Friday, November 14, 2008

Untitled #15

I become nauseous in the air

The overweight wife of the chilidog genius
Rambles on and on about the brochures
Tucked in the back of the seats

I can tell the flight attendent's tired
From fucking the pilot
Their cherry mouths, blood red
During our abrupt introduction

Then another car ride
This time on the opposite side
Before a few chosen individuals
With thick accents
Help me with the hand-me-down backpack
And point me in the direction of others
Supposidely more like myself

They know me better than I vaguely know them
Heads full of similar gray clouds
And false senses of inspiration

By the time I finally do settle on a crowd
They take my mind
And life away
Claiming it curves productivity

In retrospect,
I can see where the bastards were coming from
The further I slip and slide on double meanings
The easier it is for me to realize
That there is only one way out

The required themed essay in the fall
Is soaked in truths too jagged to stomach
Just like the plane ride

- C.W.

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