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And there’s a screaming like nothing ever known before like mountains tumbling down like billions of atoms being pounded into place by tiny hammers an explosion your whole soul streaming through the gaps of your body fingers of rain winding upwards home a sudden swimming tadpole darkness and then huuuunh
You wake up and you’re alive, you wake up and you’re alive and you eat honey, and there’s milk,

There’s a path of thighs you’re screaming naked and those things in your head, you have no way of letting them go, letting anyone know. Is that the show?

You grow and grow and grow and the world rolls. And there’s a time you’re learning walking again you’re holding the woman’s hand. Sunlight bursts like hot jam everywhere and you’re happy. Happy. Your toes petal to the sunshine in your everholding guts and fingertips stroke cold seeds into treebursts everything bursts under the waves the waves of clean washing Salt. That’s the show. No.

Someone comes takes your map of the world tears it into tiny pieces. Says if you look I’ll kill you. Run, I’ll kill you. Stay too still, I’ll kill you. End you. I’ve written all over you. I know how you work. (But he doesn’t know. If he did he’d curl up in the corner neverspeak no more for knowing what he’d made.) Years and years you learn to watch yourself, cut off pounds of flesh hold them in your palms for easy feeding/easy offering. Learn to laugh on an ice floe. Learn invisibility from the tip of your nose.
Sometimes people walk by before you’ve switched your face on. It gets harder and harder to say hello. You squander so many offers and opportunities of love: physical, visual, tactile, olfactory, aural, medicinal, and unashamedly musical, that the universe could be forgiven for not inviting you anymore, but it’s not capable of stopping.
Is that your soul? No.

That kernel of buttery nuclear light (that man inside you) so alive every single piss he takes is a prayer, whole body splayed to the heavens all face scrunched popping knee jerking knuckle jiving smiling joy like that angel he’s been waiting on for so long has finally kicked him up the arse and it’s glorious. He’s flying. And every night-sweat is a grateful river sinking into hotwet female earth and every blink a universe promised and delivered unwrapped once more. That man for whom every kiss is a cannonball hanging, is waxwings singeing in the solar sexuality of tongues; for whom every prayer is a universe kissing its sister, is an ant pushing Tartarus up a hill; that man for whom reproduction is that prayer for that ant (for that sisterkissing universe) because he knows that universes get lonely sometimes too. Believing that their borders are real.

And he cannot speak until he stands in front of you, the black-hole in his mouth and the knuckles in his shoulders boil as his wings unfold wings unroll composed of the tapestry of tongues that you feed his soul and he comes undone when he lets it flow
And the solar son-daughters caught in gravity’s pull feel the clay dance up to catch them all if they should ever stumble, and their humble bodies just let the ground go, and we breathe wings around each others shoulders through another nightfall