The rope ran from the floor to the ceiling
through the legs and hair
of an anthropomorphic feeling
like wet colors dripping down
an unfinished Dali painting,
waiting,
she was,
for the perfume behind her knees
to waft through the crowd
beneath her.
Waiting
for sunshine to melt down
the inhibitions,
peeling away the onion's layers
of her insular dominion,
crying,
she was,
during the answer of her call.
The epiphany of getting all
that she wanted
now drooling from her lips.
The dimwitted providence
speaking volumes from the epicenter
of her hips.
So life drips with wanting,
sin taxes paid,
wishing orgasms lasted longer than a monsoon rain
as she curls into the fetal
position on her bed of roses,
crying.
This article appears in Apr 1-7, 2009.