Her waves of kindness and fits of rage left her tested like their pageant queens. A pretty yacht docked at the Maramont port, she’s just the tender and wayward age of youth. A pink dress, mascara, and heels, and later downtown in tight leather that cinched the waist.  She looked the part but missed all auditions. Still they bow, because she can sing their anthem on note. An Aston Martin, a Lincoln, an Audi, with a bible in the overhead, a gun in the console, and Uncle Sam on the radio. Perhaps the pronouncement has little if any relation to evils imminent, but to the evanescence of life.

Above all, her aura of wanting to produce a mysterious poetic effect hummed. Her appearances were done in chiaroscuro circumstances – a shiver of delight. Party favors were part of her novelistic structure, leaving them to treasure her in the same way they do a detail in a dream. Though she furtively gave gloom her sunny room, they placed her on their bright throne. If not for champagne at the social table or Virginia Woolf on her shelf, her weak composition might unveil.

Whistling her name, spinning the wheel that will one day break the butterfly. But her charm, her top shelf pleasures, it is too robotic. She’s a highly delicate lamb masquerading as a wolf. Isn’t that what they adore? The gilded lies of beauty and power. But who would she be without Mozart, da Vinci, Nabokov, Morrison, Darwin. Who would they be? Her finely tuned nervous system sings like birds as spies of God. That ebb and flow will soon wear, ill-fated with the cage presented, a prison she knowingly camouflaged with candy venom.

She’ll be seated with King Lear and laugh because no man wrote a tragedy better than Shakespeare. Calamity, wealth, hierarchy, aesthetics – this is the hymn sought after.