Friday, September 24, 2021

I dreamt I soared above it.

I dream I fly.

My brothers, shall I apologize?

Bullets through a few of you,

My arms grew wings as I flew.

Shameless, I looked down at you.

Jumping fences.

These borders screwed you.

Excuse me,

The mind fucks us.

History is fucked up.

These eyes detour us.

We’re one but who gives a…

Guilt—how else are we built?

Run.

These legs of stilt.

Each are tall for the mind,

A divine machine,

Keep it off ground—clean.

Think pristine.

They wouldn’t assume this of me,

Creating from miles above.

Running for smiles—love.

Wings of purity—doves.

No, the wings you see,

Delta.

The mountain it passes,

Never blew up.

Until now.

-Budd

Yesterday, in flight back home from Las Vegas, I opened my photos app and looked back at a few pictures from last week. One that stood out was the feature photo to this post. It was taken just before our final descent onto PDX runway 28 L, coming from Los Angeles. The story behind this poem is about a dream I had two years ago. As I’m looking at this photo, along with First Light by Harold Budd and Brian Eno playing through my headphones, I reminisced that vivid dream, which somewhat birthed the poem above.

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Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

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