89. Hell, thy name is Airplane

 We're almost done with our time in airplanes. We're in San Francisco right now, waiting for a plane to Reno. But while we were on the way here, I managed to write about how absolutely lovely it is to hurtle through the air in a giant tube crammed together with a bunch of strangers and nothing to do.

Air travel is hell, my loves. Hmm. I may have said this before. Whatever. If I have to go through it again, so do you.

Here we are. On a plane. So, so happy.

I used to think that Hell was when you move

each thing you own, forever, up a stair.

But recent travels have conspired to prove

that Hell might be long-distance trips by air.

They don't use whips, or slicey claws all razored,

nor do they pound with hammers, pinch with tongs.

Regardless, I would rather go get tasered

than languish in an airplane's boring wrongs.

You're packed in like those fish that come in cans;

Your muscles cramp and twitch and turn to jelly.

But boredom is the lynchpin of their plans,

the proof that we are in the Beast's dark Belly.

A legend says this trip will one day cease

but that's absurd. It's Hell; there's no release.