers take their pigeons out into the country in wicker baskets--- and open them into cold white wind and hawks. Most come home, their necks shimmering green and purple. (I want to touch a big fat bald man's head).
I don't mind flying but one time I was on a small plane and it was turbulent and I freaked out and wrote on a napkin:
Edith, I love you. Rauan.
1 comment:
this is something special. you are something special.
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