Drowning in Air
“But still inside … a whisper to a riot” – Walk, the Foo Fighters
Would I had a machine of time manipulation,
primed with a human foot-shaped accelerator;
the type sold at Pilot on the Interstate Highway.
Yes, one can be had for about $8.95 USD.
Mine would do zero to 186001 m/s like a whisper to a riot.
I’d customize it with laser stabilization and phase inducers,
so all goes, so all goes, so all goes pretty well.
Winona, I’d be your affectionate competition
chasing life-sized stars from Santa Rosa to LA;
pulled in the wake of over-eager super parents,
who were responsive to budding fame potential.
Because that’s how fame always starts, right?
A useless particle of dust, a lone amino acid,
an awkward child reading Shakespeare on the playground
– the whispers.
A shuttlecock cresting the crooked net,
needs a counter blow for its return trip.
It stays in the air and utilizes its potential
only with the participation of active fellows
waving practical rackets
– the agitators.
What comes after the buttons depress and the levers slide
is hard to tell – a tunnel of lights, a twisting spiral?
A suddenly changed background is more likely.
Thirteen years gone forever in a blink, and then
it’s all fleeting maybes and blunted blame.
Hindsight is Time’s biggest fuck you to all its travelers
– the riot.
So twirl the stratigraphical colors, pulse the geometric shapes,
all up, in and around this machine with airy rippler manipulators.
It’s VHS on rewind in a basement editing suite, timecode laid black.
And POP – Battledore is engaged.
Name a century; name a civilization.
The scene’s different, characters blinking at new old trees.
Fresh grass tickling their bare feet; with breeze, their bare skin
as a shuttlecock appears over the horizontal net. Again.
A finger depresses the universal play button,
all rackets waving frantically enthusiastic,
and the shuttlecock responds in time.