Avatars on the outs
caps flying
along with sh&@ like this
effing ampersand
asks not what he can do
for her country
Open bracket
(curly bracket?)
semi-colon
Chagall 2015
Archive for October, 2015
Please don’t be offended
when I say you smell
like brine, sweet malolactic
rising probiotic, heady
bursting with life force
human doughy thing
that you are –
hey, where ya going . . .?
Chagall 2015
I cling to her voice
as it emanates from silicon
compressed audio that’s naught but a
phantasm of her life and blood
no warm scent of talc but when I press
against the nape of her neck
when I lose myself
in the long float
down
Chagall 2015
All I want to do this morning
is to tickle your mind so that
it’s impressed by the same grey
morning I’m experiencing here
electrically sublime anticipating
the vestige of today.
Chagall 2015
I must tell you all
about the last luscious light
burnt-yellow still burning
in the tops of tallest maples
scraping the tip of blue night
while alive at the other end of sky
hangs the moon manicured frenchly
whiskey sweet a spirited sprite
burns the tip of my tongue
Chagall 2015
Something for the cool summer fade. Peace & Love —Chagall
I’m rum-numb lively
on cool-night sand.
Autumn-summer samba,
hot-wine clover.
Heated, I’d pull
the sweater down.
You sweat,
right?
© Chagall, 2013
My mind rebels
facing inductive reason;
I’ve determined this
based on the data.
Chagall 2015
Autumn still conveyed my vibrant colors
until I realized it really wasn’t youth at all.
Chagall 2015
I will lie down in the middle of the avenue
during a ticker-tape parade, and I will float
airily up into the joyful blizzard of celebration
Chagall 2015
Shall we allow this Sunday
to slip by without memorial
just another in the line
or is it something special?
Tonight is a time for sorrow
yet also hope for the new day
I’m so mixed in a bipolar way
flashing hot, cool, on, off
a sob becomes a scream inside
a head filled with sugarplums
upon whose breast I lay my weary cheek
perchance to awake. Allow me
to place a kiss atop your forehead,
to the tip of your nose,
in this perfect dark room we giggle
and glimpse the faeries of the evening
diaphanous will-o’-the-wisps scattered
on warm breeze misted alive they frolic
galloping about our optic nerves
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 