History does not repeat itself,
instead it reemphasizes its points
Even if dust be reassembled,
remolded to beget the people and
the rooms where laughter once pealed,
it would not be long before they'd again crumble
Release the voices stuck in the corners where
walls meet ceilings,
stairways meet rooftops,
lovers eye stars that die eons ago, like them just
moments ago,
all of time is yet here,
behind our closed eyes
Once upon that time, the wind entered me, danced upon
my vocal cords, vibrations of me in the airstream,
I emanated sounds like those of creation, to pulse
magically, ametrically, sympathetically with all the created
The uncertainty of whether I am the core or the outskirt,
the beginning or the end,
the reveler or the laughter,
the ceiling or the sky,
the edge of the dome or heaven,
the earth or the mycorrhizae,
the magma or the igneous mantle,
merely me again at the core
If entropy be the gradual decline into disorder, perhaps
the dead can once again live, for death, as I see it now,
is the more orderly state of our being
To be or not to be, was never the question,
rather to love or not
cc: Chagall 2022
Category: Poetry
If my son comes home with a girl or a boy, and tells me they are in love, I will give them my blessing and assist them all I can. People fall in love with a soul, and those are everywhere. But when my daughter gets beat by 4 laps in a swim meet by a person who 2 years ago was ejaculating to old Playboy centerfolds, I lose my fucking mind. Love, Chagall
Am I too late to till the land, to fill the furrows with life-giving grain, tubers to store to be eaten in Winter, gourds to nourish us through to Spring, in Summer I will allow the long beans to dry, take time in Autumn to cry over what used to be, hand pump my well without electricity, rue the abundance of wood too wet to kindle, save for old papers' headlines decrying the outrage, before the brightest light came, ere the outage, outside but more so within, empty vessels, hollowed - nay hallowed - vassals, ships set sail, round-trip to nowhere Am I too late to take my own life into my own hands? cc: Michael 2022
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originally posted August 9, 2018 thin altitude high in eastern europe atop caucasus peaks abundant cultivars plenty of plums stone fruits what the italians call cocomilia we survive on these plus native grain and wild yeast until the years are passed cc: Michael 2022, Chagall 2018
The People cannot, must not, tolerate yet another cleansing by the scrub-brush of a punk fuckhead, I'd rather go up in a puff, die trying, than sit around atop pious pretense Give it to me! I'll press the button cc: Chagall 2022
Is the pen more mighty, or do blades cut deeper, in the real? Imagine the cursive stroke against the parry and lunge of cold steel Pencils, like people, from carbon to carbon, add dust to the dust A swordsmith, her forge a star, strangely like a wordsmith, who shapes blades on heaven One burns in hell, the other rises above, to count down the days These last days, this paschal time, witness eyes upward, to seek what ascends What goes up... Diamonds from carbon, intense heat and pressure, crystallize everywhere People, words, and swords, people's words and swords cc: Michael Chagall
I do not feel, have no sense of the plight of each the many, instead I am overwhelmed by the singular sorrow of we as one cc: Chagall 2022
micro-reactions, aggressive and other, are what We are it's the macro should concern You more cc: Chagall, Michael 2022
These days I live for the light of the moon, shun the rays of the day, find myself waning, though you'll think me waxing here near- philosophic, removed from the poetic arrhythmia I stutter, forgive me for I know not what I do, in the full glory of the round orbs all around us but not about us, where there is no horizon to rise above, no sun would dare frequent this occasion, this milieu, this misery deserves nothing less than the drone of the pavan to which they dance, a macabre step, one-and-two-and...tread upon for vantage, to better see how one is outdone in the creative of evil, each night their will be done, on city streets, in foreign fields, behind doors wide open, stick their tongues out at the blind, scream to the deaf to put words into the mouths of mutes, never to touch the sensitive, except with fire In the light of the moon that I love, is a stark gray warmth amid deep blue, I pray for perpetual night, for with it comes unbridled hope, astride the unfulfilled outcome, not knowing whether breaks the day cc: Michael, Chagall 2022
I Love is somewhere between sorrow and sympathy II Five is the new 20 cc: Chagall, Michael 2022
Alphabet City 