To those who press “like”
without even reading,
por favor –
don’t bother.
Chagall 2015
And to those of you who really click through
may your muse live long and strong.
Archive for December, 2015
I can sense the shape of the wing
that my skeletal frame would require
to sustain flight
Like the memory of a limb after having been severed
I can still feel
I can still itch
I can still clench
I have flown
So many times that
my memory of each
runs together
such that I and I
are in echelon
From the tops of these trees
the city peers back with a lazy eye
and a sprawling lack of focus
A string of lights at the border
is sequenced in series to appear to cascade
first up then down, in so many colors
It is dark and I lose myself
in the surround of the night
Heavy birds weigh down branches, honed in on
the tip of balance just before snapping,
I sneeze and startle them all away
The moment you relax deeply and securely
into the updraft, you’ll begin…
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Her self-awareness makes her human,
in art, it’s her flaw.
A short wave I’ll ride
till a time when I can’t.
A fingertip at the waist
twirls us in.
My shoulder-blades touch the floor.
Momentum can take you
where air can’t.
She says that moments like these
are rarer.
Than what?
I will always kiss
you when you shrug.
When you stretch out
lean, en pointe or flex
I live to trace
your arcs.
© Chagall 2014
I’m hurt and insulted that you find me immature
I proclaimed, proceeding to play mini-bongos
on her navel with the pads of my index fingers,
intrigued by her acoustic qualities.
Chagall 2015
She exclaimed
Such a beautiful church
it’s non-dimensional
I asked
You mean non-denominational,
don’t you?
She retorted
No, come look
She swung open the large wooden door. I walked in.
Oh, I see what you mean.
oh!
o
h
!
m
y
G
o
d
!
.
.
.
Chagall 2015
To Do: Savor Saturday Night. –CC
The music played, came into open windows
and passing autos, on air it rode
to be lilted to far away places.
Strident and European piano, Schumann maybe
an opus from Carnaval, sounding almost like ragtime,
sketched the scene perfectly, as if scored specifically
to suit the moment it’s heard.
I feel curved in aural, ears and hollows,
it tickles the melody, leaves behind
the sweet scent of talc in the slow dust.
Lips were redder, the pinks possibly
more soft than today. Upon windblown linens,
did people bite harder then? Though her back always
arced that way.
© Chagall 2014
Outside reading
clouds part
sun-photons come
beaming down
I stare
but for a moment
clouds merge
gray again
I return to the page
residual sunspots
there in my brain
wreak havoc
with punctuation
Chagall 2015
Celebrating the wonder of Saturday mornings. Peace & Love. CC
Fine-grade Turquoise, tumble finished
as a young girl she’d nestle
winds on the surface
French for Turkish, you know
she grew older, released
light chemical elements
even the finest is fracturable
© Chagall 2014
Young sad girl on a train
she’s watching
Towns and worlds
go by
Speed her away
Through misted window
sun streaks
She shifts so her front’s
to the past
Her back yet
to the wall
She’s pulled now
no longer pushed
Sound upon motion
after all
Alone,
she speeds her away
Chagall 2015
Awash in a a wail of church bells slurring blue
hog call whistle stops blowing the rattle
of rails amid home-bound ruckus
these trains keep on chugging chugging
across the country so wide and so green and so lovely
once free how I need to be free once more till
the end of all time I’ll be free despite all
who are crazy to believe they’ll curtail
me be free without fight flight or fancy
I will die for the same lands my daddy died for
on the sands at the foot of some mountain
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 