In the field before us
there are no trees nor chimney smoke,
though it’s cold and white, nor snow about
Under freezing light
we harden, crumble
our detritus mars the scape
© Chagall 2013
Archive for December, 2013
That we have Blue Moons at all, suggests that something’s wrong:
the way we box our time, is not what really is.
© Chagall 2013
February 23, 1960 – at the demolition site of 55 Sullivan Place, Brooklyn NYC (Ebbets Field)
Friggin’ Branca. Feel sorry for him? That’s the day I broke my knuckles!
© Chagall 2013
It startled me to discover that you had killed the seedlings,
one by one, as each grew true leaves, the curves of frail stems lost,
they in the first throes, reaching for light, you in the final throes
of darkness, your roots tapped too deep in a compost of spite;
like so many little big bangs, what we’d sown sprung lively
from vermiculite and moss, small ruptures at the surface,
the promise of new days, the void giving birth to actuality,
the way it always was, heirloom beauty, thoroughbreds at the gate,
until you proved your point; I heard each and every one scream,
did you?
© Chagall 2013
I’ve a desire to walk aslant
gyro nimbly into new realm
suck in my breath till I am half-an-inch deep
so I can squeeze through the hairline
black seam of the door that’s cracked, leads
to behind what we believe is visible
now you see me, now you don’t, now you see me
now you might: inter-dimensional jitterbug
© Chagall 2013
Rather than a free pour
I prefer a measured shot
I take a calibrated approach
to inebriation
© Chagall 2013
Life blows gently and steady
to winnow you from my soul.
© Chagall 2013
The winter of 1964 on the north side of 11th Street between Avenues A & B
Snowflakes heavy enough to syncopate jazzy beats on garbage cans.
© Chagall 2013
Posted April 23, 2013, for my friend Richie Havens. —Chagall
I remember when Zimmerman passed you
on the way up to apartment 4D.
“Man, a hard rain’s a-gonna fall,” he said,
“I ain’t heard nobody sing it like you.”
We felt back then like we were almost gone,
like motherless children, long ways from home.
I’m crying now, Rich, I miss you so much.
Freedom’s another word for all to lose.
Pizza on the street, outside the Fillmore,
blowing smoke at the Why Not?, the Fat Cat,
retuning my axe, every time you played,
in open E, open D, what the fuh! 🙂
’cause you had those funky fingers, my friend.
We sent boys away, like Handsome Johnny,
and back in the day at Max Yasgur’s place,
you brought it home Richie, minstrel from Gault.
You kicked it off, that long ago new age.
Songbirds in Bedford-Stuy mourn your passing.
With you gone, there’s one less Gospel Singer,
View original post 25 more words
I stare up at the sky as you’d look down
at an inlet from the top of a cliff; my toes
grip the edge, I imagine rotations, paths I’ll need
to execute perfect spirals.
I swing, to and fro, once, twice, and again to build up momentum,
calves, thighs, I’m ready, spring-dive, I release, I fall or I float,
it’s hard to distinguish which when One is topsy-turvily challenged,
gravitationally advantaged, determined and faith-rich.
I know I’m there when I brush a cloud, so I open my eyes a moment,
a peek, great falls from here; boats above and planes below,
eagles, balloons, schools and gaggles, canopies, reefs, eddies and updrafts,
earth light falls on night break, I ascend, so excited, I’m the girl in the moon.
© Chagall 2013
Alphabet City 