Peter Case

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The Plane That Never Flies (from Epistolary Rex)

There is a plane warming up it’s jets on the tarmac. It’s long & white & the windows are all blacked out. It is the Plane That Never Flies. Late at night it pushes back from the gate and heads out on it’s mysterious errands,taxiing down a back runway to the other end of the airport, passing out through a concealed gate and taking to the streets of our streets & states. Once it gets out in the city, it takes on the appearance of an old dumpy off-green ice cream truck. There’s a little song that plays, but don’t be fooled. It’s traveling at mach three, that’s three times the speed of sound,and it bears a crew of 153 highly trained Navy Seals…

No one knows where it goes, why it goes, or even when. No one sees it return, yet in the morning, there it is again, parked at the usual gate, silently embodying all the great enigmas of our time.

The president has received a briefing on the PTNF… but to date, he has never been allowed on board. Oh well, them’s the breaks!

The air whistled through a hole in the hold– a stream of many colored waters pours out of it’s wounded side. The window is cracked only to reveal another cracked window beneath it. This is the only true story of it’s last flight: or shall we say: The Final Flight Of The Plane That Never Flies. 

It wasn’t a flight at all, and you and I are the only ones who know. The others look and walk by, as if they’ve seen nothing. That’s the way it is these days. It’s dead around here.

Liquor is the motor for people slow to drop.  Confession is the logical extension of knowledge, but guilt is the answer to paradise. The PTNF is on a waterless landing pattern, blessed by the Scotch-Hop General & radically insane: search for the missing Nation and destroy it in it’s Nowhere-ness with Nothing Blasts.

Marshall this you drum-tap fools: you can cook my jaw!

The Plane That Never Flies (pt. 2)

I was husked by age

feet tied together

by invisible bolts

my look is like headlights

on a mountain road

my breath like a bad accordian

my memory is like a wet newspaper

my habits unspeakable

my imagination is a trained bird

one wing clipt

flies in circles round the house

but neer breaks away

into the sunset out by the inlet

when the water flows ’til your pants are wet

& the palm trees sway in a straight line curve

makin’ you wish that once you had the nerve

to get up on top open your shirt

dare all the arrows you lost in the dirt

just once take the chance & bare all the hurt

spit at the words take the long ride

let the world know what yr breeding inside

no hiding inn or retractable pen

this is the trial that you’ve been facing since… when?

this is the plane that never flies

it’s blip is pasted on my fretboard

it’s outline is sinking by the seaside

this is the plane that never flies

but it tells it’s story with head held low

all dressed down with no place to go

but up & out & in & then

down & out & back again.

this is the plane that never flies

but is always working on a plan.

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