Tok-yo?

Autumn: season of phone calls and one-way flight segments. This morning in line at the airport for my gate, paying attention and queing like the good ques for salvation. Thinking about burning questions, flight through holes. Thinking about port towns without Touchtone, direct lines, how as we age we can (end)compass the true mournful howl.

AC009 to Tokyo: suddenly disoriented since I’m supposed to be en route to Cowtown but the sign says Japan not Alberta. Thinking I’ve grosslymiscalculated. But I’m in the right line, booked on a flight stopping over in Alberta, one of maybe a dozen passengers set to disembark for disenchantment at YYC. Such a relief to take flight with announcements in Japanese so I could convince myself I’m only halfway towards my final destination.

Such destination a final relief towards taking

halfway flight only with myself announcing confidently I could try

Land ho

in a new language. I’m tested in November anyway. You want to know I desire fluency. You want to know whether. Or the how of what you wish to know in another time zone: the avant after post, the whereable of the keeper of questions let. Want me to hold, push dimension.Be grammatically accurate.

I’m dialing tone, requesting feedback, hoping you’re in the space between spaces sending a smoke signal my technology will register.

I might ride the river, but it’s no saviour: no one can be saved by less than asking if the path from Wards Island can let go our hope for names . . .

ferry me home

Make what I covet into home. Not an address, postal code, or box with a key that stills my lot to me – I want people that build the Point, and keep her.

Still me by letting me know what T’oh covets, though knowing him makes me want East. Home West? How now?