wet and bruised.
Noisesome takeoff not helping me think
in mauve, rose and silvering blue.
The first star, wing light in the tagged mouth, sobs.
Night. Ten minutes after takeoff from Biysk, September 11, 1971.
Hardly ever showed it mixed up with
‘photograph.’ Who is that then?
A strange bandit with a tablecloth
behind her. Suppose it is he
whom she is courting, or
a ‘philosopher.’ Or gruesomeness …
None of it diminishing morning as such.
Thinnest film in the canopied air so animals
rut or flex fighting dissolution
as we say ‘Lord’ again, facing southeast.
Where ribbons the peach and violet
meteorological summa. My form bleats.
Incident reported over Chita Oblast, at 21:40. No other traffic.
You too are concrete, greensomeness, and no one
wants him. Can I talk? Yes. Here
people become through efficiency.
I now am a messed-up twilight.
I now – can I talk? – am a twilight
come early. A man – Yes?
She pulled faces from the various
performances. Aria or folk
embroidery, as might labour in ditches
during no time. You split lip.
You contusion, cannot bear Lord
under circumstance indexed as grievance.
September 21, 1972, Chelyabinsk, altitude at time of incident was 3000 m.
One can get very thin.
One doesn’t read at night. Now
as you are writing there is such a storm,
otherwise the darkness, you understand,
and will remain dark forever.
Have joy in the town. The skeletons are failing
whatsoever occur in your heart. Be it
sin, starvation, clemency or rage.
Be it sin. Animal, burrowed prayer;
one can thin out. Consider doughnuts,
or the rattle and spur-scrape and
first-person oar locks. The town’s joy’s yours.
Flight bound for Christopol from the east. Incident reported at 20:55, September 29, 1973.
It is modern. Couldn’t you have brought
me into the world three
days later? You
could have (the cat is laughing)
pushed me back in again.
It is modern. Who do you prefer?
The banks close as the banks close.
One of me, having been forced out, could
be watched over with no undue
taxing of beneficent – Throw it off.
The rattle again of splintered waste
in orbit; shards, at speed, incredibly cold.
September 30, 1973, approaching Dudinka, altitude 3500 m. Time of incident, 20:22.
Don’t say anything funny. Isn’t that possible?
Isn’t that at all
times what holds one together?
Little fairy tales all at once. Stomach fright.
One never hears about compulsion.
‘Killed’ is a word with a star tied around it.
One can listen all night, they won’t
talk of ‘compulsion.’ Compulsion
is a wind with the unmodern cat
stapled to it. The anus constricts.
Needles of yellow and red light, little
aurora materialis and night eyes of the pig family.
At 19:45, over Gorno-Ataysk. August 1974.
The trees are dense here.
The earth doesn’t have a limit.
And again and again limits and grumbling bring
one to the bank of cheerful things. Say,
everything. Everything does not have.
Everything does not have to have.
Counting neurons in bivalves
helps us think on think, though
won’t ground the plane,
or warm you. The nights decline.
Have you noted this effect, this holding
your kidneys while swaying under a draft vent?
August 3, 1974, at 19:10 (local time) in heavy winds approaching Irkutsk.
Completely out for as long as one
doesn’t see. That all money
removed from this world
can
