RogueAgent

Come back to the body with its blood whispers,
its barren limbs. You can’t feel anything
without thinking it, and the body doesn’t need
to think. It has its own agenda, it runs on its own,
an outsider artist needing no one’s approval. If
the body waited for accolades or applause
it would wither long before it got turned
to ash. Come back to the breath with its teeming
waves, its littoral rhythms. The creator is what
she creates. There is no divide between the art and
the artist. Any act is magic against death, and Death comes
so easily; it doesn’t sneak up. It looms large,
unblinking, hand outstretched, inviting us to tiptoe
through the tulips, a song no one wants to listen to
yet can’t stop hearing. This is no “Something.” This isn’t
even “Octopus’s Garden.” This is a beat kicking back,
a gentle thumping, echoing inside until it stops,
the record ended.

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