Eight worlds
in one head's
aching seven;
cascades of tumult
and tumult of cascades,
brother after brother fresh
out of the diametric waterfall
slugging me, alerting me to my blood,
my fight with his path,
his need to heal me,
across sawed-off trunks
and marks of searing wall
tongues of fire that dash glossolalia
with hot pepper,
secret freestyles by a fire camp,
mystique resolved in outer essence,
after eons of inner tug,
still a smooth pig devil
with bisected eye,
a flailing translator and hot help
from a kicked basket
of shotgun leaves
across a tomb's mouth
and a southern tee vee
pussahasee calling
eight worlds resolved
in the aching seven
with or without a head
stirring the sun of suns
with a sanctified wooden spoon.