Hardy Coleman
Flight 361/To San Francisco
My son and I fly over Kansas,
over westward trail of beatniks,
over rivers black as sky,
stars beached on their banks,
enclosing, foreclosing Mid-America,
over rain and wheat and Mary Jane tucked into fields,
over bright sunflowers in the dark,
over railroads spiked through Arapaho prairie,
over dwindling towns I don't go back to,
over storms that twist the top soil
all the way to Oz,
over clouds
that unload like B-52's,
and under moons & satellites & warheads
and California dreaming
in the summer of love on the rocky coast of A.I.D.S.,
over Ginsberg's fucking ashes
fresh, fertile underneath.
And it's just pretend that we are flying.
Should old men & boys really do such a thing
the cities would be eight miles high and everywhere and rent free and open
till dawn.
But I'm just wishful thinking, kid,
the way us codgers often do.
But rest, and rest assured
these facts, farewells and prophecies
are not important, child.
As all the barn yard lights fade off in 30,000 feet of night
and 44 years forgetfulness...
These are nothing but the places I have been.
It doesn't matter, son.
Just curl into the bobbing currents
this seven-20-seven rides,
let your eyelids follow gravity
and dream your own inheritance.
And should you learn to fly...
Should you learn to fly?
Should you
learn
to fly,
don't wake up
and you won't come down.
My wife likes the moon
and the darkness around it
even when it's raining.
Most especially in the rain,
all shimmery and wet.
She's booked our next vacation
to a cabin on South Beach
of the Sea Of Tranquility
during the monsoon season.
We'll hold hands and kiss
neath the light of the silvery Earth,
go for long walks
in the rain which,
due to a lack of gravity this far north,
falls like a feather in a mating dance and
we'll serenade every soul
who calls the moon home
like Timmy calls Lassie,
the muezzin calls
every one of us to prayer.
Hardy Coleman spent a few weeks crashing on Denis Johnson's couch in 1972, has cooked dinner for both the B-52's and the Rolling Stones and Charlton Heston once rolled his eyes at Mr. Coleman in an airport. He resides in Minneapolis with Patricia Enger, the drag racing champion of Jackson County, Minnesota.
