Julio, The Great Morgani—
Could you ever at this
point surpass yourself?
You sit in the alcove of
Dell Williams tonight,
an
accomplished accordionist, yes, indeed you are—
You’ve performed for
hundreds transfixed by you
along the Avenue;
& it’s been quite a number
of years now—
Oh, I remember you back
then, when you first started
to make your local impression.
But, you do
know,
it is
not the music itself you play,
however good
you are, & however extensive your repertoire—
It is the other
that has gotten you your recognition,
it is the
other you consistently embody
that it might reveal
its play.
Julio, tonight,
as only a one night’s example, you call something out of us
that
almost—disturbs us? unnerves us? is
sort’a creepy?
brings out
something we cannot quite cozy up to?
You play for us
some tune,
sitting in the
alcove as if on your own stage,
a bright
orange nun’s habit you wear,
a white white face you wear with painted teeth-wide grin,
these heavy
black-shadowed eyes like dark dark sunglasses,
your black gloves moving
as if disembodied
to the rocking of your accordion—
People, I can tell,
almost don’t know
what to
think of you tonight, Julio,
you are that bizarre tonight,
but, then,
perhaps no more
bizarre than on
a hundred other nights.
You are The Amazing Great
Morgani of the Avenue—
Performance artist of
costume one-of-a-kind
extraordinaire—
Behind the endlessly
clever, ever-changing masks,
a
rather unassuming person you are—
Something other
must live inside of you
that so
convincingly demands to be
outside.
August 2004