lightning cracks the sky.
she inhales then chokes on
first raindrops, resurfaces and
gasps. she’s maybe 68 inches
and 110 lbs of black coffee and
cigarettes and, streaks of
purple popsicle flames shout
through her thick black bangs,
hanging heavy over this
sworn2b-blank2day face. like
a tired but
testy
young panther, testing,
pawing the fresh
mud on her bony haunches, she
says only
this: “yes I rule and
yes how ridiculous?” is
all she says, trembling
in a pre pouncy crouchy thingy way
on all fours, she
laughs then
licks backs of her hands, spits
into the mist:
an angry aroma, both
warning and
dictum both, delivered
to us all, delivered
directly into a dark
blue wind.
/mr
/2011/2019
Mike Rosler 