Worldborne, outside someplace proper by Skye Preston

for Me, sometime later / On the plane but I could / feel the Rebound / Right down to my red raw heels / So I dreamt I doggy-bagged ComfortPlus / and took it to a mall foodcourt / On a leash, ate it down. 

03:10AM, fem. Pilot / Crash came unavoidably From security to gate 002B. 

And I thought / Who wouldn’t want to strike / out on first shot? / When the reverse was permanent leave / And an unmarked hotel room / Peephole looking the other way / She got hauled off, said / Maybe you have to be crazy to know / what it means to be sane. 

— 

Try / Yes / Dying on the tarmac / could be an art / If it weren’t so innately feminine. Touchdown / could be a death wish / If it weren’t taught in aeroplane school. 

I buy a bag of airport pita chips / And try to sit in pretzel’s formation / I buy a new pair of corded headphones / And challenge my fear of the connectable / The plane offers Beautiful Boy / I offer poem with a neon post-it / reads enjoy her. 

In France they have Paris / In here I have oven warmed hairless cat synonym for airborn love synonym for temperature testing on aeroplane wings / synonym for think try fiend / or beginnings instead of endings / mean-murmur / and anticipated addition. 

Try / England. 

In which Fiefdom / Could be a love-letter / If it weren’t over-lorded / and kitchen could replace crossword as the doing-itself-doing. 

—

in my head waukesha tastes like cotton stuffed lime pudding but i like the snow so i put it in my shoes and into handmade envelopes and spit at the squirrels that refuse to be grey or seemly 

tired is a construct so i don’t go to sleep i‘m scared of disappearing into a void of construct which also tastes like limes but maybe after the lime has half fallen into the cocktail and i haven’t had a mango for nine weeks 

it’s not the season for mangos but it is the season for defunct sledding raging down the mountain with a flat iron in one hand and the cord tailed somewhere beneath and the oak wood carved phone in the other hand dials only 411 but nobody wants the 411 

because the main dish has always been too smart to taste better than any condiment offered. and nothing is the norm. they say tired is a death wish, and it aches.