Wild
soul woman—arts made salacious, reborn, scribbling notes;
secluded, sewn in the public eye, we might dream of antics. Sawing at media,
venom for religion, spiritual, nonetheless; speaking with mantis, seeming
seasickness, fretting pregnancy; too much nausea, existential angst, seeming
causeless, crickets in the noise. Phobic of turquoise skies, mind made for Tibet,
melting into a tepee—flame of its arc, bathhouse insecure, chafing inside. American
Oxygen, rickshaw tired, pain, anxiety, angst and art—torn with hunger,
eating wheat, chewing into hardwood, tides of the channels, pictographs of
emotions, said ingenuine movements—drilling into its psyche. By vox, by
signature, some island with her, if to sustain justice, adoring self, better
than reality gives. True to aesthetics, conversing with mirrors, wearing
vintage denims, a patch on its buttocks—those with fever, those with love,
seated low, tattooing knucklebones.
