Friday, December 15, 2006


impossible songs

impossible songs

I flew in a helicopter over the Statue of Liberty one sweet and silver lunchtime. Strapped and trapped in a whirling Volvo above this welcoming lady. The blue islands and city scapes beat out their heart's rhythm way down below. They were crying for some Indian braves or French refugees, some Scottish clansmen from the clearances or pilgrims running from unbelief. Calling out for them to come, pass through and go away. The brave Indians built these skyscrapers and looked out for buffalo ghosts, down deep from the girders. Perhaps all were built a little too short to catch that horizon. Now Donald Trump gazes down at herds of yellow cabs and vendors, pavements strewn with gum and cigar butts and yesterday’s lottery tickets. Our crashing Volvo of the skies veers between these pillared canyons and Art Deco buttresses, glassy walls and a storm of cell phone signals, heaving and circling as we look down to study the carrion. We flew in a helicopter over the Statue of Liberty, something changed and something changed me.

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