The Dawn Patrol

The Dawn Patrol

 

The dawn breaks.

Each man rolls in his bed, cough

in the arms of his woman.

Soon they will face in the skies.

They are the fighter pilots.

The German Ace, and the American Hero.

Each one, his thoughts the same,

From the first glance through the curtains,

What Clouds, What weather?

Will I live today?

And it is the same thoughts

In the heads of their mistresses.

 

Choice and Chance

have brought them to this day,

this place and time,

When they are both pilots.

They check] their guns.

The lineman pulls down sharply.

The engine coughs, and he is a waving blur.

On the rudder and they turn full power into the wind.

The tail bounces and lifts.

The whole plane leaps into the sky.

For one the Sun is on the left.

For the other, on the right.

They and their companions race to meet.

 

From half a mile up they look down.

What are those little men doing down there?

Of course it is the same thing,

Only below they creep and crawl.

Both pilots pity those below.

At least they have this view.

At least if they are to die,

They will not be just soldiers,

but pilots.

This was their whole hearted choice in the matter.

 

Then the moment for thoughts and remembrances is gone.

They are on each other.

Straight on they come for just a moment,

And then it is down and away for speed,

Up and after each other in turns.

And in turn after turn, and dive after dive,

For seconds they see their chances,

and fire.

 

From the corners of their eyes

they see trails of smoke.

Burning men with nowhere to go,

and no time.

Until it is only these two

Circling and skidding

and wishing the other would explode before them,

So they could just go home.

 

Then as the German Ace feels the American Hero

pulling tighter behind him

He dives, but not fast enough,

Not hard enough, and he turns.

What was he thinking?

It is too late.  The American Ace dives too;

And Fires.

The bullets smash into the cockpit

tearing through the Germans' body.

 

That night one boy from the farms of the Midwest

is dancing and holding her tight.

Across the fields, in a similar place,

One woman sits alone.

Before her is set a drink.

She is crying.

Another man in a uniform with little wings

and an Iron Cross,

Puts his arm around her,

As if to comfort her.

Rewrite Called for

Transcendia from me is grandiose for I have few followers. Certainly I have always had a problem with armed followers and war. Now I know my people need to be armed and understand themselves as part of the army. I want them to have the best. It turns out they can only get the best that they can buy. They can only get and carry the best that ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization.) will allow.
I’m not in negotiation with the ICAO. I don’t have the money to travel and see people in person over these things.
Maybe this year pictures will sell. You’ll be able to buy them here. I’m a poet and a photographer. Poetry is ot a money maker for me. I’ve written some competitive poems. The idea is for some of the to be thought of, recited for long after I’m gone.
The photographs have a life. 115 years is the time before those I’ve been making are said to start fading.
Before then they would have been reproduced it anyone was seriously concerned with them.
Anyway my wife altered me to the showing again of The Mouse That Roared.
Most of the time that movie made me cringe. Still I watched again and it was better. The army had weapons. They had long bows which can be deadly.
I don’t intend to be a living farce. I might fail to create a nation of airports, but I won’t be a farce.
My plans would fullfil at least one of Andre` Lewin’s Points for Reinvention of the UN. Really they would take up at least two points for he added Television from my points for Transcendia simply of its own.
Transcendian Television would provide a lost balance between FOX and Al Jazzera and even MSNBC. C-Spah is not making it, nor should we expect it to.
When despots flee they go to the airport and they may as well stay there, in a manner of speaking.
Transcendia could fulfill that point of his desiring an Exile Island.
Overall I expect Transcendia to be a moderating influence on the political roil of the world.
I fail because pilots for the most part don’t know about me, and if they did, wouldn’t much want to be involved long as one precept of Transcendia is legalized marijuana.
We all know why marijuana ought to be legal, but it is an individual price paid for saying to anyone in power that you are for its legalization.

Tired

Aside

I’m healing slow. The scar stays there with a little little scab. I won’t touch mine like the guy did next to me at the rehab he kept touching his scab. He kept pressing on his wound and wanted the pus out.
It was hell listening to him. I’m sorry to say this. I’ll change the subject to a dream.
Down the roof walk past windows and there at the end was a wonderful pile of junk.  You can judge a guy by how good his junk is.
Helicopter bodies covered in rotten tarps with grass grown up in around the round shells of the lawyer company owned company? Enstrom,, something like that.  I wanted to meet the guy that owned such junk.

He came out with is wife who was staring mean at anyone come from the roof.  “Fine helicopters.”  I said.

“Thank you.”  He said.  “I have one running over at the airport.”

“Terrific.”  I said.  He was wearing a white shirt and blue jeans and thick glasses.  His hair was medium length.

By then his wife had gone on to taking clothes off a clothesline, so he was a green fellow you saw.

“I’ll leave you now.”  I said because I had shown up unannounced and from the roof.  I left.
At the airport I had a friend who brought me a cardboard box with parts of a radio in it.
I loved that radio when I got it to work in a wood frame that was a sculpture to me. My brother smirked at it, and probably threw it in the trash when I gave it to him when I was moved again and had nowhere for it.
Many radios and books are long gone.
Even now I have recorders around me.
I used to record all around me all the time.
That’s not really. What really I did was record talking when groups were going to be together.
There are transcription programs now.

Legal Pad Part II

Delivered Constipated.
Late, I’m Severely Constipated & Full of Laxatives.
No potty for right leg safe angles to hold and prevent after op dislocation.
Bedpans of miniature green cracked plastic.
Bed too small.
Gas and Bloated Try.
Night Then Day.
Day of Drama and Trauma.
Shitting 4 pounds at once in Bed pan & all that entails.
Doctor does visit and orders blood clot test.
Night of Terrors.
3 Fire alarms.
Legs in reductors. No crutches. One man on duty.
Couldn’t even crawl.
Spasms overtake my body.
Hydrating and finally getting some anti- spasmotic drugs.
Tazanidine?
Regaining control.
Dream of bar, family and friends.& songs of Sex.
2 AM waked.
Light, asik for oxycontin 2 2:15, 2 AM
Pain Management Doctor?
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Haircut.
Fingernails.
Private ambitions.
Show me the Revolution!
Fix.
Then I write a list of my Doctors who love me.
Doctors and nurses become my only friends.

I awake and put the urinal between my legs.
Two young tall angry girls walk in.
“Can you urinate or use the bathroom by yourself?”
“You picked the perfect time to ask.” and I produce the poorly filled urinal.
When I ask them stammering to find ne a toilet with a 4 inch riser, they say, “they”, the thing has to be ordered per need.
I need one as then I am in the rehab facility,
What! What What sort of world is this!

Back to Scanton and the happy work on the stupid movie.
The hobby story rocket worked well for lunch launch.
The Super Girl flirted with “us”.
I was for it.
My thoughts return to problems at hand.
Shitting. Goddamnit!
Subject Change:
Capitalism aids
Distribution
So as to enable higher population than otherwise
likely according to natural law.
There you have the Berlin Airlift, and chickens in planes flown to the islands.

I dreamed of two actors on a summer Brooklyn roof
talking about poverty.

There you went, rolled in,
and all the TVs are contributing different channels loud like SkitsoFrenia.
I think of the starving pigs and their screams, the soundtrack for Hell.
My bone grind as I squirm in the too short bed
The infection frees me and I am back at the hospital.
Don’t go to Greenhaven if you can help it.
I won’t have to go back because I was dying there.

Legal Pad

Walk to real toilet.
7/14/12 Aim for Walking?
Aim for Speech in September
UNTV Banning of WMDS?
Space Elevator Techniques.
From near Earth down.
Carbon nanotubing.
How well does TV influence decisions?
Day to Day Work of Peace
Little things add up.
I need some Iranian input.

Frame Photos for the wall/ Coffee Maker
Hair Clipper/ Electric shaver?
Clothes Wash self?
Body wash schdule?
Send Mail to NY State.
Itchy legs.
Did Event!
Story Hospital Book Show.
Mom Photo? Sales? Show?
Sorry about Reverend and Dad.
Mail note.
XTREE

Wet Dream

It was just as it had been only better. She was liquid pliant real and physical without any illusions after all this time. All round the face and hips and eyes.
Always she had been like a man about sex and the collection of partners was some private revenge and quest.
There was size and color of the body and member parts and all the inspiration men took in possession thrilled her for it was power waste.
Leave it as it really is and say “You Whore” as the endearment she loved in private.
“Every girl ought to do it for money at least once.”
It was impossible to insult her with whore or slut for that was fine with her. All was pleasure as a hedonist naturally finding it a jest of men to think because she was so good at it they could possess her.
Under and the leg up and his hands down and high head touching hips to hips entered a mound of venus roiling.
He had given her her snapper and he was going to enjoy it no matter what the cost.
Hs life and relations were all turned around.
He had done most all of it except for the S&M he couldn’t understand.
Tied up once he had started crying and begged for that to stop and never gone near any of that again.
Threesomes were always the others. But she somehow planted it as she was insane and willing beyond those amateurs. Most people.
With him after all the years she really didn’t care if now he understood her.

Career Plans

For a working man who respected his experiences and intended to move up the ladder by merit and cooperation with his fellows, it was a solid plan from a time that went gone through no fault of his own.
Turning to what was available to do he did carpentry in a town that paid better than the town he’d used for those prosaic safety net requirements.
The plan was solid.
The town was just big enough so that what he could afford required more danger than he wanted to commit to.
He stayed in a 140 a week motel room for a couple of months feeling that homelessness and vulnerability that doesn’t make for great cheer.
The plan was carpentry and what he like and was good at. That was TV and Film production as a Grip or Gaffer. He was NYC style instead of the cute California style that had been imported.
In the dream it ended on train tracks while he was interviewed by some special effects puffed up sort that didn’t like him or his references.
Train tracks.
Locomotive wheels.
The guy liked the woman who was playing brakeman reading the lights. 4 lights and she was supposed to pull the brake.
She was all right. Just another person looking for a job.
The past had wrecked him and the dream was wrecked.
He fell. He had fallen and been broken up good soes he could only come back to the Workmans Comp job covered.
It would have been all right if he had been able to be the carpenter and the gaffer for the money would have been together with both jobs, good.
As it was he was just a carpenter, and not that good at that, and time went by and the new town was never really that advanced, and he’d given jobs away from the sick bed.
The favors were not repaid.
He got old.
The nightmare and the reality became the same sad picture.

Lost

The room was torn up as in, a mess. Cleaning it up was going to be hard. He felt daunted and wondered how it had gotten so out of control.
The roommate came in with a secret project on his mind and didn’t seem to care so much.
Out in the hallway he wandered from bootlegger to bootleggers place drinking and not fitting in.
The last place was big on sculpture in a anteroom with wide connecting hallways to suites.
A longhaired man was sitting on a bench fiddling with a strip of Super 8 film saying, “We should all have families.”
He couldn’t remember his apartment number.
He kept thinking of when he was a child and had sat with all his crayons on the sidewalk drawing shapes squiggles into the surface of the concrete and hoping it would get hot enough to melt.

Wash & Clean

The car didn’t have much dirt on it, but he wanted to clean it inside and out. She didn’t realize this was his idea of an intimacy but went along.
It was a nice day, sunny warm with a 7 mile an hour breeze. They don’t come much better.
First he filled the Karmin Gia with gas. It rarely got a full tank and he thought it ought to be grateful.
He paid for the gas, and got change of bills for the wash bays and got in the car again and moved it to the pad.
“Hey yeah, it’s a good time to clean this car. You know this car was designed by the same guy that designed really expensive sports cars. Porsche. I love this car.”
She got out and was all prepared to watch.
He put on a show leaning in and picking at nits and bits fast and then furiously vacuuming smiling and happy like she had never seen him before really.
She just stood there a slight young woman in a white dress while he kept up the attack on the condition of the old car.
It scared her that cleaning the car was the happiest she had ever seen him.
You nearly expected everybody to join in and all dance and sing about cleaning your car and going for a drive.

Exciting

There was a sign in the yard advertising a 1965 Mustang. It was a sturdy enamel metal sign.
The interior of the house was very bright. It was a two story house. John was intimidating Billy. Billy stood in front of the couch. Billy had that mealy mouthed way of talking that was excuse enough for murder.
John was reaching for Billy’s member and got him going ready for me, but I was about holding up my breasts with the teasing and the promise and then the hatred.
I shot him feeling very satisfied about it.
John and I went for a ride into the dirt roads behind the house on the lonely county road where you could kill or have sex and nobody hear.
Leastways nobody could hear, but people are always around.
Along the excise lot fenced I saw the policeman on his horse riding English watching us in the car.
Back at the house with the body on the couch, I got John going and then when John was satisfied I was happy the pistol was in my reach, and I got to shoot him a few times all the places I liked to hurt people.