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Commute

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I think the bus ride made it more deadbeat,
or maybe the air brakes provided downbeat each stop -
each time someone tripped the ripcord and let go the ring
and the driver would pull his lever to release the doors to allow the exit
late in the evenings when day was just about done save for the last strong glow
of orange sun atop rooftops and spires, where the harsher shadows would never dare
to alight, where early dreamers could already be seen floating on air
souls akimbo bathing in aqueducts of cool breeze, brisk wind really
whipping about, inverting – sault-somering freefall
down to the street below to the windshields
of city buses toting us home to the love.

© Chagall 2014

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I hold and adore this day
as if it was the final rendering
of the thing we call “day” -
a perfect example of a perfect example
of the divine concepts we conjure
as humans here on the ground, under sun,
sky, planets, and low-flying slow-flying planes.

© Chagall 2014

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I’ve heard field recordings of sung-gospel
under winter stars; unable to shake
the marvel of that sound, I’m alive again
in frosted air, I revel in icy tears.

© Chagall 2014

Then Again

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I can’t break away from this burning desire
to feel – to touch anything – to stay immersed in color and sound.

I can hold it
but then . . .

I slip,
something slips
gears, such a drag
to always be in retrospect.

© Chagall 2014

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Sound is the second coming of color, situates itself in the same place
as optical residue, once eyes close and lights go dim.

We vibrate to live throughout our body,
shaken experiential.

© Chagall 2014

Low Clouds Tonight

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Old friends, sad hearts,
new ways and fresh starts,
seems the elements we lack
are starless nights and indigo,
blinking lights way up there,
people come then they go on-time,
reclined in seats, half-moon-bound flights,
wane gentle, then more, until no more.

I drink pekoe at night in the back;
in my cup I watch planets swirl.

© Chagall 2014

Bluster

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It wasn’t so much the wind
as it was the touch of the wind;
you might think they’re the same
but they’re not.

Perfectly tuned to my skin,
just warm enough – no more,
pushing and pulling
like the turn of a wheel.

I could lie-out and stay aloft,
trust like a back-float,
but instead I choose to lean.

© Chagall 2014

She And Her

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When she smiles
I see the young girl.

Light from her cheeks
spans my world.

She is a soft meld
into the air around her.

How she causes
my soul to sigh.

Sometimes
it’s simple.

© Chagall 2014

She’ll Wave

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I wrote a song just for her
about the sand and sea

I played it
and she swam away

© Chagall 2014

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He told her that he designed with intent
to look disingenuous – after all, Machiavellian.

She nodded, let her gaze linger a moment,
licked her lips; he sighed.

Acrobatic swirls of fancy, intertwined
in the lattice between them; arabesque.

A couplet and a wine, vintage Elizabeth,
portrayed grander, yet conceived modestly.

I am still convinced by the heave of her bosom,
compelled by the breath of her air.

© Chagall 2014

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