Hock Spit Slurp

Two Poems by Eric Fischmann

 

Safety Instruction Card

I am looking at the plane's heart and down

at the pate of Colorado's skull if this were

a phrenological expedition I would touch

each peak with sensors sweep the Rockies

we are skyborne without feathers beside

the emergency exit a few inches between me

and ten thousand feet soon it will be thirty are

you willing to help in case of an emergency?

Nod. "I need a verbal yes or no." We are 45

degrees to the earth my hair is being pulled

back into the engines sink and swim fins

to the ground as we turn I feel my stomach

caving in. I fucking love flying have I made

that clear? Spherical farms crop circles like

Mickey Mouse ears or Pac-Mans or pokeballs

the patchwork quilt of America below us.

Now the mountains have turned to clouds the

flight attendant invites us to enjoy some

"expected rough air" I can't wait I have faith

in the mechanism machines have rights that

some humans don't for instance what would

happen if I pulled this lever? The sky thickens

like white coral we are looking down at it quiet

gods with sodas and snacks if we're good the

angels might bring us extra there is no seatback

in front of me no tray table to set right I write

this on my left thigh face pressed to a submarine

window with not another fish in the sky. Only

castles and cotton balls, turtles and dragons and

giants' feet. They flatten their shadows against

the round dirt one thread equals 12 miles of

darkness I'll have a ginger ale please and pretzels.

I get why it scares you, the void above us, blue

fading to black are we going down or falling up?

In the event of escape velocity you will be blown

out the airlock please put on your own oxygen

mask before you help anyone else with theirs.

The engine eyes me hungrily spinning teeth the

wing gestures I am listening no one is going to let

the apple drop. I could fall asleep in this crib.

The thrum of the windshear, the plane gently rocking,

the captain's lullaby making its final descent.

​

Visit to MoMA

Everyone is waiting for the art to tell them
what it means, but no one wants to talk to it.
The shadows are as loud as any landscape.
You're not supposed to blow on the hanging
woven structures, but we do. The geometric
abstractions point to the ceiling and walls,
to fire exits, occupancy signs, the illusion
of safety. The museum only bought Monet's
Waterlilies because Pollack had made giant
panels popular again, and Pollack ripped off
his wet style from a Mexican artist named
Siqueiros. The art industry killed SAMO
just like the music industry killed Cobain.
A fly leaves its shadow on the melting clock.
We watch Duchamp's spirals through his own
shattered looking glass. What is it you are
trying to tell us, moons of Gibraltar? Tourists
know they are at a tourist attraction, but they
don't know why. Maybe their cameras. This
is what a bird really looks like: polished brass.
Remember when Marina Abramovic and
her lover sat right there? Take a picture
so it looks like they are kissing my cheeks.