Saturday, April 19, 2008

The boys at Kittyhawk used to ride bikes.

Those wright brothers really had a thing going.
The purpose was to control flight and they did it.

Viceroy! he'd yell down.
Passenger! he'd yell up.

My god ... I'm actually flying he thought.
A ripple of wind ripped through them.
My god ... he's ... actually ... flying ... he thought.

That night Mom made pork beans, fritters and slaw.
The boys couldn't stop chattering through their food.
There were no manners that night.

This was going to be big. Like, really big.
They stayed up all night thinking of all the things they thought of.

Now fast forward to two-thousand and eight where birds are citadels.
You, reader, think of all the things they could never imagine.

You can ship a hundred and thirty seven thousand tons in one airplane.
And park it on a dime through every axis you know.

Buckle up, she'd yell down.
Little bags, in case they throw up.

Turbines, taxiing, turbulence.
Gates A through Z and back again.
Buckle your safety belts please; don't smoke when the warning light's on.

I wonder if the boys at kitty hawk just rode bikes down to the dunes
and knew what the other was thinking.

Their mouths full of sandwich about the mile high club.

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