Matte Black Flak



Denmark. Finland. France. Our causal friend. Our square one.

The Essex is our years passing; color it blue.

There’s a whale waiting. Deep off islands. Beyond saving. With a taste for man blood.

Don’t tell us not to fly. Life’s heavy, and the sun’s a ball in the gutter.

Wing tip to wing tip. They call it the span. Up here. We call it horizon; we call it home.

The fliegerabwehrkanone calls it fair game; calls it target practice.

Hurtling. Belly of the beast.  Triosphere buffets body. Like waves cut by her charging prow.

Joel Sockoff is our quiet co-cyber. Lincoln, the bubbly bombardier. I, the pilot. And Rhoda is our chassis, our struts, our bomb trailer, our floating fortress. Burning.

Flak. It’s a four letter word. It’s no more powerful than our four word letters. Home.

Dear, lovesick. Thank you.

Black. It’s the absence of land. It’s served best with jack. It comes at us from below. Like salt from a blowhole.

Matte. Covers our span. It’s our ending frame.

Dear, lovesick. Good bye.



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