I'll do one little tiny one and then--
OK, is that all right?
And I spent a lot of time in the airport yesterday
and this is reminding me.
Did you ever notice pilots?
Pilots always walk around like--
[LAUGHTER]
Don't they?
And it's like, excuse me?
You know?
Get a life.
[LAUGHTER]
And I would get so pissed off just watching.
Like, so what you flew a plane, so?
[LAUGHTER]
Anyway, so this is called "The Way Pilots Walk."
[LAUGHTER]
You can't do anything in front of a poet
because we will write about you.
[LAUGHTER]
The way pilots walk, like their cocks and haunches
are heavy with it.
Arrogant past Starbucks and baggage claim, past flinching
monitors to the C gates, pilots slide [? navy ?] increase.
Chiseled head, swiveling in the bare tolerance of we,
the ground-bound.
Their faces are chapped by a higher sun.
Their pompadour is glossy and blade cut.
They live a huger life, awfully close
to heaven where blessings begin.
How smug are those little hats?
Dripping with mysterious medals.
Shaped like a salute to the men beneath them.
We bear bowed, pissed witness to their dismissive sniffs.
The oh-so-holier-than-thou in their hips.
There's no bound script for that sexy moment when
the wise guy inhales the laughable machines
and folds their hurtling heartbeats into bloom.
Go on.
Join the club.
Envy their asses.
And pray towards them.
Every fly boy is your fate wearing a crisp little uniform.
A quirk of pulse, a sleepless night, a flick of his wrist
could kill you and 100 other yous.
As maddening as it may be, there's
just no answer to that strut.
It says, fuck you, I've got the air.
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]