excerpt from novel dealing with corporeal loss and suffering of the interior limbs of the heart....

…And she is coming, groping, biting her nails in to the back of his palms, feeling, fucking, levitating above him. Her sweat glistened forehead alone seems to be hovering above him like a helium balloon hovers above a cornered vent. And now she is coming. Bulbous chins of sporadic cloud poofs, he can feel her coming—he can feel the movements of his body responding to the subtle titters and sighs of her body, can feel her felt, can feel her idioms lost in scattered translations, of alphabetical shapes and slashes, biting down, oppressing inside the cultivating feeling, the feeling of flying, floating, fucking, fucking her body, lids closing and brushing opening and fighting to be free- a momentary release, pressing down hard, pressed, above, flying-and this is how he wants her now. He wants her to fuck him from above. Drill deep, almost there, he can tell by the way her forehead dews with sweat that she is arriving. Can tell by the writhes of her body, the syncopations of her breath that something is about ready to happen. Can tell by the way she clutches and jerks and closes and opens her mouth and eyes at different intervals that something beyond what he thought could possibly happen is about to indeed occur. Presses hard. Just a minute. Above land there is no need for a saftey belt. Jeans sloughed and tangled in a corner, burrowed beneath sweat stained thong and jester boxers. Just a little more. The mattress appears to be levitating. A mass of sweat and hurt until finally, he jerks and she caterwauls, her lips falling from her face, screaming, taking a new breath of life—her eyes nailed close, the feeling coming inside her like a newborn planted release and here, right at this very moment, this is the way her body meets his body. This is the way they enter each other, the subtle thrust, the feeling of leaving, the lips bitten down and half-sawed off-the feeling that you have left-have to deported, only to have tediously arrived at the place you have always been-the place you have always felt welcomed-the place that feels more home to you. Her body continues to pry itself open with you inside, as if it is offering a vacancy that has previously been filled. Her mouth jarring out accolades, salutations, hullo’s. her mouth blossoming between her legs, opening. Swiftly pedaling, yawning, griping-it is the grip of her smile—her every electrons, her teetering toxins, kissed simply by sashaying the back of her hand. And she is coming. It is slow at first. It takes a while. Waiting, looking at her watch, wondering when an opening will allocate itself—to push herself open-the terminal hanging heavy ribbed grafters, a ticket of rectangular proportions folded four creases inside itself and squashed in her back pocket, a carryon, her body is mostly sweat, water, the treacle of perspiration, precipitating her pores, open, touching her button notch near her waist-yawning-the flight where Patrick once took three years past scratching his dead lice yucca moose and wondering out loud to a priest, while, gazing out the window looking out, mulling over the direction and general vicinity and overall discreet possibility of the afterlife. Wondering to himself, out loud, where the angels cache their wings in buttered scoops of nipple clouds.