Alphabet City

He asked Olga, do you mind if we clear a spot to work here?  We don’t want to bother you.
She said Ziggy, please stop bothering me.

He said Thank you, Olga. You’re a doll.

Chagall 2018

Chapter 1

It’s just an old house settling,
sighing really, expelling laughter
under cold timbers

in autumn,
as houses do – actually a handful of times
each year, though seldom we notice

As spring turns to summer, sun on wood
pops alive yellow, breathy new petals,
cool dew, moist loam

Under rain gear, in galoshes, I dare
every puddle to step aside, I’m stomping in,
warm or cold, for somewhere a towel is waiting

Snow is never too heavy
on the rooftop, buoyed by the lift of moonlight

In the window under the eave, a golden glow,
a triangle of candlelight carved in space with your face
there in the glass

I am entranced by the amber glow of my neighbor’s light
there from the woods beside us – it spills into and fills
the night between our homes; I am elated by that promise

Chapter 2

Once as a kid in the attic I lay on my back, my head hanging down off a beam,
the ceiling the floor, lights things to walk around, pretending
the world upside-down.

Outside the window the clouds are the ground,
I fall down but oddly sail up,
white on blue, I tumble
wildly

Chapter 3

Once a kite got stuck round the chimney,
beautiful in sunlight through the day,
for many seasons, never to blow away

Until finally the faded-linen flyer released and slid along
the smooth contour of its frame, off the roof, pulling its
long braided bridle behind, to slice through the air in a final
throe, a goodbye wave in descent

It had been nearly 300 days since
the kite had left ground

Chagall 2018

I got nothing,

Jimmy, you got anything?
No, Carlos. Nothing.

We got nothing.

Chagall 2018

I leave purposefully giving you opportunity
to sneak to steal a pinch, so much more fun
from the outside.

Chagall 2018

Whilst, albeit after as well,
life emboldens the otherwise

To rise and to dance,
twirl the day away

Not a soul very likely to fall out of trance,
gallop – lose stride, prance or sidestep

Stumble, don’t wash away
merely a step from the falls

Astraddle rock, braced to race upstream
against water that gathers to lather me

Carry me back then and fro, I eventually gain sure footing,
younger – bellowing freely, louder – longer, everything newfound

There are many nights ahead,
all that are till there are no longer stars

No longer tea or cups,
nor anyone to cause a stir

Then I will feel you most,
displaced in strange orbit

A glance or a nod yet
having to do

Precipitation
a certainly

Chagall 2018

In a stack of reams bound by a matte silver clip,
was a cloth, a leaf, and an eyepatch lettered with
quatrains flowed from a black felt nib,
untouched by moisture or wear.

Chagall 2018

Brevity be damned.

Chagall 2018

I sort the curio, retain only matched sets,
though some of the one-offs are dear, no mate,
a martini glass stenciled 40-yeah! one-timer,
a fluke, fucking flash in a pan, now faded.

A polaroid still on the road to drying after years,
almost captures the light, the spark, the day, the throes,
the candle, the song, dead voices finely sung but not gone.

Happiest of birthdays are those not the last, come slowly
next year, creep not bolt dear seasons, rein in
time the steed, may moments linger, luxuriate eternal
in now, nothing else, naked – we bear – we bare to be naked
before ourselves, and we do not dare dance bathed in moonlight
fully clothed.

I search for you every inebriated evening, to pass the time,
the note, the bottle of port, the salt, the good word
about all that’s to come, the excitement of merely alive tonight,
abuzz under skies, watching low planes fly home.

Maybe we’ll answer the question, beneath stars constellate yet to be pattern,
two can convince one is One and worlds explode into splendor.

Nod, assent, ascend on night-air-light, alight on rooftops in downdraft,
silent without quiver or bow on a drainpipe, surely footed.

I’ll escort you to the ground now, this ballast is my last,
we circle down to the ground now slowly, slowly…
not too fast.

Chagall 2018

Anyone heard from Chico,
anybody know what’s going on?

Lost my love in a bay town
burning wildly.

Anybody there in Chico,
anyone left on the ground?

Toy wagon alone on a dirt road
charred into stone.

No one you know still in Chico,
nobody save you and me.

Tendrils of smoke like spirit wisps
rise into sky.

Chagall 2018