Willing Loss . . .

building vintage bike monument

Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

Willing Loss . . .

We agree at the top of the hill

and swing into place on our seats

of a blue-fendered Huffy two-wheeler.

You flatten flush on my spine,

your chin bonily leaning to see down my shoulder.

You have to hold up your feet.

I put one of mine to the down pedal,

scuff-hop twice with the other

trying the double load but ready.

I lift up my paddling foot, depress the up pedal, one

mighty shove and we’re off down the hill.

I push into wind as my legs

propel in–your trust so firmly

with me–insert our forms to cut

the scene of house, arport, street

and curb in half as we wheel past.

I throw us through, increase the speed,

nostrils shrilling with air.

We ride by shove

of loose limber legs that pivot

knees and thighs looser and light

till the bike takes us down

the hill of her own accord;

the pedals takes over control

of my soles, pushing up, lifting till

I do nothing, carried to madly pedal

against my will, then soles flung up and astray

and you sound it for us, one long coo

as handlebars figurey-eight

in my palms, hollow of force

and it has us–bodies

scintillant, time


–by mickey (Michele) morgan


The Original Living Dance Company Tucson, c.1977

Living Dance 2

(from left to right) Diane Cross, Executive Director Deborah Brockman, Bill Sterner, Emily Sayre Smith, Evan Donaldson

                                                                      –photo by mickey (Michele) morgan

Living Dance Co. 1

(lt to rt) Bill Sterner, Emily Sayre Smith, Evan Donaldson

                                                                      –photo by mickey (Michele) morgan

Living Dance 3

(lt to rt) Evan Donaldson, Emily Sayre Smith, artistic dir. Michele (mickey) Morgan, Bill Sterner, executive dir. Deborah Brockman, Diane Cross

                                                                                                —photo by anonymous

“One of the richest times in my life with extraordinary people”

mickey (Michele) morgan


This Was Dance Was Not

Sankai Juku

unknown Japanese Butoh dancer, member of the troupe Sankai Juku,

performing “Kinkan Shonen”; photographer unknown


This Was Dance Was Not

                                    —mickeypamo, Aug. 1984

“There is nothing between you and hell but the air.”

–Jonathan Edwards’ Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God

A slice of dark solidity

Carving life lines in empty space,

lines of definition.

Say it again. Definition.

Air parts as she cleanly

cuts and swirls


through time.


Soon the air is pulling her,

as if to squeeze her to resolution,

Pushed by air to dissolution

Of definition.


It never stops.


There is no sound.

Her ears are full.

There is no movement.

Her body surges.

Her vacant mind sees

The First.

For one moment, I am air.

I hold all in me.

The cage dissolves.

Twilight Rivulets [aka Light’s Wife]

Bringers of the Dawn by Karen Lillard

(“Bringers of Dawn” by Karen Lillard)


Then light seeped to her corner

reaching riverine fingers, folding thin

into her skirt, spilling labyrinthine onto shoes.

Her eyes hung open, liddy and weighted.

What she saw from her worn stool–

bone-curved, before the window–

was everything to the front and sides:

sill stable below an arch of wood,

double glass multiplying light.

Her rounded spine saw the tilting bookcase,

knew every thumb-smeared page,

saw the ovoid table, its dark legs

a bouquet of wood slats, a clay mug of cold

coffee making another circle, white, on dried veneer,

saw the pillow deflated to the size of her head,

sheets holding angles from her slow pushing leg

parted to the wall, sheets hunched as the dreams

she left for the gentle importunate probe

of light exercising its right to her body.

Come back to your place on the stool.

You have been here before, hunched, folded

hands resigned to each drift of light.

There is nothing to do but lean

your gaze in a constant stream,

unbroken, un-damned.

The Tunnel He Saw

Tiber 3

[anonymous sidewalk chalk artist in Rome, 1987; photo by mickey morgan]

He watches a silence.

Light sliding downhill.

Smoke pearls radiating through weave,

spilling thin and then thinner,

dropping off the horizon

then gone.

His foot pulls into view,

His leg.

Then the rest of him leans

out to the edge.

There is no world

and he hangs in it.