My Little Plane 1
Perhaps the air will let my little plane down to sink into that imprint on the land in the lens's watermark finally upon paper which is a map impossible of that size for understanding like me and my mom like it was awesome in a language inadequate unto the darklight and the warning light at the door developing what can never be approached in the shadow under the shadow.
2
I saw a woman hidden in a lava declivity my little plane's shadow at the periphery near a bowl of water stagnant in blue absence of past activity or perhaps it was a man impossible to be certain in a language inadequate from this altitude was missing or lost love that unspecified yearning developing what can never be approached as I was working my way back to you.
3
Adventure of the shadow of my little plane fixed on film and in the memory of a hovering over sea though it was land looking like waves from this altitude and higher still were daystars also invisible in that unspecified yearning for a past deeper in some other anatomy that I might be touching though only through shadows of myself behind uncertain lenses in this constant droning of the engine like the world's turnings.
4
So then was traveling through smoke above such archeology which is a plundering like me and my mom like it was awesome figures from a past inadequate in this constant droning of a language that I might be touching you on the earth bound up in complexity ancient as memory of a time fashioned from childhood when we stepped fresh from the cockpit at least it seemed that way.
5
Ice threatens before fire under the warming of my little plane's shadow and hearth light aglow there beckoning you on the earth bound up in such glacial imagination could freeze into a fixture to then percolate in this heated nostalgia at least it seemed that way high up as I was thinking to fall down into animal memory inhuman and finally alone.
6
Two thousand over big island skylight thinking to fall as much wish as a dream of my little plane casket descending into the orange eye to then percolate in the blue field which is night's hoard and endless like it was awesome like a gestural language without me and my mom like turning into a past absent of all memory sufficient unto nostalgia.
7
Like it was awesome like a valley smoking its own anatomy under which another surface of a kind of skin peeled back and revealing yet another no longer a mystery but a shadow under a shadow of all memory sufficient unto the task forgotten as I was drifting in the realization that the lense too is a false framing the world's turnings myopic in the watermark stain of my little plane.
8
Like me and my mom like were waliing through a desert and came into a mystery but a shadow to cool us as we looked up finding the little plane casting a watermark down upon us who were trying hard to give vent to our broken relationship in this wilderness unto the task forgotten as I imagined myself in the plane my shadow a stain to provide like an awning to give her some comfort correct for a son or a daughter yet I in another story entirely.
9
We were looking out to a far horizon like me and my mom were like inside in another story entirely a Rothko painting of the earth's hues in changing greens and the sky's blues over Brittany coming down upon us who were trying to right our relationship in the cockpit of my little plane which of itself was fragility drifting almost invisible in a soup like Rothko's paint like me and my mom the whole sky was an awesome home and we were at comfort in it.
10
Under the shadow of lava in the lens perhaps a father awaits me as a lover almost invisible in a soup crowded with images existent only in this sentimental and foolish eye but to each his own and the earth is beautiful if violent and can be like me and my mom like I can be a baby girl or boy again and wouldn't that be awesome but like very painful and I brought my eye back to the cockpit only to find I was there and here which of itself was fragility drifting.
11
Imagine the water a shadow figure in this sentimental and foolish eye the land a face seen from a satellite youth the green beyond the ancient cuts like plastic surgery to bring youth back and wouldn't that be awesome though having suffered for the gain supposing violence of time could be forestalled before the figure under the shadow becomes finally fixed and the sea no more than a blue wash spied in the lense.
12
The human past is dead though this earth rise up violent and beautiful red in the lense to bring youth back like me and my mom before the figure under the shadow is revealed as a surface of blue only to be peeled back revealing another surface on which we can't be stable though continue the drift in the lense of imagination and if it be still of the human past let it.
13
On the way always as a returning as a surface of blue only in the distance becomes water beyond parching as life giving sustenance of the destination is revealed though only for this brief pausing and not for satiation which is temporary respite in the journey like me and my mom like awesomely back there at the beginning.
14
Finally upon paper of past activity or perhaps fixed on film and in the memory above such archeology in this heated nostalgia which is night's hoard and endless under which another surface the little plane casting a watermark like me and my mom were like inside but like very painful though having suffered for the gain to be peeled back revealing another as life giving on the way always as a returning.
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