A liquid thing.
Somewhere between melting and floe.
A shifting thing,
separating sheets that shroud the unknown.
A spiraling siphon that grows as senses heighten.
A quickening pulse that gathers and glows.

"Man, I thought I told you the show doesn't start til eleven."

No man, the show goes when I do,
to wherever I'm headin'

He glides down the street on free swinging feet.
Slides through the scenes in this ballet of dreams.
The only audience he needs is watching from heaven.

It's a burning thing.
Somewhere between an eruption and candle,
with sizzling skin left behind by things too hot to handle,
and footprints singed into the sidewalk.

It's a shifting of plates inside the brain.
A breaking up of the saner parts.
A typhoon of thoughts and a flame in the heart
that hits the body like an earthquake.