there it is, that distinct aroma a wind of the past a breeze of the gone a flash of laughter once, now lost somewhere in the deluge, somewhere in the design supine on the detritus a back-float on time ethereal buoyant, I fall from a rooftop farewell, receding sky welcome home whispers the blue cc: Chagall 2021
Archive for February, 2021
Did Mozart ever play anything Gershwinesque, even inadvertently? Did the bustle of Vienna inspire blue rhapsodies? His fantasias maybe touched the future he tinkering with the altered chords, lost in unfamiliar cadence and harmonic progression led to wonder as he wandered the keyboard exploratorily foretelling big machines in cities moving, the cosmopolitan sway of its denizens the light of eyes, the sadness in hearts Salieri's specter cc: Chagall 2021
Once I woke to a dream after having not gone to bed One day I will lie down to sleep and leave the dream Until stirred to awaken again In the fog of new light I recall fragments of the earlier dream These will fade once words come cc: Chagall 2021
largo the obbligato rolls across my ear like slow thunder tympani atop the waves crest and pop into droplets at the apex trapped underwater trapped underground: subterranean rivers flow across my face with slithery tendrils, kelp and salty agar the melody sings my inability to breathe without gills this time around once on shore, I am not certain whether to fly, to run, or to flop about in a death throe I deem the sun most welcome after the rain cc: Chagall 2021
the snow falls slower than my heart beats, I descend in irregular swirls, buoyant, at first light aloft I am yet to be alit still in search of ground without regard for the frigid air, for no matter the temperature I fail to accumulate instead I melt on eyelashes run down cheeks without regard for the whisperer, her lips and her eyes only partially close and so she lisps as she edges away to exit silently whistling she circles mid-air like stars or like snow as if wind were gravity cc: Chagall 2021
when too many strangers gather... I pattern myself as a snowstorm muffled calm cold crunchy under-footing tender iced fingertips a burst of warmth soon to come, soon to rise a tepid updraft on which to ride beneath where the bow breaks is an ocean of cradles she sings rock-a-bye lullaby softly at night in powdered fields faraway moonlit hills small gray-purple bumps he and she that shan't want shall still wait there need not be lights for there to be neon cc: Chagall 2021
Alphabet City 