I had merely pointed out that one could actually
wash the pot out while waiting for the oatmeal to cool.
© Chagall ∞
Archive for March, 2017
With moral north poles pointing everywhere
I instead choose to fold inward along the
outline of every petal of my being.
© Chagall ∞
Exhaustion is a rollup shade,
comes down over inner light
to cast shadows that run too
deep, bluer than cold black.
Oddly, since I can see that
I am invigorated, renewed. I
am outside of the physical
debris; I am beyond the miasma.
© Chagall ∞
She said
It’s just up ahead
keep coming!
then
she was gone
around the turn
a chorus of voices
faint but not
far away
more like color
than sound
paints a mist
I cannot gather
how quiet
her exit
all form
is shattered
how delicate
the ties that bind
how quickly before
we can say
the kiss
lingered
© Chagall 2013
Please know that I will wipe your rim clean
for each time I plate you.
© Chagall ∞
She asked if I would please come down from the parade,
home from the water where hope flows slower than time,
back to where it all began to all begin, to be all in
one final moment momentarily lapsed. And each passing
day is a cedilla underscoring existence like LaFaro’s
thick bass one summer under Evans at the Vanguard.
Apart from all living things, everyone is fine,
at least that’s what they tell me. I get lost in my
search and then look for a way to return to the search
above me; sky is potentially below so to fall is to fly.
© Chagall ∞
It’s a singular frame of view
for a universe of points of
view that are merely bags of
shells strewn on your beach
in front of your cabana while
you lounge there marveling at
the beautiful contours of each
of your feet, your’s and her’s.
© Chagall ∞
Everyday I write
a novel backwards.
© Chagall ∞
Addiction: wanting it whether one has it or not.
Compulsion: aching for it when one has it; caring
less when one does not.
© Chagall ∞
I distinguish clearly
my addictions from my compulsions.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 