From my vantage it is not clear whether she grasps at a star or offers a petal to heaven cc: CC '22
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All of my exes are different sexes cc: CC '22 Hee Haw!
The tiniest of gnats who have shown up lately around my sink have no capacity to warn one another, so I kill them all in rapid succession cc: CC '22
It is said the sun must be at your back in order to see a rainbow Overhead arc all of the colors, your neck's nape is warmed, and your shadow is there before you cc: Chagall '22
She opened and closed her book of life, each chapter a year, each page a season, each paragraph a month, each sentence a day, each letter an hour, each space a moment, the unwritten - all of her hopes and regrets, tucked away till forever on a shelf Whither burrows the worm? cc: Chagall 2022
So, when is the NAACP going to change its name to the NAAPOC? cc: CC '22
If I were an artist, I would never wash the color from my hands or from my smock, or whatever it is that artists wear I'd parade around, a festival, might even adorn myself with lights and I'd hum, and I'd sing, and I'd whistle, clap and dance up a storm say artistic things in made-up tongues, you'd get the gist despite the words at night I would dream of rainbows, and waterfalls, and time gone by, albeit in monochrome for dreams these days are not what they used to be and in the morning, I'd rise, choose colors for the new day, while coffee brewed yesterday's colors would fade of their own, without intervention on my part my skin, my mind, my life, is both palette and canvas, today I create what I will cc: CC '22
One-and-done She, comments and disappears, hit and run, casual asides, engaged to a point, pointlessly, a dance for two en pointe, the sun in her eyes, the grass too tall, the cat has eaten her homework, excuse the excuse pile, the detritus about, the art you will find intermingled there is merely a quip, single entendre at best, yet her breeze still blows high over the canyon, lost aerie where an eagle once nested, taken advantage of for the ages, by those who shall do no harm ...pretty and witty and wise... where sandpipers and New World warblers fly away cast in silver echelon, to seek the lost universe, a spiral in time, now an aged lady spies the youthful nymph amid cascades of color, still vibrant, imbued with that day's sunlight, its pomp and its circumstance, its radio waves continue yet to travel outward from the planet, watch it fade to gray, too black, but somewhere along the way, two moody in indigo cc: CC '22
Poetic rhyme forms force the words, more a jigsaw puzzle than prose I would rather let a rose and songbirds find their own way cc: CC '22
A chilly morning in Dijon, I walk briskly past the old carousel, quiet now, a few tables in the square, here and there, coffee and daybreak, bread a few steps away a door opens and a bell chimes the factory in Lille is no longer, I remember the match that struck the last Gitanes the night of strong hot smoke, laughter behind the fountains a palmful of drams of whiskey the keeper called baby Jameson up the street I touch the owl on the church where the goers now kneel harder, pray more quietly to atone cc: CC '22
Alphabet City 