I pulse,
you pulse.
We both pulse?
I guess.
But you know . . .
you’ve always been
more certain
than me.
I see
you saw it
(I saw you had)
in my eyes,
where I can
never gaze
directly.
© Chagall, 2013
Archive for October, 2013
Melodies live here
trapped between words’ soft wrinkles
voice them smooth once more
© Chagall, 2013
I drive real fast
down slippery slope,
hit high point curves,
at crossings
nothing daunted.
In the dead of night
I kill my lights,
I’m an asteroid
on Highway 1.
Dark wind
whips through,
dashboard glow –
rockabilly twang
on the radio.
© Chagall, 2013
From a tilt ship
there’s heaven aslant
etched in the portal pane:
Orion on its head,
his belt instead a choker,
the Southern Cross a sword
with just a dash of hilt,
Big Bear on her back
for tickles,
and Aries with horns
in the ground.
I wonder how silence
can pervade a world
so large, a universe
so vast.
Maybe I’ve just grown cold,
lost in the draw
of this vacuum.
Reentry back to earth
was always hard
but now face down
at high speeds to blue
I find it
the saddest part
too.
© Chagall, 2013
At what point
did this become
ordinary?
When did it lose
any claim on
sublime?
Before
the pen
hit paper,
or somewhere
along
the line?
© Chagall, 2013
There’s a song that I sing,
it escapes me
without thought,
no lyric but lilt.
Leaves me winded
and dizzy, though I manage
the pace of the line.
I breathe on the beat
where my grace notes should be
to precipitate delicate action.
In lush exhalation
I hum in the shift
of two tones.
© Chagall, 2013
How many loves lost
before the tag cloud
grows it a point size?
© Chagall, 2013
Remember we thought we were cousins
and didn’t kiss
for fear we’d mutate
the species?
© Chagall, 2013
The blog-site has an option
to toggle a different language,
something Afro-Asiatic
or maybe Austronesian.
So I flip,
and get lost in Formosan:
click-click here
if you like-like post
I meet friends
for merry in Māori!
We pump our arms steady
and war-dance.
© Chagall, 2013
Tonight while you prepare dinner,
consider the potatoes,
this year’s harvest,
as you brush away clay
baked on skins
of your own sowing.
Sacrifice every 8th potato
to seed.
Store the keepers dry
give them room in which not-to-rot
– in an airy place,
a room-to-breathe space.
Keep your ovens hot
and your pans well-oiled
– and hot.
Sizzle a spud
in sea-salt and oil,
thyme perhaps,
or oregano.
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 