Alphabet City

I stand astride the demarcation of light and rain,
equally sad and joyous, ambiguated by sun-shower.

Chagall 2018

Once in a while when space collapses
I am left to observe the point
where air enters the balloon
to inflate to smoothen the wrinkles there,
an umbilical cord tightened like a spring,
taut,torqued with tension, awaiting…
release – finally, allowed to spiral in life’s throe
and space expands and I am right back to no point
of reference, depleted of God’s good oxygen,
severed from the Mother, awaiting the next collapse.

Chagall 2018

My Full Moon Tour Guide shirt
has a stain.

Chagall 2018

Have I written this before, some version
of life on a line?

I felt this way once, I’m sure;
I sometimes equivocate certainty.

Thoughts don’t really end, like sentences do.
I know that.

Words and minds enjoy the feign and dodge,
the bump and grind.

Poring pawing rain is a massaging
Braille, through my ears to somewhere inside.

Millions of miniature puddles kick up
visions without punctuation.

I elect to witness,
not write.

The silence within drops
is the difference between.

Chagall 2018

The notion that going against the grain makes for more tender,
appears to have gotten lost.

Chagall 2018

I dreamed I reincarnated as
a small single act of kindness.

Chagall 2018

the lips of the pumpkin flower
daub at my ankles

soft damp kisses

I lie down in the patch
to be better acquainted

Chagall 2018

samba by poolside loungers
the smell of suntan lotion
will always transport me
elsewhere

the cushiony sand by sea
gives soles something to chew on
spirits shined by fine grit
wash away

when i was a kite i flew lower
than now for these are times
to soar beyond
gravity’s push

i look down at tanned bodies
arrayed in trunks and tops
melted crayon colors strewn
sans symmetry on the sand

a girl in fluorescent bikini
dances under ear buds, sips a pony
and considers where in the world
someone like me might be

chagall 2018

thin altitude
high in eastern europe
atop caucasus peaks
abundant cultivars
plenty of plums
stone fruits
what the italians call cocomilia
we survive on these plus
native grain and wild yeast
until the years are passed

Chagall 2018

When I was a young adult my grandfather
sent me a picture.  In it, I’m a child,
he’s much older,  and we’re sitting
side-by-side, both grinning ear-to-ear.

On the back he writes, in shaky cursive:
Carlos – to remember you face.
Love, Grandpa

Chagall 2018