GAY HEAVEN ❋ Zach Blackwood
early this morning i left a durational performance / at the barnes foundation off the parkway.
it was 6 hours in a warm room with thoughtful interiors, / complimentary spa-water and polite queer snores.
philadelphia is sour and the puddles have a milk-skin.
even in the clean salt of a sunrise in july—
you can turn down the wrong alley and hit a backdraft odor like hot plastic /
or the cartoon-sentient gas of old cold cuts behind a deli.
the pope came here…? and i hope he didn’t get any on him…?
every queer evaporated and i am alone, but there is a couple / and we should share a greeting.
we’re sharing a sunrise already. there’s precedent for intimacy.
“i need to get me shorts like those”
“no the fuck you do not”
“i’m playin i’m playin”
in the dream, i lift them both up in my hands and press them together
like a botched ceramics project. i hold them inside my body
for a mulligan at gestation. they are finished in the chrysalis.
i can be that for them.
in the dream. i am swallowed like cotton candy
into an adorable 8-foot pink mouth that adores me too.
every queer person is 8-foot tall in the dream
and they wear platform sandals and people fear them and they mean it.
if we aren’t humans to you, we’ll be countless aspects of one queer god and you can fear the saturation and the breadth of us in a way that’s familiar to you.
and the mouth sings a call to prayer every minute on the minute:
“ev-e-ry per-son was a ba-by //
is-‘nt that e-nough?”