Oh, how do those athletes scream?
Oh.
Oh, yeah.
Oh, she told me that.
Like oh, OK.
Now this is the one Michael--
that I mentioned today about going back and find--
and being driven to the house where I was born or was brought
home to.
201 Upper Terrace, San Francisco.
We were up and down the sickening hills of the city,
and then at the top, at the tip I
saw the sign, the street where I had lived as a baby.
We drove up hill and up hill, till all the streets fell away
like certain death and I recognized it.
A small building with naked picture windows.
The shape of those rectangles banged
on my three-year-old mind.
We stopped for a moment by the front archway,
a hole in the building like the gates of birth, dark
and tiled inside, dark spiked plants.
I gazed on it, as you'd gaze on a cell
where you had been kept with all and terror.
And I realized I was conceived here.
At the top of this white hill, with the four streets sliding
down straight as water.
These two blind rectangle eyes facing the Western Bay,
as she stood at the window afterwards.
And I flipped my tail and sailed up,
and saw the egg like a gold door in the side of the jail.
And I pushed through it headfirst.
My tail fell off.
I began to explode in ecstasy, released, released.
And in nine months, they lifted me up to the view
and said to me, this is the world we give you.
And said to the view, we give you this girl.