I start with a notion of myself
from which all else grows
my cheek sinks into a cold pillow
and I heave a sigh for having never felt
this good
under a spell –
a concussion, under water
harmonic
metallic dinghies
upside down in waves along an island sporting
a solitary palm tree
rarely have I backstroked
this long or so well
just like my mother,
I’m buoyant
© Chagall 2014
I laugh joyously
amid tears and soft rains
breathing in warm pulse
how lavish our bodies tickle
I relish the musk
of morning and dread
the steady advance of noon
© Chagall 2014
She’d hold me and sing
minted breath and curls of auburn
the darkness holds green swirls
there against the black negative
tension at the hollow of her neckline
ghosted images along the perimeter
her voice nary a whisper in perfect pitch
till she fades and succumbs to the mist
© Chagall 2014
Summer samba
drifting to the
hotel window
where curtains blow
so softly
Standing here in
salted air on
barefoot toes
I stretch and reach
for stars not there
And yet so real
so real, so real
© Chagall 2014
In silence
I hear the choirs,
taste the sweet abundance
of the fast
My body surrenders
to engage the energy
behind closed eyes
of swirling fractal beauty
From the pocket of my mind, loose change empties
as I spring up to plant a handstand
© Chagall 2014
The rare earth halides used in premiere Gaia
those crystalline lattice parameters
formed fused stars and nano-stripes
in homage to magnetic electrons
The angstroms were close
but ever so slightly off
so we started again
on the next day of Brahma
around the time of the birth
of Kali
The rest, as they say
is Her story
© Chagall 2014
In morning sun I bend down low
to pick the ready berries
spreading through the patch
To reach those in the middle and back
I lie down prone and support myself
hovering over the berries in a modified pushup
one tensed hand planted in a plant-free zone
while I detach the small red fruits with my other
The hairy tendrils of the running vines tickle my belly
exposed there at the hem of my cutoff while cupped soft white flowers
pucker gently at my breasts
In surrender I lower myself onto the patch
and feel the spongy root mounds
mold my pelvic area
The earth holds me aloft in this never-ending free fall
I have never felt more solidly buoyed
or tethered to the Mother
I breathe in the moss
and my heat rises
I ache and reel in the scent of loam,
my own sweat, and a waft of lavender
hovering close to the ground, sweet on a warm zephyr
I am the goddess of the morning
as I turn to face the sky, lie on my back
and palpitate sexually under the heavens
I throb while the sun traces me
highlights my form
and pronounces me real
© Chagall 2014
I fly up the stoop, I near pull a groin,
Las antiguas who sit there grab at my ass
playfully like those secret aunts tucked away,
say goodnight my young prince, ‘sta mañana.
To which I reply, in perfect castellano for each to delight
goodnight, my sweet dear old ladies, till morn’
goodbye for now, till then
© Chagall 2014
You need to keep your fences mended,
keep your things locked down because
you never know who you’ll never know.
Time I think cares by caving
in lustrous waves of years that spread
like eons amassed without frame.
Lights will die down on my Reno and Rio
and though I wear life’s banners high, the need to escape
punctuates my every nerve.
Despite all the will that gets flung these days,
there is nothing worth much on the outside.
Just a 15-minute culture;
is it you who keeps getting my quarter-hour?
In a blaze the raging starlet surmises
that an ending hasn’t been written.
© Chagall 2014
She asked if the leaves would turn green again
I told her as far as I knew
Though this time was more than mere seasons change
I would rather she did not know
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 