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.