STAID

I could not have planned
for the kicking face in my sand
for the deep water that runs... still
for the fight to free will
from the shackles of tradition
from my yellow submission
from the govern meant to crease
the folded plane of the sheet
of plain white paper flier
that longs to soar higher
shot down with other's vertigo
that turns the dark black of indigo
back to the strappings
of horizontal trappings
Stare straight ahead
pretend that you're dead
Do not bite
the feed that backhands you
The fleet is at sail,
the cannons are manned, too
and aimed at the deft things
That fly with two left wings
That bring breath to the baited
Hooked, lined and sedated
Ready, Tame, Fire
Down the desire
To fly higher
Than the empire
Of the finite city
Of polite mediocrity.

(c) pauley p.