when i take my mother-in-law to the cemetery i remember to bring along a small handful of gifts a guitar pick to leave behind for Uncle Rocco - those are special for him to come by he can play his mandolin and the others can dance oh man - the bounce of his younger year spry arpeggios - now an angel's flutter about ears, naught to do but butter the air Uncle Rocco enjoyed a smoke and a glass of red wine when he played, he wore a gray wool vest with a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, spectacles at the bridge of his nose, sight-reading the lead-sheet off the stand Uncle Rocco's playing invited people to sing, although he never sang himself, he left the space to chime in I once left him a Marlboro Light and a fresh book of matches for my mom i bring dark chocolate nonpareils, cherry cordials, and a Whitman sampler of assorted delights, how excited she is to push past the fancy paper and the sponge-board to the hidden candy underneath she also likes Irish creams i bring my dad the racing form, especially on sunny dry days when the track is fast and chalk horses fly past the wire with profitable regularity a beer and a dog at the paddock-concession for old-times sake and my Grandfather loves his TV Guide, the gateway to viewing pleasure, a grid of events aligned to time and channel coordinates, a study in multiple dimensions cc: Chagall 2021
Category: Poetry
a sunray makes a rainbow in a tear at the tip of a lash until it falls the rainbow descends prismic in midair for a moment once on the ground it's gone but leaves colorful stains cc: Chagall 2021
a turquoise porpoise attached to a jade-colored rope looped through a rectangular placard - a replica of a wave - that was her bookmark in summer wedged between pages pulled taut the porpoise would ride the top ream there at the binding, the thick thread (did i say rope?) hidden in the vee of the long fold amid the tiniest kernels of sand, warmed beach sand scented of summer oils and whatever was on the sheets, and the soaps, and the candles the sound in the air cc: Chagall 2021
I find it very strange that wherever starlight is nearby you will find hope and sadness both and these always find their way into eyes make people howl and coo no nighttime-silhouettes without starlight I saw love shoot across the sky once in pursuit of a single beam of star, mistaking it for full starlight, the forest for the tree cc: Chagall 2021
In the alley, she whispered, what do you have, I said 2019 Your Honor, I was sitting on a beach minding my own business indulging in fine '19 Years from now, New Year's Eve, the ball is dropping, the island breeze so magical Your Honor and I...deep in 2019 cc: Chagall 2021
I retrace the lines of your handwritten letters and imagine you once sitting there I see what you saw as the ink flows cursively from your heart, to your head, to your hand, to the paper, now yellow and cracked where your fingers run the length of the folded seams; it seems only yesterday or a lifetime ago a small water stain outside the margin, perhaps a drip from a teacup that day that missed your lips and fell, to be absorbed or maybe a tear I wish I'd saved the envelope that held the missive close in hand, the flap and stamp that touched your tongue, a return address where no one lives today at least no one I know cc: Chagall 2021
Her body is a blackout curtain hiding the light within All the glimmer of stars it contains, hidden from hovering crafts in the air Even after the sirens cease, it stays drawn cc: Chagall 2021
When the net goes down there will be no net no way to inform us (yo-ho) why the net's down caught-22 when the tower goes there will be no sound no outreach no waves in the air to express goodbye a hum, an invisible pulse no virtual breath any longer cc: Chagall 2021
on the scale of it all we are nearer the end of the smallest of things cc: Chagall 2021
Behind a mask, anyone can be a ventriloquist cc: Chagall 2021
