[The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory, Dali]
“It’s like this” she tried to say
Like skating the unctuous edge of a sidewalk or
driving a leonine roadway in a metal car
with your tongue.
Like a balded goddess, a de Kooning painting, naked,
tattooed all over, singing radiant in the light of a projector.
Propped on a box for three hours.
Sometime weltschmerzian, old
Sometimes regal when I can manage it.
Sometimes letting things glow as they will . . .
like the moment when Scalagug, Mordred, and Adam all
agreed and raised their voices as one
and became me, used my body for good
clean saying what they had to say.
Like taking a short cut across the park and murdering the grass
with each footprint, my every move on earth a terrible sin,
each shaggy tree a black hole of flesh telling me so.
Like thinking the world’s going to crack like a bunch of bones
Like a morning explosion
at the Shell station with momma watching me
–a little earthly psychologist trying to figure it all out–
I try to say what I try to say
. . . It’s like heaven
. . . It’s like swilling in dirt,
. . . It’s like running golden in my cunt,
like rolling a word in the red cave of mouth
–a bowling ball charge to the gutter.
When momma hears me, she pats me on the shoulder, she smiles . . .
Like a morning explosion foundering in a skull,
like charging arms and palms to rack black leathered
finger to ache in exquisite arch.
When she hears me, she laughs . . . There’s no perch like heaven
Like lurching out a head like spouting bougainvillaea
rose out of bone revolving in a wheel in a chest
like flushing my breast to the skin of the sky like
rollng a pulse in my labia
like oozing to a min Light my lips . . .
Like Jesus hanging
like being betrayed
I am riding high as the black sky, momma.
I am a winedark mare in heat, gallloping out, loping in
every fibrous strand of every bodily muscle splaying to that black skin, momma o momma
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?