Virgin America

LAX is nobody’s home
pine-scented antiseptic glossed across linoleum-igloo floors
glittering like a thousand demons under fluorescent light
reflecting the waxy dread of “nothing”.
The triplet girls at gate 25A in velvet and pigtails are too young to know
their tedious fate to be brought on by this placeless place.

It is the necromancy of disappearing from place to place
that eviscerates any sense of home
and every sun-kissed, moon-bent sliver I have known
erased in the face of a blue- carpet floor
suspended above thirty-thousand miles of nothing
with plastic plates of elephant-skin grey to shield the light

of an ever nearing sun. And slowly swiveling bulbs of lilac light
grow like onions from the ceiling: planet convex and rattling—I know
this trembling is standard, even dull, and there is nothing
to get existential about, but the cranberry panic tastes like home,
coasts like silicone along the roof of my mouth and the floor
of my chest. Look around: polyester reds and tubular ice cubes: this is the place

where you will die. Or at least one crucial part. You know,
Death is not an end or a fate, but a practice—a slipping towards light
that evades us like floating dust illuminated by golden rays that cascade onto the floor.
I rise, I rise: xanax snowflakes dissolve warm and bright into my mind. Never a place
so warm and so bright. When somebody whispers: There’s no place like home
it sounds like a stranger’s hands, cold against my flesh. Meaning nothing.

Sometimes the only remedy is desire, but it is those times that nothing
excites me. There is nothing here to touch, to welcome, to know.
Below, beige and indigo intertwine like vessels beaten to abstraction around the homes
of the grounded. I order whisky: it tastes like light.
But what do you know of this place?
Call it Nightmare, if you will. With crystalline ceilings and maggots in the floor

boards. We’ve been unfaithful as this ceiling is to the floor:
converging with clouds: It can be mathematically proven that my nothing comes from your nothing.
Maybe I resent you adopting me out to this place.
You wrote: A thing doesn’t exist if it can’t be known
to intellect, that is quietly divine and holier than the taste of fresh light.
Follow it high and higher, it will lead you home.

Instead, I will descend into a ringed and burning home of fiery floors.
Oh, blinding light, Oh blissful nothing:
open holes in my deceptive knowledge and I will forever belong to your darkest place.

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