Petite organisms traipse ever so tipsily
o’er the photosynthetic landscapes of leaves
on yonder trees and nearby yews, everyone’s doing
the tango, the tangle of photons, lip-locked organelles,
dancing to Miles’s Solar.
© Chagall ∞
Archive for April, 2017
We would meet up and lose our minds together.
You could say we had a cata-platonic relationship.
© Chagall ∞
I will cash in on thespian knowledge
So I really must know how to act
Or make a fortune while foretelling karma
Still I’d owe way too much deep in debt
So I’ll seek to reap riches from relating tales
About life being grand at the edge
Where only sweet water flows across miles
Evanescent, effervescent, ever long
© Chagall ∞
Down the hill, Sara and I tumble gently
heels-over-head, beginning and ending
as the other for somersaults will do that,
grass stains smell greener than they look
smeared across the lips of a grazing young
doe, sun on the neck has never been warmer,
near hot on the back of calves stretched taut
en pointe, mycorrhizae underfoot soothes our soul
for we are not alone in this ancient crazy place
susceptible to life, prone to being alive,
an altar upon which we recite our ode to living,
exalt dark heavens where wisdom is surely actual;
We are always Nature she says as we roll to a stop
at the gate of a beautiful garden.
© The Other ∞
The note of the birdsong lies solidly
suspended in the hollow of blue space.
The temperature of my body is precisely
the degree of the world enveloping me.
A simple brushstroke, tapered glyphs
weighty enough to have gravity, flutters.
About you I watch dusty particles dance
in light that is more than merely a halo.
Illumination.
© Chagall ∞
There’s an artist in France
collects heartbeats
Tens upon tens of
thousands of
pulses
Moments in lives of
those who will
in time be gone
Survived
only by these
I wonder does
the data show
if broken hearts
beat softer
Chagall 2016
Death is not absolute for those who stand above, outside
where spirit begets body – the wonder, not where body begets spirit,
for that would be a wonder of wonders.
© Chagall ∞
Eclipse. “… what they’ve done,”
holy sound; black veil. Alpha,
omega; all time
at one with all: one.
This time, this triduum: now
burst, cry into light.
Baskets filled with food,
sun-soaked altar rail. Sweet breads,
bitters, ascension.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The erotic aroma of fenugreek, caramel, and chocolate,
rose from her reclined body as she reached for the drawstring.
© Chagall ∞
Melting pots aren’t all the same.
Go find your own.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 