I used to rely on cables
to move surfaces
before science showed me there was a speed beyond propellers
where cables braided simply would not do and
power boosted hydraulics could
feed back too much noise and snatch control
from my fingertips like a bad winged bird
screaming through the copper bars of its cage.
Now I tell the motors what to do,
electronic songs
feel less brave.
To the aerodome to tear the dusty canvas off
elliptical wing tips and fifty caliber air cooled guns,
pull the pins off five hundred pound dumb bombs,
and push in the choke on horizontal opposed
28 cylinder, super charged dreams.
Tonight we ride inside the envelope,
fingertip close to the air speaking back
every vibration our heart knows.
Tonight we hug the cirrus clouds
and let our gun barrels glow.
The towns and ship yards beneath us light up
along the joy ride. Concussions come through
throaty bass while our propeller tears the air,
flak fire in our face.
I miss the shudder, the body racking shudder of a stall.
The thrill of lift on lost weight,
wanting to roll in and watch the pounders hit their marks,
ballooning orange white and speckle black debris
against the night.
Until the purpose built fighters come in and
the fuel gauge takes center stage and
the only thing in mind
is making it back to friendly territory alive
at war speed.
