On This Kind of Day . . .

Mother's Eye

                                                               Mother’s Eye

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 . . .

matter’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?

—mickey morgan

A Magical Horse

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4 thoughts on “On This Kind of Day . . .

  1. Another read of this today, Mickey and what strikes me is the glorious, exuberant bravery in this piece – you touch what really matters here and what it is to be alive:

    “…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,” This is marvellous….

    And how so vivid is:
    “tumescing within the portals of your labial flesh, warm and dark pink.
    Like oozing to a man, “Light my lips . . . “

    I love too: “Shaggy tree” and: “murdering the grass
    with your footprint,”

    And of course, your close:
    “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? Says all it needs to and indeed what you are so valiantly feeling and working your way towards… Altogether an inspiration dear Mickey x

  2. precious precious feedback coming from you Scottie . . . yes . . . working my way towards ____ (all that is good). A voice back from the void is so healing. Maybe “I” do exist . . .

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