Flight to the Death

Jet hag, that's me. 
A failure, a climate injustice incarnate.
I went, I saw, I bonkered.

That was the picture story
from the oil burned glory.
A painting, a portrait, an imperial atonement,
each claims a statue, Vasco de Gama etc.
I was there, that's the way it must be. 
According to tradition.

Virtual tours notwithstanding, don't mention books.
I paid a price, not The Price. 
Someone else gets that bill.
Incremental, compound pins in the chest.
That's how the air's haughty no-more-breathable
situation feels to the receipt-gatherer.

Invoice me? Dollars don't care. 
They are fungible, capital, shields for hire.
Legally, I'm morally in the clear.
Ethically, there are nauseous existentialists whose personal
meaning might try to impinge on my right to 
swing my fist back and forth, 
but they don't have a leviathan where their nose begins. 

Thanks, Navy, you saw the world first so I could
enter the enclosure you made
and play and sip coffee and feel
that my status was a well-earned privilege
for making sure the ships stay strong.
Next time, I'll take off straight from the deck
and rise and rise and rise
and never come back.

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