white peacock

Robert Mapplethorpe

Long and lone I fled into a vessel

I saw a blood lake yawning wet

I couldn’t say anything

shut up as a pea in dickens of care

I flew out, aped my horse sense and

Crusted angels frisk and his nose joints,

outbending any sleeper. O but a nile to lie down!

Death cane loaded, he was slick to be wheeled.

Now they crawed his slippers, now they licked him to sepia.

They were climaxes.

He was condensed,

turning again,

shifting his limbs over humps of seconds.

Steamy loss, he had pelted each trust of the casement,

prominently unzipped and hiked out to the field on his knees.

An anus relates peaches to paintings and his ran a whip to the bone.

Leaning into the beam, nipple-wishing, dealt it deeper.

A hollow body-skip lanked him, piled him to a salty pitch.

The other, lipped in cold cement, rammed the walls,

drove the edge up to his arm, honeycombing

pain to the sills. Light sang cold and opulent, in yowls.

O master! O fulsome bone!

A death like toast is freer and bleeds—

no longer sempering but devastated,

dropped, devoted to foreskin—its rich pull.

—mickey morgan

Darling, the Brick’s Disintegrating

portair-of-mrs-boucard-tamara-de-lempicka

[Portrait of Mrs. Boucard by Tamara de Lempicka]

Darling, the Brick’s Disintegrating

mickey morgan

Darling, the brick’s disintegrating.
The low wall on the driveway is nearly
no wall at all. The grass grows through
the cracked tar face.
During the long day draped
in my duster, I gaze
from the nylon bed of the lawn
chair, count the colors of metal
on the freeway. My vision persists
in blending them to chocolate,
insists on the scene of your homecoming.

You roll up and park, flattening
grass in sticky tar. You smell
of truckstops, bars
and hotel conference rooms. We make dry
love. You go.
I swallow
the fourth dose with a little
milk then paint
my nails with a third coat.
The fumes lacquer the air—
I feel heady.

Staring through the picture
window I dream of your foot
on the gas as you edge
up to pass on the right
but you’re in the wrong and you smack
to the concrete divider.
Fenced in by plate glass, I watch
the grass snake
up the legs
of the lawn
chair.

After B.

my left eye

[her left eye]

After B.

A future is not a past

A future is not now

Now is what I have

for a future

Green soft sweater

that mom gave me

Today I might walk the track . . .

But even before that . . .

Now I’ll work

Page by page

One page, one line

Haydn singing in swirls

around a green soft

sweater

with a gravity-bound body

weighted under it

Now is hot coffee, a cigarette

Not yesterday, not last week, not Saturday

not last night’s darkness

Now is something of this morning’s

drive to work, a cigarette, ashes tapped out the window

human voices, talk, writing on the radio, sound cuddling a car

into a garage, swinging around to level four and couching into

a place with grease dribbles unique to that part of the concrete

Something of John smoking outside the door to the elevator

Monday, isn’t it?

A past is dead, has death in it,

will sink a person in search of it.

Remember this lesson.

The past is whole,

won’t be segregated from its parts

My mistake. A mistake.

Mistakenly taking the unctuous edge

for the center, the radiant warm center.

Rather it is an oozing wound

with fever on the edges

I saw. It glowed

like divine light, like bliss.

Now

And when a woman makes a mistake like this

she has to go on

over the rocks to find a place

where she can try again, have another

chance, please, give her another

chance

And she can’t go back.

She must make a life for herself.

Must make a life wrung out of the old truths in her

–or not at all–

on the rock, old stone,

that shamelessly speaks its own inevitable truth.

Its voice is deep.

Like a hurt woman.

I like it. I try to speak its truth.

It sounds of wisdom.

It enfolds the past

in understanding,

that lays to rest, still as that old stone,

all that was

clangor

and rankle

Its voice is the kiss of a mother.

I try to speak like her

So . . .

thank you for a clean kitchen floor

for Baron’s clean bowl

for roses

that die beautifully, today

and tomorrow

Mad Fool

thefool

Mad Fool

We need some few of us to hold the inner space.

To watch.

To witness.

To contemplate.

To see the swirl of it all for what it is

and give that perspective back to the world.

To pray.

To read.

To write and study.

To meditate.

To generate

compassion in her listening

so it swirls out into the mix . . . she is helpless

to do otherwise in this life.

“Some are called to move in good action in the world.

Some few are called to be still.”

A fine balance is sought.

Equanimity between

movement and stillness

wants to come into being

in her world.

She is not a mad fool.

She is a mad fool . . .

” . . . she must be bipolar!”

Banyan Tree

banyan_tree

Banyan Tree by Herb Kawainui Kane

Banyan

Woody torso, heft of skeleton,

dendriforming figs, tholes

the afterthought.

Roots (fruit too,

in a sense), insouciant

to the central source—

long established trunk,

arbor vitae whose gray

nerveness overponders,

overspills herself.

Roots take off and variously plunder

the ground, groping for re-entrance

till that tree is many-fettered in options,

multiple sources, arboreal vividity

rigid in basilisk lock.

she’s a turtle

turtle

she’s a turtle

mickeylou, mickeyblue,

carrying her home on her back,

retracted head . . . can’t get nowhere

even if she’s got legs.

Won’t stick out her neck,

so how can she get where she’s going.

Where she’s intending.

Lost child of the monastery,

“a soul afraid of dying

that never learned to live . . . ”

Trapped in blue lace agate,

she lumbers slower than all.

Bitter snow soul

Can’t see her hand in front

of her face

She’s traveling,

glacier slow,

ancient trudge,

her world perpetually

framed.

Dragging her belly heavy

on dirt earth.

A terrible “hibernation of spirit”

No wind beneath

her breast.