i've never seen you in an airport, but if i did, you'd be wearing a sweater, hand-knit by a communist off the pacific coast somewhere.
the weather inside iS always room temperature.
written on a rocky ride landing over clouds and fake lakes
never been outside in texas, and i still hate it.
at LAX, high-class skanks and homeland security,
88 degrees, september 19th
i sweat in tight spaces.
the pure disturbance of turbulence at thirty thousand feet of nervousness
the pure turbulence of nervousness at thirty thousand feet of disturbance
the pure nervousness of disturbance at thirty thousand feet of turbulence.
i'm wondering what chemicals my plane has spewing out the back
iS it a long white trail designed by dead white men in black?