Canary Island Flight . . .

I had to go all the way to the Canary Island of Tenerife to take this photo in early 1994. There was construction going on all over the coast near where we stayed on the western end of Tenerife ; I suppose these toilets were stacked up waiting to go into the bathrooms of yet another tourist hotel. Does this photo say anything about my views on the world ? Better let the psychologists answer that one. There is a poem that goes with this, that I wrote on the first night in the hotel near where these toilets were waiting to start serving their destined purpose.
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Also, I'd just like to say, I recntly had the great pleasure of stumbling by serendipitous chance on a sublime blog with the magical title Dreams, Delirium, and Mind Talk, written by the enchanting Nevine Sultan, who I am starting to believe is descended from ancient Egyptian royalty, for it would be easy, extremely easy, to try to describe her spell-binding writing in poetry and prose as nothing short of divinely inspired, in an entirely mystical sense. I encourage you, click on the link to her blog, see what you think. I was hooked from the first few phrases. Today she published a piece called "freefalling", and if you give it a read, you will see why I pulled out the below piece as a counter point. (the poem I mean, not the photo...)
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....Canary Flight
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Homer Stern was sitting
At the white table
Which stretched away before him
Like an arctic waste
An empty ashtray miles away
On the wind swept horizon
Eleven floors up
In a concrete tower
No ivory nor ebony
Only iron girders cloaked
In irony
A prison playing at paradise
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The water purification plant
In the washed out ravine
Behind the hotel
Is scrambling shit
For all it’s worth
Churning like a Santa Fe freight
Climbing the long grade
Up toward Donner pass
Homer doubts that sleep
Will be forthcoming
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The motor driven blades
Plowing through the fecal matter
Sound like a flock of C-130’s
Bearing down on a jump zone
And Homer steps to the window
Looks down at the tennis court
Eleven floors below in the darkness
The white lines faintly gleaming
Beckoning like a helicopter pad
To a tired pilot
He imagines the descent
The jolt of landing
Bright light followed by no light
Preceeded by a few vicious seconds
Of total awareness
While falling, flailing, falling
Senses screaming
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In the morning the entire west side
Of the hotel would be on their balconies
Looking down on the carnage
Dried ketchup spray
The local west-side story
For a day two
Homer restrains himself
Despite the shit grinding din
Of late night sewage treatment
More or less akin
To late night TV
He doesn’t want to cast a pall
On so many people’s
Vacation here in paradise
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