A tear drops faster lash to cheek than cheek to floor,
such is the pull of gravity.
The salty stain of the run dries cool.
An inverted gulp spelling sorrow rises, diffuse
at its edge, tattered and feasting on memory.
Eyes shut, head under covers,
the black swan dives, an ebon pool;
the release of all tension and fall.
From lash
to cheek.
Chagall 2017
While it’s just an Autumn Friday,
it somehow seems more than that,
preordained a holy day
but by whom, I couldn’t know.
It does feel special –
a canoe carved in time
that I feel I’m obliged,
even intended to lie in,
lay low
to shoot the rapids,
braced in a four-point stance.
I look up, see nothing
but sky in constellation,
water founts arc the lip,
refresh but nearly drown me.
On this day of reclamation,
nocturnes for atonement
pipe through vents
that rim the sky (good bass
– it sounds like vinyl)
push cold air.
And I sense there’s someone out there,
maybe a Being or two,
masterminds, big kahuna,
a capo, a boss,
a God.
Murmuring I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted,
more than prayers, I think
perhaps formulae.
Or maybe it’s just two Angels
out for kicks on a Friday night,
the weekend’s tip
with…
View original post 130 more words
A tear drops faster lash to cheek than cheek to floor,
such is the pull of gravity.
The salty stain of the run dries cool.
An inverted gulp spelling sorrow rises, diffuse
at its tattered edge, invoking memory to feed.
Eyes shut, with head under covers,
the black swan dives to an ebon pool;
I release all tension and fall.
From lash
to cheek.
Chagall 2017
Before she passed, Sara blew-up balloons for my birthday. Today I release
the rubbery knots, breathe her in deeply, never again to exhale.
Before she passed, Sara drew faces on misted mirrors, that reappear
with each new shower, progressively fading away.
Before she passed, Sara said simply I love you.
Chagall 2017
I am a witness to that late morning,
you on the other side of the creek bank,
in black and white.
How old are you there, maybe 10?
What a perfect age to be,
the first of double-digit
years.
Rough gabardine trousers
and cable-knit cardigan,
so dapper really,
atop the crushed rock,
that the old man bagged
for a penny a load.
I prop the photo
up in front
a bare bulb
and cup my hands
to the sides of my eyes,
to blinder my view
from ambient distraction.
The sun-hot white
light, 200 watts,
excites the photons
captured there
from that day
on the silver of the film,
swells the sounds and smells,
squeezes barge horns,
hair tonic, damp wool,
chalk and limestone,
heavy leather shoes slipping on rock,
children yelling in play,
in quick scurry over quarry,
racing to be king at the top.
You turn to me
View original post 23 more words
As Alan said, we are born out of this world, not into it.
Feel it, that nubby rub of life, the throb of blood and sentience.
(whisper) wake up
Chagall 2017
more at
We had decided that all of the food and water be hers
since we would rather die under her gaze than live without her
We had not considered that in the end
she would be alone
Chagall 2017
I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished by time
Made smooth by deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons beneath sunlight ceased to fall
To fail to bring light, a blow to grace
A jab to faith, a tinker’s blow to pierce
The armored scowl, the incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout, beget and be gone
Forgotten, nay a fadeaway dappled in corduroy
Supplicants or another vicarious agenda, indigenous
More than formulaic, naturalized to exist right there
As it must in a flow of energy besieging my optic nerve
I exist to impart everything, I defy thrombosis for I bore
Deeper than the vein of inflammation, the zone of wizened trespass
Thank you for the bodies receptors, for warm city nights
For carousels and the songs that they play, the march…
View original post 221 more words
It was me at the window that morning
Running my fingers along the lace tat
Watching you walk away so gracefully
Of that day I remember so little
You turned, I ducked, I saw you blow kisses
You waved, I stood, at the corner you wait
I wait
You’ll come back like you always do
Chagall 2015
Our planet spins and then she falls
amid a din we no longer hear
Chagall 2017 (like the doodah man)
Love to Mr. Natural
Alphabet City 