She screamed out to save the babies, so I threw myself upon the world, to shield them from the concussive blow cc: Chagall 2021
Archive for February, 2021
I got no salt on my egg no sugar in my coffee or butter on my bread but I don't give a damn ...'cause I a'int a'int got you cc: Chagall 2021
Come with me! I know a place where there are updrafts still You can catch your wings and soar Icy blue winds near the edge of horizons Very thin air so easy to breathe So little remaining cc: Chagall 2021
now and then I end up in this timeless morning where memory and hope reconcile to define me I yearn for that which I already have longing for just a moment longer I am best when I am in stark relief against the world I am the figure or the ground timeless life is art cc: Chagall 2021
nothing, not even the weather, is non-manipulable cc: Chagall 2021
against a backdrop of nothing the wind is less lonesome quiet brings empathy silence brings furtive kisses once reserved for glances hair is aroma on a curve, a neck of deep meaning a reckoning at the throat, soft offhand tickles at the heart let me skip into your eyes to frolic there toss petals to the same green pastures you see ice dams break all around us now too jagged to float impaled, better abandoned on a deserted isle just us and a lone palm tree burnished rock buried in beautiful emblazoned sand what a fine grip for toes, and backs, for hot treading for standing firm in Mother Earth, upon her maiden voyage from afar She glides, a Blue Pearl in a tunnel of silent freefall a young Dame giddy from carousel turns and sweet soft candies the most gentle kiss at the wrist cc: Chagall 2021
And in the afternoon, toast with maple syrup, a handful of almonds, and tea lightly touched by bergamot. cc: Chagall 2021
Instead of coffee, I made her sweet froth cc: Chagall 2021
I remain truly yours to the cause of the heart to the matter at hand here and now split as a fine-hair V a moment prior to then one foot still ago in the eye-shift lost in the indigo on the gaze from here to there cc: Chagall 2021
There's nowhere to run but forward when your very own buttocks are chasing after you I look up; the view of my forehead escapes me, I have trouble tasting my own tongue I have gazed into eyes, though I've never heard a word from the ear despite listening intently (somewhere once I heard that gerunds are bad) maybe all words are bad the imperfection of the green bottle is more precise than the words that attempt to describe it the contents of the bottle shake, underground tremors but not enough to make waves, albeit how tiny I can throw thoughts like darts, from my bullseye out to any errant arc aren't we the pair? I stroke the umbilical cord, coaxing it gently to relax, to collapse into a coil, to reel you in to feel you in total darkness attempting to discern shapes any form will do to exit the nil nipping at wet organisms that threaten - nay promise - to engulf we ride the tide home in free-fall akimbo asleep back-to-back, we have nowhere to go but forward cc: Chagall 2021
Alphabet City 