He dances up the ladder
averting the Luddites
below, who smash the rungs
with weathered blunt force.

His acrobat-feet used to bound
effortlessly across the strung-out rope
and the people would cheer when
the ringmaster flapped his greasy mustache.

Ceaseless beats prod
his tempered heart
blued with blood
frozen in rusty pipes.

How he loved the morning crack
of spine-splitting handstands
and the flowing rush of blood
that swelled his head.

His piqued hands
squeeze the callous
stilts that splinter
the slightest slip.

His falls used to be
met by elephant-hugs
that left him longing
for something bigger.

The pounding soon
endures the howling
of a ragged hound
that bemoans for scraps.

He recalled the puppy-eyes
that would shine at

He dances up the ladder
averting the Luddites
below, who smash the rungs
with weathered blunt force.

Ceaseless beats prod
his tempered heart
blued with blood
frozen in rusty pipes.

His piqued hands
squeeze the callous
stilts that splinter
the slightest slip.

The pounding soon
endures the howling
of a ragged hound
that bemoans for scraps.

The sliver in his ear
bites at his tongue
and shaken he
ties a noose with the leash.

Release.

Ravenous eyes scanned the barren
moving portrait packed with spastic caricatures
babbling like inflated scoops of curdled milk
left over from last year’s sleep-over,
force-fed to him with a blunt and rusty spoon.

When he stood up
the pale sea of his stomach rippled like nauseous waves
from the rising tides of last week’s discontent.
And his culpable downward gaze rode upon an empty ship,
captained by a pirate-hoarder of odious loot.

His bare feet delighted in the seaweed
of green shag carpet left from years of fluctuating tide,
when a tepid plop of brain-freight struck his
balding crown like a seagull air-lifting an unsuspecting victim
a pasty gift from above.

Yet the living room started to spin
when his blundering feet lost step to

Due to lack of coffee and inspiration, I do not have anything original at the moment. Here is something I wrote awhile ago.

"Left mag...Check, right mag...Check, ailerons...check, carburetor heat...check. Ready for takeoff." Raindrops fell steadily on the windshield and wind rocked the plane back and forth. I looked over at my dad; he gave me the nod that we were ready to go. We taxied up the runway and lined up to takeoff. He slowly pushed the throttle forward, along with about 2000 lbs of metal.