A single thrill – one ordinary tickle left.
And so we use that as impetus to propel us along this line until
we naturally fall apart at some point, in due time.
Chagall 2018
Archive for April, 2018
I see her, a fine line
cascading the settee robed,
her taut outline like a bow
or maybe an arrow arcing
en pointe in midair
She is a slow projectile
running toward me – suddenly she jumps
Overhead all in a tumble
of sorts till she falls
to the ground once again
running just prior to breaking
into dance and then pieces
Jigsaws, pirouettes,
silhouettes curl their shadows
upon lacy pulled curtains
ceiling to floor, wall to wall
day after day, and year to year
To be timeless – she said –
one needs to step aside –
so she did
Some people trust falling backwards
being caught by others around,
but I never will
Chagall 2018
I shift doors and window jams
to create wind-howl
Chagall 2018
I have always glanced upward while awaiting my muse
Perhaps I’d show greater reverence looking down
But there I tend to probe more the internal roil
Rather the soaring epiphany of Erato’s day
Losing sight of the sky and despite infinity’s surround
Heaven is all about us – up and down and left and right here
She assures me
She comes in strange ways – in colors it’s sung –
A tickle now or after, the punchline a tease
Sometimes a thread of feelings begets words begets feelings…
While other times her heart yearns to search
Having never known lost but through me
Fingers to keys, lips to coffee, mind to matter to light to form, me to time
(a myriad of communions in no particular order of holiness)
Constitute blank canvas upon which inspiration transacts
(did you read the f%*king manual?)
Look dead-center and far-away for the close
Out there beyond even the more distant horizon
Where we all recede to a point but continue to fall
In and out of love topsy-turvy through space-time
My muse bobs sometimes like a lost balloon in a corner
With barely enough string for me to reach her
But I always do, on tiptoe or step-stool or helium
And I bring her down and I reassure her that
The world is not yet fully conceived
Chagall 2018
She said when the roll is good
you cannot sense the seam.
Chagall 2018
Run a little faster
Breathe slightly slower
Peculiar time-travel
Slipping around
Snippets confound
Yet it is life
In the air today
Wonderful scents
And big sounds
I feel what I flow
Tasting all I see
There is nothing familiar
Finally a new me-anew
Every moment
No longer
Nothing but
Impetus without
Any call to action
Timeless rainwater runs here
Lapping rock crevices lined with fine moss
Under trees rooted at the innermost core of the earth
Chagall 2018
An affront can cause one to be taken aback.
I think ergo I don’t thwim any more.
Chagall 2018
I don’t mind it looks wet
but not like I just did shampoo
or worse yet – poopoo!
overheard at the salon by
Chagall 2018
Dear Reader – please know that the editors of Alphabet City
debated at length, whether or not to publish Matchbook Number 87.
We stand by our decision. Art forces us to look at life squarely.
—CC (avec la langue dans la joue)
I said it smells great and I love the cracked top.
She said that’s the result of a cold-start but a much hotter oven.
Get closer, you can hear it continue to pop new crust.
Chagall 2018
Hushed frenzied glide-steps
Feet slap wet on moonlit grass
Visceral dancer
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 