“It’s Like This” she tried to say

The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

[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

everywhere

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?

 

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