Somewhere out on the Space age Rust farm
Posted: September 21st, 2008, 5:51 pm
Flaked piston on rye
down the weeds from hangar 23.
The boys used to wire their Pratt & Whitneys,
wipe oil from their brows, feed a screaming bird.
Out on the farm, crumbling stains, fallow runway,
desert heat raising rust, jimson weed floating
past broken barstools and cigarette billboards,
absurd polygon-shaped signs with letters shot out,
past the ravaged Space Age a-tomic diner a-go-go,
past the old pancake house and cracked red vinyl,
they built a museum with a long, thin spy plane.
Back in '63, sleek as grease, it did mach three.
Drank four point three per second.
Range is still classified.
down the weeds from hangar 23.
The boys used to wire their Pratt & Whitneys,
wipe oil from their brows, feed a screaming bird.
Out on the farm, crumbling stains, fallow runway,
desert heat raising rust, jimson weed floating
past broken barstools and cigarette billboards,
absurd polygon-shaped signs with letters shot out,
past the ravaged Space Age a-tomic diner a-go-go,
past the old pancake house and cracked red vinyl,
they built a museum with a long, thin spy plane.
Back in '63, sleek as grease, it did mach three.
Drank four point three per second.
Range is still classified.