Wednesday, September 11, 2002

I wrote this last year,

I wrote this last year, in October.  I think it still hold true for me.

THE DEATH OF THE AIR

When I woke up that morning
the air still had substance
I wandered the kitchen
assembling clues
then I heard an announcement
the radio said it
the words were impossible
it was as if I felt something extracted
yes like the naiveté I pawn off as innocence
but that’s a metaphor
What I experienced was nothing less than
the Death of the Air
and it all became hollow
the distance between things
invasively compromised
How could words reach me
I stood in a vacuum
The air they had filled
was now gaping and tenantless
shadows of substance
in stark shafts of suction
I felt their exertion
against my four humors
against my well-being
it pulled like a tide
to those tall hollow shadows
where once had been windows
that looked out on air
full of presence and light

I went in time to work again
in my Administrator’s costume
as if my shirt could make a difference
what tie I wore around my neck
now that the air is empty, Empty
On the bus a different silence
Everybody apprehensive
I try to breath the air is hollow
muted echoes all remaining
of the cheerful din of day
The air is still, but not serene –
co-opted, overbearing, stolen
All domestic flights were cancelled
thirty centuries of miles
vacant as a missing building
even the Blue Angels grounded
every year they’d buzz my duplex
I could see the cockpit rivets
close enough to throw a baseball
not as if I’d ever hit one
flying at the speed of anger
awesome chariots of fire
rending the air with their terrible power
they’d return like homesick swallows
but this year they’re flying elsewhere
sorties from Diego Garcia
they’re filling the air there
with rubble and panic

here it’s still hollow
a negative pregnant
I feel their absence
the sort of thing your ears don’t notice
till the void moans like a siren
in the disembodied ether
as Furious Everyone tries to make up
for the absence of breathable air by increasing
the number of words and the number of facts
that surround us at breakfast and join us for supper
We read it and hear it from every direction
the news and opinions that build on each other
accumulate slower than snow on a highway
they swirl in my headlights
and still I drive through them
because they lack substance

Dad said it was easier back in the 40s
when bombs ignominious last did their damage
But facts then were precious and still to be trusted
and there were so few you could almost keep up
and believe yourself able to take in the details
anyway sometimes you still could look elsewhere
the sound was unmuffled
and air tasted wholesome
because it was full
of the stuff dreams are made on
Now columns of air render dreams less substantial
it leaves me to wonder
what holds up the stars