When I wake up four hours later,
two hours earlier,
they've caught the bomber,
shot another, and east coasters are once again
In Texas, they aren't sure who's fault
it is, "complicated" gets slapped around
like a hockey puck.
in the four hours without
wiring, I stared at the pulled
shades of an airplane
as sudden altitude drops
sent fingers to armrests,
flight attendant's spread-on smiles
clicked into place.
I swear the lights went out at
least once, but maybe I was dreaming.
Three days ago, eating a style-of-pizza
in it's city of origin, I was more worried
about waking up in a shooting gallery,
oversleeping a stop, losing my girlfriend
in the snakes and ladders of looped buildings
or being frozen in place by sudden blasts of snow.
At Least They Got The Guy, the new headline,
makes sense, I'll take it, what else can I?
put my life's temporary
break in a nostalgia file for later,
get back on the checks that need writing, the grins.
At some point in all of this
I failed conciousness duties by relying soley
on print media,
five days ago, getting packed, wondering what the trip would do to me.
how the bits and pieces alter, the imprints of place grow new chunks
of muscle. the where to goes.
running was the least of my concerns.
I've been writing throughout my trip to Chicago, but it's all handwritten and will take a few to get posted up here.