Alphabet City

At the onset of the good night,
at this the close of day,
I rage against the light that dies,
as Dylan points the way

Uncertain am I if I be
wise, good, wild, or brave,
I still burn and rave, and feel
the blaze of heaven in my eyes

I deem the dark to be wrong,
everywhere is green bay,
I hear chorales, the song
of suns and stars in flight

As Mr. Thomas counsels,
I shall not be so gentle
in the face of the dying light

Chagall 2018

Please see Dylan Thomas – Do not go gentle into that good night

Light leaves stars
360 trillion miles away,
at the moment of my birth,
and is just now arriving on the
glass of the lens of my scope.

It’s what a light year’s for.

The spark on the wick
of a candle on the cake
of a newborn, lights up
the world, the heavens.

Or what’s a Messiah for?

Chagall 2018

We fall, rather than orbit,
albeit quite motionless,
at rest in our own eyes,
but out there…

Arcs and slingshots,
perturbation, all in
the shape of parabolae

In the name of creation

Blue is the essence,
it dabs at our eyes
from without, within

Time stops on a ride
atop light beams

Light arrives everywhere, anywhere,
at the moment it begins
the journey

At rest in its own eyes,
but in here…

Chagall 2018

I have a fear of falling through the net, becoming homeless, and riding in
empty train cars for the rest of my life.

Call me hobophobic.

Chagall 2018

Irrepressible
this urge to resist dying till tomorrow

Chagall 2018

I returned many years later
to that place where summers we spent,
different this time than long ago,
to find there at the garden edge
the tall yellow sun-choke flowers
we planted, then expecting rain.

Their petals sought golden sun once
as we, naive and cavalier,
younger than now, of course, for time
moves as a wave before cresting,
we drown under water always
breathlessly awaiting the float.

From tubers spring vibrant color,
to tickle an iris or two,
the twin soul of our conjoined hearts
emanates eternal stamen,
anthers and pistils of sacred love,
though throughout we die perennial.

The sun-chokes have spread, moved downhill
beyond their original stand,
underground stirs desire to grow,
absorb, envelop, and conquer,
terrains outside of the making;
the soft rains still fall in one heart.

Chagall 2018

Tonight
I am scheduled to
ascend
in cold twilight
arms hung limp legs
akimbo
a flying
marionette
backlit
stark upon
ebon sky

At the
apex
looking down
I will miss you all
before I am cast up
away

Chagall 2018

I felt it die, quite tangibly,
the fire inside, desire
to reach for stars, not settle

sometimes I stare straight ahead
for minutes awaiting some impulse
to move

spun wheels
in a mud of my making
pretending the usual will do

I have grown to accept
being insufficiently content
lacking the elusive prize

occasionally I rally,
the moment rushes, wells
in my chest

but I’m a dying match
my conflagration
never comes

I miss having purpose

Chagall 2018

I eye the bourbon, the color of honey,
then dab my index and pointer fingers
into the surface of the liquid, catching
a bead or two of the liquor there
where the digits meet, I briskly inhale
to immerse my nostrils in the caramel pungency
of whiskey there at the tips – I follow
with the lightest of touches of the amber to my upper lip,
just a daub to get better acquainted, a deep breath and then
a long haul that traces the cascade from glass to tongue to
epiglottis to stomach to blood system – low bass rhythm stirs,
moves the feet a bit, incites meringue – or maybe samba,
a choice I ponder while pouring a second long draught.

Chagall 2018

He asked Olga, do you mind if we clear a spot to work here?  We don’t want to bother you.
She said Ziggy, please stop bothering me.

He said Thank you, Olga. You’re a doll.

Chagall 2018