There's two scenes in the next poem, which is called "Pilots."
One is on a ranch, an isolated ranch
which is supplied by airplane.
And the next scene, I hate to get local about it,
but he's in Polo Village.
I'm not sure I get the two working together,
but that's one of the ideas.
One word you might need to know about
is remuda, which is a string of horses that is used.
Well, that's the name of the string
of horses that is used on a daily basis on a ranch.
So "Pilots."
I've spent my life in a foolish, evil and crazy manner
of false alarms.
Chasing the remuda off the runway with a spade.
Lying about my feelings and finally,
in the bunker of the double logged root cellar.
Moving the cartons of Coke to get at the dead raccoon.
An envelope with a love letter extracted from it.
Heard the ultimate insult, the supply plane, an anthem.
An anthem curving around the ridge on one wing.
Thought in my mind, that greasing itself
in with a splash over its nose across the pasture.
The cabin girls rushing out, bobbing up and down.
The passengers of erect ship about to be
rescued from the waves.
While grinning in his seat, the pilot
passed out transistor radios.
Letters from their boyfriends, the fruit
cakes that at night and the dystrophic kerosene
light of the big cabin, they waltz around with.
Nevertheless, when I get home, it's
good to see that civilization is much the same.
My truant friends who ran South to Lake Sakala,
following the herds of flamingos streaking through their heads
are back early.
Finding the water polluted.
The Indians malnourished, but uncaring.
And now all day they sit outside their Quonset hut,
and this unusual heat beneath their one half
of a rigged parachute.
And their jerry-built shade with the faraway look of a couple,
discovering itself still in love, though long married.
While in a tear over their blessed heads,
enough blue sky to wink at slaps away.