Alphabet City

They think I’m asleep but I’m nestled on the landing above
looking down at the warm glow below, lulled by sound.

A party balloon on a ceiling – or
one of hot-air flying low, no higher than
backyard apple trees.

I am too young to care, despite the onset of years;
I dangle at bent-knee over railing to watch the sky fall.

The rush of blood to the head, the pulse in a thumb,
corpuscular beat – hearts and throbs and throes.

Cozied here with my favorite pillow, under nightlight inside
atop soft carpet ply, passing the moments of moontide
peering through the balustrade, listening intently.

Forgetting each morning the last night’s gleaning.

Chagall 2018

The world is tilted just so
we receive enough sun for laughter,
sufficient rain to promote bows,
legendary pots of gold, the hypnotic
lure, a kiss; bridges sigh
heavy from the rush of tides
downstream, the race for
calm eddies, shallow pools,
languid warm waters to bathe,
oxygen bubbles to breathe,
a world of no bother, between lips
in the interim – the gap separating
life, persistent, poised,
at the transom looking down
and in.

Chagall 2018

The dimple where the tomato separates from its stem
holds the perfect amount of salt for the bite

Chagall 2018

I’m a risk manager baby,
I see danger everywhere.

Come here
and…

mitigate me.

Chagall 2018

I stand astride the demarcation of light and rain,
equally sad and joyous, ambiguated by sun-shower.

Chagall 2018

Once in a while when space collapses
I am left to observe the point
where air enters the balloon
to inflate to smoothen the wrinkles there,
an umbilical cord tightened like a spring,
taut,torqued with tension, awaiting…
release – finally, allowed to spiral in life’s throe
and space expands and I am right back to no point
of reference, depleted of God’s good oxygen,
severed from the Mother, awaiting the next collapse.

Chagall 2018

My Full Moon Tour Guide shirt
has a stain.

Chagall 2018

Have I written this before, some version
of life on a line?

I felt this way once, I’m sure;
I sometimes equivocate certainty.

Thoughts don’t really end, like sentences do.
I know that.

Words and minds enjoy the feign and dodge,
the bump and grind.

Poring pawing rain is a massaging
Braille, through my ears to somewhere inside.

Millions of miniature puddles kick up
visions without punctuation.

I elect to witness,
not write.

The silence within drops
is the difference between.

Chagall 2018

The notion that going against the grain makes for more tender,
appears to have gotten lost.

Chagall 2018

I dreamed I reincarnated as
a small single act of kindness.

Chagall 2018