She don’t feel like living, or that’s what she said

and at least there’s a stitch of life, in that

expressing the knowledge of a lack of spirit

belies the truth, that we wish

everyone for something more, crawling through storm

strains yielding none at all progress

building from scraps to torrents, life is a torture

tornado, hurricane house fire.

 

She’s a tangible beauty, oddly see-through

personality parable, retracting with vicious abandon

what springs from the self

fulfilling prophesy, shaman the world over

know her intoxication, dying like ink

colored intangibly nameless shades

of blue and red, wordless novels in her eyes

predict apocalypse, set the sky on fire.

 

Also a playtime puppy, bothersome occasionally

in an endearing way, running loops

through familiar topics etching the earth

with crop circles, so that the meaning is hidden

prior to completion, making a short story

longer than a lifetime, and twice as hazardous

for those who mistake the meaning

pervading rants, they are as shadows at dawn.

 

We are connected in every way

all the time, each of us living through the other’s

thrill buried in a musical wavering

tuned precisely, is our chaotic lovemaking

with the world of artistic expression

appreciated mastery, she is a goddess

for her I flagellate, sometimes though less

than I rejoice, bathed in warm light.