Commercial Air Lines

Watch those industrious,
Late-capitalist jets
(Capitalism is

Always late and always,
Like the poor of Jesus,
With us) thunder contrails

Through the clouds! Cloud rippers,
Cloud mongers, cloud walkers,
Nefelibatas. Jets!

How wrong you always were
About what’s heavenly—
All of it—moon, stars, clouds—

Cold dust, self-fueling fires,
Water vapors spun out
Like cotton from the sky—

No angels, immortals,
Shamanistic wizards—
No peeping deities.

Even the wandering
Minded child staring out
Of the classroom window,

Poor bored kid, didn’t have
A head stuck in the clouds.
There’s no magic up there,

No ad libitum, no
Tempo rubato—just
More waves commerce plows through.