...and I alone eye the Eye alone, and I am the only One greetings from the asphalt to the roaring rock, where in small shops along the shore beside the sea, she sells her art the sequin on the elbow is brilliant bright red buildings down by the wharf, that color commissioned by the cousin of a king, the pinkest of honey-crisps where the wind knows not to rock empty chairs, and the devil is unsure of the backdoor whereabouts that's where the piece spends its nights, awaiting your return in the bump cc: Chagall 2021
Category: Poetry
Birds flutter motionless in flight the world turns quickly to make it appear they are flying cc: Chagall 2021
Weep for all the damaged, this normal state of being, a pretense of perfection, the epitome of petty hubris, corporeal preference, outpaced spirit Live where you are when you are who you are Breathe enough for your mind to space, freely roam Unplug, sever the tether, rise above inclement weather Atop clouds go cast ground shadows Be light airily, imperfectly human cc: Chagall 2021
I cry at the shatter, my make-believe worlds strewn about, chains of colorful toys on the ground I crawl in anguish for arms to raise me up to hold me high overhead, my back to the sky, the warm sun secure in the loving nestle between cheek and shoulder lost without words, buoyed on this ocean, your face with every bob above waves you are beautiful beaded in water and the world is wonderful for I am of you (thank you for not letting me drown) cc: Chagall 2021
Consider that we rotate into beams of starlight, they are always there while we are not phantom pinholes dance as night settles, as stars shine certain in darkness we know where but not when even in day we are bathed in starnight with each moment we leave what was to catch up ahead, plain to see absent the light I once shone down from the space behind, to illuminate from atop and I can attest that there are no wires just zephyrs and complicit meadow sprites, as good reasons as any in the low moss and creeping thyme at the base of the blades of grass where traces of moon yet are found cc: Chagall 2021
Rather than go to war, I would wear heavy sweaters, wouldn't you? Look at woolly you! cc: Chagall 2021
The spirit of my dad helped me today, and I responded by telling him I would send a crisp gin and tonic his way, and he smiled down on me, and I said, I will send 2, one for you and one for John, my father-in-law passed, and then I said 3, one for Uncle Rocco, and another for Aunt Aida, and two for each Aunt Millie, and Mom, and Cousin Joe, and then I lost count I'll just keep sending up shakers and lime until you tell me enough I hear a Hurrah at the tip of my crisp, tart knowing they're there Salud, old friends cc: Chagall 2021
I am no linguistic scholar, but I am a linguaphile, and I use languages I have inherited from my parents and their parents and I have formally studied Latin, Russian, Italian, French, and I have noticed that languages are irregular in the same places the many come leave behind their verbs for to go and to have to have come and to haven't and then to have went away oh, when are they going to go... or shall they never return? humble tables, oddly-strung lutes perfectly tune to the sound of waves fingertips slur intonements across nylon and rosewood bounce between frets and land as if on padded slippers here is where the melody is and there is where's harmony there cc: Chagall 2021
Behold, in my hand, I hold nothing save the stillness of the hour, the scent of inevitable tidings My fingers pop at you rapid-fire, petals open and close, throbbing bewitchment The light from fingertips writes neon in the dark What you conjure is what you breathe cc: Chagall 2021
She was slippery, like a wet tangerine seed sliding across a slick tile floor, a trail of sweet streaks I dim the desk-lamp low, and sweep away the fine leather blotter, for what is the point Somewhere something is burning, kindled, aflame, charred petals of burnt flowers, atop the heady salt of sweet grass sisi: Chagall 2021
Alphabet City 