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Heli-Boarding
What’s your dream vacation?
The Bahamas, Europe, Nepal?
You’re a snowboarder?
Alaska or B.C.
Your heart is pounding,
the pilot sets down the machine.
The door flies open,
everything’s loud and hectic.
Gale-force winds,
your strap in and point it.
Silence,
your hot breath against your jacket collar,
the distant battle-axe chop, chop, chop
of the blades dicing up mountai air.
Powder for miles
and its all yours.
Shoelaces
Now safely in my chair
most of the laughing has subsided
and I bend forward slowly,
so as not to cause any further embarassment,
as I tie the enemy laces in a
tight double-bow.
Angered with myself
for not stopping to perform
this tedious task earlier
before it could perform ill upon me,
I notice something strange.
I am not tying the laces together
with my fingers, but rather
tying my fingers together,
into the laces.
They are becoming one.
Trying to free myself from the sinister grasp,
it is no use.
I am trapped
in a spitting, snarling, entanglement
of cotton and flesh.
Where has it Gone?
Through a window:
The untainted
sweating of the sky.
The purity
of salty, billowing, ocean spray.
The gulls
with wings, still angelic before man’s corruption.
The fruits,
unharvested by man’s rotten hand.
Nature’s
“sexual sense of humor.”
The sunsets still remain
but the pink, yellow, purple
comes from smog, dirt, smoke.
What have we done?
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