Morgan Michaels Poems

I'm lookin' fo' my mojo
I'm searchin' high an low
I'm lookin' fo' my mojo
Did yo' see my mojo?
...

Not, dear, as they say, cover to cover.
I liked the first poem, though
And the last, and lots in between
Which Fate had little choice but choose
...

Five cracked ribs
A broken face
A frozen shoulder
Came of his run-in
...

The waves coursed shore-ward like bison in a herd. Except they were sickly green and shaggy with yellow foam, not black-umber. Just above the horizon, the sky was edged silverpink. Overall, the ocean was unwell-looking. It had an expressionistic cast- a just-before-the-breakdown look about it. Sizable waves rose on either side of the craft and respectfully subsided, as if it were the chariot of Poseidon East. The world held its breath, except for the wind winnowing their hair, grimacing their faces and the snapping of the bow ensign.

They were in a motorboat, speeding toward shore. Or, sometimes, in parallel to it. The motor kicked up a wake of chrome-colored foam: Milton Avery-white, observed Langley, to distract himself.The boat rocketed and leapt over the gray-green sea, which was storm-lit, as the sun was covered at times by whorls of racing cloud. Langley looked over his shoulder at the cataracts of rain suspended in a horizon-wide column of cloud. At least, the sky appeared to contain that sort of watery colloid. Two miles off gleamed the roof of the livery, and safe harbor.
...

'Round the corner, down the block
catch it, quick,
that curious life that flits ahead
that might have been yours-
...

It goes nowhere, finally,
at circle's end
electing journey over destination.
...

Much to the surprise of passers-by
the church doors burst open. Out flew the bride
hoisting yards of satin,
sobbing and shedding veils
...