dogfight

May 21, 2024

in this dream, i'm a kamikaze parasite jet pilot and you're an anti-navy destroyer warship. we meet deep in the raging, burning heart of the battle. i want a dogfight, and you have the bombs. i want a dogfight. you don't want to die.

the mottled smoke from the first explosion curls above us into black filigrees; blood rushing to the brain, orchids falling off the branch. neither of us know who shot the first missile, but i watch debris from your starboard spill into the pacific sea, stained glass forming a basilica— oh, st. joseph, pray for us in copertino—

it takes 19 missiles for us to reach the end of the shoot-out. as you sink down in your scrap metal chapel, bubbling up your bloated prayers, i nose-dive into your gritted teeth and carve a hole in your heart. in this dream, we both die, and this time, it's my choice.

the ocean set on fire sings a hymn of pops and crackles, with nothing left to hear it but a graveyard of dead boys singing:
"i want a dogfight. i don't want to die.
i want a dogfight. i don't want to die.
i want a dogfight. i don't want to die."