Morning melody
Harmony swells far away
Still near songless birds
© Chagall 2015
Archive for August, 2015
Like any muscle,
you work it, it flows
like Ali in Zaire,
boom-ba-yay
Long before rhythm was sound
there was pulse all around,
the red-hot glow of a fresh start,
heart at the bell like flutter-by
everywhere center and everyone here is gone
into the eyes we compel ourselves to peer,
so what if we’d had wanton ways,
troubling how those days still tremble,
the quake more fire than smoke than
torrential rain.
Streaks of landscapes run like tears
bleed colors, mascara runs, wipers keep time
then stop, and all is silent neck-deep in the flood
How hard is it really
to step from the edge, much simpler for sure
to refrain: boom-ba-yay!
© Chagall 2015
Perhaps it was topaz
similarly lavender
blues, aprons for stars
© Chagall 2015
I wish I could scream
raise the words from the page
and hurl them in your face
© Chagall 2015
I’ll be gone at morning
like moonglow beads on lashes
when the sun-warmed wood pops
frighten away the dears
Sadly it needn’t be so sad
Awaken by then or of course
this will be the last time,
yes, should you sleep it will be
Too much ado of the kiss,
where one lip daubs another
so fine
so
so long
till an evening somewhere, not yet
ahead of where we are right now
Sleep
just rest now
sleep
© Chagall 2015
My avatar would like
to make love to your avatar,
spread tiny pixels about,
and afterwards light up
a GIF.
© Chagall 2015
I knew you as sound, vibration,
a mix of visceral reactions I’d cherish,
each a name I’d disregard
to experience you first hand not twice
removed. To kiss is to dive
is to plunge with no net, is to soar
without ceiling: That’s us below!
There along my thumb
where the small cells
resemble parcels of land,
a hard ball forms, straddles
the tiny triangles that stitch
me together: mutant, multiplying,
malignant.
© Chagall 2015
babushka ladies, coarse and woolen coats,
plastic covers adorn divans and settees
in quiet parlors, front rooms in railroad
ghetto apartments
people to the left of me,
to the right of me, above and below,
whispers through the closets I hear
encounters that threaten danger in muffles
intended for someone else not me thank God
this time.
And Rivera still flies his pigeons
against bluest skies, a Latino silhouette
with arms extended like a holy man gives flight
to his flock over tenements and heartbreak,
the hope of generations, dormant and receding.
© Chagall 2015
Collapsing, ever-folding
within me to a point
that explodes, infinite
lights the wisdom surrounds
without me endless consonant
tone, the frequency
of life, a hush no longer
stillborn, dilating
full prism color deep space
skies black oil universe swimming
and I am grinning across the breadth
expanse from ear to shining seas
of the oldest stars that hover
so wise, beautiful when they cry
the carbon is much sweeter that way
and makes the eternal you, man.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 