I think I would do well as a comic on the Borscht Belt because of my rye sense of humor. cc: Chagall 2021
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when you are gone who will I share art with? harmony will lack luster no more brilliant sheen in-between the sheets no quiet traipse on wooden floors in dead of night's wan moonlight without the whisper of song to keep time a single set of footprints in the dust, how odd cc: Chagall 2021
we are all colored people cc: Chagall 2021
So much time is wasted recovering from the rush cc: Chagall 2021
The pattern of shadow and light on the cedar planks warm in morning sun through porch-screen the culmination of all of my moments till now and then there is songbirds cooing blues to their young such a short line from long ago until there was once... I intend soon to become in the light of cedar its grain cc: Chagall 2021
a lot of people want to do big things, to make big things work, while they ignore doing the little things to make small lives wonderful cc: Chagall 2021
an experienced smoker compensates for bad draw cc: Chagall 2021
The heaviest rain Shallow roots can reach deep now Tall oaks espy hope cc: Chagall 2021
it exists not in any way you imagine heretofore unbeknownst no hocus-pocus hokey-pokey turnaround plain as day's crystal night there! dead-center before you within you without pervasively everywhere you inescapable cc: Chagall 2021
I make a palindrome turn around, baby, jump right back and repeat itself (little blues fill here) I was tongue-tied once to the bed, tickled thoroughly through-and-through till I talked Till I bled On Fridays I put synonym in my coffee, sugar in my tease, homonymically speaking, I drink it down with ease (descending dominant 7th arpeggios into final major) oh yeah! rain, rain, go away... cc: Chagall
