Here you will find the Poem Motion Sickness of poet B H Fairchild
I am tired of the heave and swell, the deep lunge in the belly, the gut's dumb show of dance and counterdance, sway and pause, the pure jig of nausea in the pit of a spinning world. Where the body moves, the mind often lags, clutching deck, anchor, the gray strap that hangs like the beard of death from the train's ceiling, the mind lost in the slow bulge of ocean under the moon's long pull or the endless coil of some medieval argument for the existence of God or the dream of the giant maze that turns constantly in and in on itself and there is no way out . . . I am sick and tired of every rise and fall of the sun, the moon's tedious cycle that sucks blood from the thighs of women and turns teenage boys into wolves prowling the streets, hungry for motion. Let me be still, let me rest in some hollow of space and time far from the seasons and that boring, ponderous drama of day and night. Let me sleep in the heart of calm and dream placidly of birds frozen in the unmoving air of eternity and the earth grown immobile in its centrifugal spin, and God motionless as Lazarus in his tomb before he is raised dizzily to fall again, to rise, to fall.