On this kind of day
Like a day skating down the edge
of a mercurial sidewalk or
driving a labyrinthine roadway in a metal car
with your tongue
Like a balded goddess in a DeKooning painting, naked,
enthroned for three hours, tattoed all over, radiant onstage,
singing in the light of a projector—
sometimes weltschmerzian, old,
sometimes regal when she can manage it
sometimes letting things glow as they will,
like the moment when Scalagug, Mordred
and Liwi all agreed and raised their voices as one,
and their quickening flow thrust out in its balance
and became her, used her body for good,
for pure gesture, clean, clean saying what they had to say,
what they couldn’t say for decades, decades, tens of years
Like thinking the world’s going to crack like a bunch of bones
Like a morning explosion
at the Shell station with your mother watching you—
a little earthly psychologist figuring it all out,
you try to say what you tried to say for decades, decades,
to the speck down there in the plunge of the universe—
out the back of your head,
revolving in your chest,
tumescing within the portals of your labial flesh, warm and dark pink.
Like oozing to a man, “Light my lips . . . “
Like taking the short cut across the park and murdering the grass
with your footprint, your every move on earth a terrible sin,
each shaggy tree a black hole of flesh telling you so,
sucking the passerby into time’s collapse . . .
Like a morning explosion that started in her brain,
charged her arms and palms to rack her black leathered
fingers arched back back . . . exquisitely,
surged to lurch out her chest.
Riding as high as the black sky,
she splayed against its membrane, that black skin
and wanted, yearned, wanted a desire, yearningly desired . . . what?
The shredding of every fibrous strand of every bodily muscle to its snap and beyond?
The straining of every joint to one second after its limit?
O what am I to do with this kind of moment
where death is loud loud in the air
and God’s ravishing beauty is everywhere?