Plane crashes are the new tornados,

the recurring modus operandi of my dreamtime disasters:
mechanical mayhem is the new wrath of nature,
the ground coming up is the new sky reaching down.

The tingling sensation of falling, oddly pleasurable fear,
a count, in Spanish,
veintisiete, veintiocho, veintinyeve and
on treinta,
fire and darkness galloping at me like
nightmare horses in some
demolition derby.

Thirty is the new zero.

Bracing for impact is the new waking before the crush.

Being dead is the new being alive.

In the nothingness I hear voices I don’t recognize,
Mexican angels but

I don’t speak the language.

Purgatory is the new 3 AM.

Resuscitation is the new wake up call.

Not knowing is the new knowing.

© Bryan Borland