the light sheds tears as you emerge
from the darkest entrails of the darkest core,
born to the womb of a whale,
comfortable wallow in the soft crimson glow,
the deepest belly
of the deepest sea,
the lulling of salt on your tongue.

and when you come
over the mountains and when you make the volcanoes dance,
when the flowers shake in their stems,
and their petals bloom to touch the sky,
the sun blinds and cries.

child of the moon, snuggled in the crest of a star,
you wonder about cars and hallucinogens,
as much as they wonder about you,
as much as they say,
newspaper print stamped into a crater blinds you,
like the sun with sc/treaming rubbish,
what they say? you read tolstoy and eat caviar
(really never eaten at all)
you are a prodigy, a prophecy,
more than just another worm curled in a gut
in a question mark.

one day you think about the sound of distant sea whooshing
somewhere past your left ear
and the sun tastes like metal, like cars.