Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet

    At this height， Kansas

    is just a concept，

    a checkerboard design of wheat and corn

    no larger than the foldout section

    of my neighbor's travel magazine.

    At this stage of the journey

    I would estimate the distance

    between myself and my own feelings

    is roughly the same as the mileage

    from Seattle to New York，

    so I can lean back into the upholstered interval

    between Muzak and lunch，

    a little bored， a little old and strange.

    I remember， as a dreamy

    backyard kind of kid，

    tilting up my head to watch

    those planes engrave the sky

    in lines so steady and so straight

    they implied the enormous concentration

    of good men，

    but now my eyes flicker

    from the in-flight movie

    to the stewardess's pantyline，

    then back into my book，

    where men throw harpoons at something

    much bigger and probably

    better than themselves，

    wanting to kill it，

    wanting to see great clouds of blood erupt

    to prove that they exist.

    Imagine being born and growing up，

    rushing through the world for sixty years

    at unimaginable speeds.

    Imagine a century like a room so large，

    a corridor so long

    you could travel for a lifetime

    and never find the door，

    until you had forgotten

    that such a thing as doors exist.

    Better to be on board the Pequod，

    with a mad one-legged captain

    living for revenge.

    Better to feel the salt wind

    spitting in your face，

    to hold your sharpened weapon high，

    to see the glisten

    of the beast beneath the waves.

    What a relief it would be

    to hear someone in the crew

    cry out like a gull，

    Oh Captain， Captain！

    Where are we going now？

    by Tony Hoagland

    At this height， Kansas

    is just a concept，

    a checkerboard design of wheat and corn

    no larger than the foldout section

    of my neighbor's travel magazine.

    At this stage of the journey

    I would estimate the distance

    between myself and my own feelings

    is roughly the same as the mileage

    from Seattle to New York，

    so I can lean back into the upholstered interval

    between Muzak and lunch，

    a little bored， a little old and strange.

    I remember， as a dreamy

    backyard kind of kid，

    tilting up my head to watch

    those planes engrave the sky

    in lines so steady and so straight

    they implied the enormous concentration

    of good men，

    but now my eyes flicker

    from the in-flight movie

    to the stewardess's pantyline，

    then back into my book，

    where men throw harpoons at something

    much bigger and probably

    better than themselves，

    wanting to kill it，

    wanting to see great clouds of blood erupt

    to prove that they exist.

    Imagine being born and growing up，

    rushing through the world for sixty years

    at unimaginable speeds.

    Imagine a century like a room so large，

    a corridor so long

    you could travel for a lifetime

    and never find the door，

    until you had forgotten

    that such a thing as doors exist.

    Better to be on board the Pequod，

    with a mad one-legged captain

    living for revenge.

    Better to feel the salt wind

    spitting in your face，

    to hold your sharpened weapon high，

    to see the glisten

    of the beast beneath the waves.

    What a relief it would be

    to hear someone in the crew

    cry out like a gull，

    Oh Captain， Captain！

    Where are we going now？