A Flight on Poetry Airlines

Where sky is just the beginning...

Dare I fly 
	the unfriendly skies 
when you don’t know 
		if your pilot’s
going to croak 
	      in the cockpit
			  post jab? 
And 
      they force you
		to mask up 
to maintain the ritual
	of co(n)vid theater? 
Or eject you
	for not complying 
		with their psychodrama…?

NO THANKS!

You can have 
	your little tin birds,
your silly rules and regs.
		Besides,
all those planes 
	can only go up to 30k feet
before rubbing
		its nose
			against the firmament.

Whereas on Poetry’s Airlines
		the sky’s only the beginning!

I’m gathering
	my belongings
and all 
	my other longings,
to take off
	on another flight
		into poetry’s skies.

At the check-in
             I’ll drop off
                       all the baggage 
bubbled up
              from the past.
No matter 
	     how much
	                 it weighs
I’ll pay the difference.

Mind you,
	I’m bypassing
		the radiation box.
I’m not holding 
		up my hands 
			in symbolic surrender,
when I’m only guilty
		of wanting to leave this planet,
like Marcello Mastroianni did 
		in 8½’s opening dream.

You 
    can pat me down 
		to my constellation socks, 
but 
     you will never see 
		the light inside my soul.

Now boarding…

No masks required 
		on this flight because 
				you’ll be breathing 
freedom’s pure oxygen,
		the elevation of liberation…

This is your captain speaking…

Fasten your seat belts
		we may experience some turbulence
as we traverse
		dark clouds 
			of draconian mandates,
but we’ll be reaching 
			at an altitude
of at least
	eight miles high
		where sunbeams of truth 
will pierce them
		like St. Michael’s sword.

And please if you will
		direct your attention to
	our angelic flight attendants’
			wings as they semaphore 
the safety features
	of this celestial airbus.

No particular course 
                          is planned,
wherever I go 
		is wherever I land, 
dropping napalm of truth
    		over jungles where
the enemedia 
		embeds its lies
like in the opening scene
		of Apocalypse Now.

Arms outstretched 
like Jesus 
when he flew 
		his wooden plane 
into Golgotha’s skies
	after carpet-bombing		
Nazareth, 
	Galilee, 
		Jerusalem
with truth about
		the real Creator		
taking with him
	two rebellious passengers
				into paradise.

Others before him
		didn’t fare so well
like Icarus,
	whose waxy wings melted
		  		          before he fell
into the sea.
	     And Phaeton refused
to stay in his lane
                      and was crucifried 
	                                        by the Sun, 
trailing
           a glittering gash 
                            across the sky 
which 
	romantic stargazers
			call the Milky Way.

Don’t worry, 
                my plane
                          won’t leave 
any chemtrails 
                 in its wake; 
no climate change
		to fear here.
No, the only climate
		it will change
will be the climate 
		of brainwashed beings.

The only trails 
		I’ll leave behind 
are vapor trails 
		of verse 
			whose fallout 
will cover countries and oceans,
		fields and streams,
mountains of majesty,
                     webs of streets,
wings of sparrows,
		the coats of sheep,
fruits and vegetables
		which you 
     		eventually eat, 
and land invisibly
	on the heads of people 
	and seep 
into their 
	minds and hearts
 			and wake them
from their stubborn sleep
		while their baggage
				spins forever 
in the carousel
		of their unraveling lives.

And now 
	my soul plane’s
		           attitude indicator
spins like a roulette wheel,
		 spiraling into another realm 
where I can’t 
	tell the stars above 
			from the city lights below.
Am I coming in 
		for a landing 
				on a runway of stars, 
or into 
	a new celestial city?