Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet

　　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？

　　 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？