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Postmodern Village
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We appreciate it in a deep, non-Lacanian sort of way
by Francine DuBois

We kept joking about airplanes, your pilot friend and I.
He claimed that he once showed Airport '77 on a flight
From Tel Aviv to Paris. In truth, he never left the States
And mostly shuttled business people between meetings in New England.

That last night, he turned to me as his wife angrily left dinner
He said that she only had one pina colada left in her anyway:
I didn't know whether that meant that she'd throw up or pass out
But it didn't matter in the end. That was the night that the winds

Shifted, and little electrical fires started in the streets.
We heard the loud bang together, and that instant in the darkness
Found him huddled at my waist; his hand trying to dig through
My pants, his face pressed against my stomach. I called 911

As the fires continued to blaze. The rains weren't putting them out.
It was near Christmas, and all the lights on the houses reminded
Him of runway lights. All those bad airplane disaster movies came back
To him, sputtering on an ancient projector, and he ran into the street,

Arms waving like clipped wings, screaming like a cat-eyed stewardess
At a horror movie. Part of me likes to say that he got run over
By an ambulance, but I know that's a lie. I don't know what happened
That final night. All I remember is his widow blaming me for it.

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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