Cut The Fuel Tanks Loose

When the indicator lights cooled to dark,
left to guess at the terrain way up ahead,
it hailed inside my head, all the ways to live
with a sun and moon run off to outer space
like lovers who lived next door until they
couldn't stand it any more....exit orbit, yes!

Everything I understood as real, real
as mashed potatoes cooling to gluepaste
on the plate, next to meat congealing
to something the taste of tough socks,
religion to bluster, history purposed
into lies, philosophy dereliction of time,
so that whatever one said was about
them, except maybe math, chemistry,
physics, and other sciences could be
found on UFO's and it equaled out.

Darkness or manipulated light
was the choice spread before me
outside the cockpit. Engines stopped.
Sound of wind from the plummet.
And, well, I willed the plane to fly,
as if cabled to a blue flow of blood,
as if  hope ignited in nuclear power.
Don't think I'll ever land.  No choice.
Rise up, you wing commanders!
You know who you are! Cut
the fuel tanks loose. Pray. Believe.
Teach gravity a lesson all the kids
can take to heart on the ground
in the only conscious extinction.

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