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747 🪞 James Edward Schier

i wrote this in TextEdit. i’m writing this in TextEdit.

i dreamt last night that i was a 747. i don’t know if i was a boeing or if this dream implicates me in any kind of retroactive war profiteering. i never blueprinted a missile but 

i dreamt last night that i was a 747, and that i loved you. you know dreams, and how you don’t want to hear about dreams, and how when you wake up before you really wake up grizzled and in the throes of caffeine withdrawal and start telling somebody about your dream you start to wake up for real and realize there’s really nothing to tell…

and you know how, unlike life, where we perform one action at a time, systematically and as Human rather than human, where nothing ever goes wrong and everything always gets done, you know how in dreams there’s always a good chance you’re at least a few people in a few different places; lover, beloved, killer, dead, airplane.

i remember those guys in shorts whose baggage meant they intended above all things to smell good when they got to puerto rico, japan, the bahamas, the places you see in pamphlets marked D for destination.

and those guys and some other guys neurotic or obsessive-compulsive or just sensible would sit in the aisle and never in the middle and they’d sit in the aisle and get up more than you think they’d have to get up. sometimes it was actually coke, other times it was just an overactive gut, leftover defecation (get the other half of that out later) or they ate something didn’t agree with them last night:

do you think birds do that? take off, ratchet up the altitude and realize maybe they shouldn’t have gone seconds on the mexican takeout?

i remember them shitting right down into me, into my belly… it wasn’t a bad feeling, because i was like a giant metal animal and this was what i did… it was warm and slow like honey, just as essential as engine fuel... but it was such a weight, filling me up and pulling me down… and did i take a big shit on mother earth? i wanted to, i wanted to very badly, in that dreamway which is always blocked, locked, full of desperate but unfulfillable need

and in the end it was the same old story because i was full of love for you, but i couldn’t reach you

you run, you run, you run, and you never get anywhere

and the room is molasses up to your chest 

and you fly, but there’s some kind of resistance in the air itself… the passengers don’t seem to notice anything is wrong, that they’re never making that trip, they’re never going home, because i can’t push past this barrier and i am the airplane and you put your trust in me and the wright brothers built me in 1903 on huffman prairie flying field in dayton ohio and god is laughing so hard he slams his fist on the table and angels sputter and die and fall like flies off olympus (USA)

i dreamt that i loved you

it took the whole day to wear off like a bad hit of a bad drug

i still feel like an airplane, though

i still feel like an airplane

and this is for vanity

and i wrote this in TextEdit in alberta canada march 30 2021 1:13am 

✈️ James Edward Schier (@styl_oh) is not actually an airplane. He makes music as The Acid Rains.


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