I don’t know when it becomes real that I’m leaving this city. Do I take a tiny step somewhere that transforms reality? When I swing my feet from the bed to rest on carpet a moment before standing my weight upon them, is that it? When I sit and close the car door behind me with a hollow slam or when the doors automatically swish closed behind me at the airport? Is it that final irrevocable click of the airplane’s blue seatbelt? Where is the change between might be and is? Where is the moment between wondering and now?
Everyone tells me they hate L.A. How the air is a brown stew haze of the lungs shallow graves and the people are vacant on the inside of their eyes, but I like the city. There’s a burgeoning cultural morass that solidifies under the pressure of thousands of creative human beings. I can respect that, however sordid the personalities involved. If I luck out, I can glory in it.
I know how often the airplanes crash, I know how truly dangerous flying is. The statistics the companies let out are very carefully selected. I think it adds to my thrilled machine enjoyment of the things. A gleaming metal cylinder that flies with people in it tongue ties me with a sci-fi thrill, envy we that we have this tube sloshing with gasoline that can show us the tops of clouds.
I am bored while outside Zeus frolicked in a million minds. Yes, keep me here, hung above forever.
you look at me and your eyes flash fire, a feral gleam coloured green like a cat.