Words are such messy things.
They lie and when they do they
are scattered everywhere.

Just when you think you’ve picked
them all up, bits of them appear
between sofa cushions, under rugs
falling in all the hard to reach places.

I bet you find pieces of yourself in everyone.
Don’t you, my blue-eyed son?

We are songs written in acid.
Re-doubled helixes play our ribs
like a xylophone. Making music.

They say the Mitochondrial Eve
came from the dark continent.
All soil is dark beneath the surface.
Eve’s bits are scattered everywhere, too.

Just like you…

In septic tanks, in the eulogies of minds left
unleashed, in the DNA of chocolate ancestors,
in the sons of white fathers and Indian mothers,
in the daughters of liberty, in the brothers of fraternity,
in the tears of the night, in the hidden shame of bowels,
in the release of a good wank (with cum swimming like

dolphins), in the finality of the swan song, in the hum of
the dead zone: where your point tries to, but just can’t
get across. A cross is a crucifix. Across is the valley of death.
Across is a place we never met. The puzzle pieces were there
and they all fit, but not together, and we become pawns in
this endless game of Scrabble. Eve came from Adam’s rib,
some wise guy said, but which one? It is vital to know.

Was it a floating rib? Then it couldn’t have hurt much
and it makes Eve’s mitochondria far less valuable… That
rib also makes Adam both the mother and father of humanity.
I wonder who Eve’s Adam could be? Which man’s red dust covers
all of us. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s you. It should have
been you, lost in miles and miles of open flesh with your sex
inseminating the warm forgiving earth of every new planet.












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