In Flight

Curatorial navigation, in light of global New York Times as maths equation for pigmentation how would the pages looked enlivened? Bothered me endlessly, Frankfurt to Berlin Tegel. It was an intercessory journey, sleep hungry, unbathed and still demanding answers. I reckoned green naive, imploring a ‘panoramic’ critique, as far as the educated mind would run and hide from preference (the fence is where real leaders sit) why stop at the poem, imagine say legislation?

Transposed into codes of colour all meaning stripped no right no wrong fuchsia nostalgia onyx seabed of the spirit constructed into forms. No more meetings over coffee. Walk into my poem constructed on the corner of K Rd call me later, If you still care. No more brushing hair from eyes, applying temporal diligence to her studies, to his vinyls. Walk into my heart, I promise to be elsewhere creating useless poetic blueprints for followers of the apocalypse (one belief in ceasing as one, does anybody else detect indulgence).

I am not proclaiming to have formed an airtight maxim during one connecting flight. I would just like the chance to see again. Evading my own seeing is the duty of a poet. The art of leaving the body was achieved by an American via a vested guide. He saw his sleeping form, floated to the ceiling, through the roof and out into the sky. Ironically, it was there he found himself. We are not exactly different, both longing distance to stand within, without the self. We are not exactly opposite walking our halls, gardening our thoughts as mother says “letting feelings live their lives.”

It might look in the end, fleshing a poem into a curatorial mecca of metal, or the lie detector results of several random hand-picked politicians into calculations later transposed as solo works for violin, a bit raw. The rise and fall of my chest workings I cannot hide (except in death) could be recorded as I slept timed into a live treasure map applied by scale to my home islands. The point would move as I moved my last breath would detail X.

I don’t know what X would mark. I will spend my life, or the leftovers (deducting time spent at work, in love and in fright) flirting with the poison of meaning, attempting to map the constellation, the wash of finite consciousness between thought and thing, in flight.

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