There are those who play on emotions
with sharpened cleats
What say we eject them
from the game?
Or better yet,
why don’t they take their balls
and go home?
© Chagall 2014
Archive for February, 2014
So many things that we can break
start with the letter B:
bad, your back, his balls
the bank and bread
© Chagall 2014
Like the caricature assailants they shoot up at ranges
I’m riddled with a grouping of golden pellets
right around my heart, a corona of dead-eye shots
unready, aimless, yet fired upon, hollow-head bullets
from your trusty sights, in the short cross-hairs
you are my assassin, the sniper in the tower
watching me downwind, larger than life
in your scope, just a gentle pull, a rat-a-tat
and I’m blown away
© Chagall 2014
The words will need to be perfect this time;
they tell me now there’s no room for error
or remorse. Calibrate all dials steady
to measure the distance between two hearts,
tolerance at zero, infinity
or somewhere in between. Apply precise
tone, gesture, histrionics on request,
build a bridge, bridge the gap, gap the spark, spark
to light the pathway with strong intention
to meld into darkness at the far end
where there’s another in wait – so they say –
but you can never be certain these days.
© Chagall 2014
Dear, at times existence disorganizes itself
galaxies and all, not always for the better
often wreaks sane ways we cannot fathom
and a single feather is all that’s kept
aloft in the dying winds
Invisible weft on which we weave
new order
© Chagall 2014
Nights I stare up the chimney flue
to marvel at the square of stars
cordoned off there in my view
at the long end of the draw
of the red-brick tunnel
the cube of heaven
before me up there
always measures
two by two
by forever
© Chagall 2014
Those who love love-lost
slowly drown glub-glub
mouth-to-mouth
kisses can
resuscitate
Clear!
© Chagall 2014
I stare out the window
at others staring wonder
where everyone has gone
The world awaits
children who run under her tapping foot
careful to time
the rise – now quickly . . . before the fall
If I wait too long
till closing time I get to rush
the darkened aisles just a step
ahead of failing lights
And for what,
a cartful of constellations?
© Chagall 2014
The rain brings scents so wash-away
They defy time, carry to and fro
Small doses of memory, others and ours
I inhale drops sharply, penetrate high and deep
To a point over my head from where
I triangulate my whereabouts, abandon my wits
Rabid in the downpour
Baptized a pseudonym handpicked to avoid
Final reckon, I despise the gavel’s sound
On my inner ear, fine cilia at risk
Befallen to the sound shock of the block
The inevitable shouts, nothing I know can stop that flow
A cloud rappeler, I dangle my solitude
A soliloquy, a carbon piñata too often tethered than not
Wound taut on thin wire, release me
Let me spin
© Chagall 2014
1
Transparent glass birds
fly wing-long into the rocks
trill ere they shatter
2
Hymns for ice warblers
wisps of song fill endless day
harmony so dear
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 