Words are the distance
from the sensate in my mind now in yours
Across the miles postmarked
whispers in a letterbox
I will shake you healingly
but maybe not lovingly
Listen – grab that
it’s a tale of umbilical proportions
I imagine that clay works
very much the same way
Chagall 2016
Before time there wasn’t only
incessant heartbeat
Humans though water are merely steam
no less of all things
The moment before you knocked
the door swings open wide: you arrive
The ones already in search continue
long before you’re here
And wordless reads best
though you can’t remember
I relish the sizzle
when we meet ice
How we burn
underneath the numb
Chagall 2016
At every step of the process I sample,
first the raw sweet dough,
the loaf once baked, sliced,
baked twice (one side), flipped
twice-baked (both sides)
plain then iced then dunked
homemade biscotti
Chagall 2016
I asked her was it
real bamboo – the bambusa multiplex sort
she said no, she did not think so
and was I referencing zappa
about the poncho, was it real –
a mexican or a sears poncho?
I said no, I didn’t think so
but bamboo grows big
it’s good to know
especially if you live upstairs
above all when it rains
Chagall 2016
You keep seeing me from the outside in
I think that’s good
she said
Up to a point I’m guessing
then it demands
deeper dives
A roil – yes there must be
one of those – a tussle
some physical fabrication
Two bodies meshed – or is it fused?
I think it’s just sliding
gliding really
Chagall 2016
I’d become so adept
at obfuscating my point of view
that I had others convinced
I aligned to the alternative
Chagall 2016
I’d rather dance just with you
perhaps even drink alone now that there is
some moon this New Year’s Eve
Your name is Jessica Eve so that makes you
the night before Jessica
(I was once the elf
of Saturday Eve)
I consider us one since we will howl
together in the wetlands tonight
The stars shift subtly look different
with passing time though not quite aligned
to the stroke at midnight
My heart will cascade its tickertape
among the fleeting, their raised flutes intone
ripe crystals, honed glass holds the promise
of the toast to which we all spring
Love & Peace in 2016
Chagall 2015/2016
Down from Stuyvesant Town
a little bit up from the Boys Club
Where the bus lets you off
at Eleventh & A
About thirty feet above ground
my soul hangs suspended
I hover there to watch life pass
sweetly through a window frameless
A point of view timeless
as before is coincident now
Old city brick woven
in fire escapes
We’re once young stealing kisses
miles away at the southern tip
There the island goes dark
where two rivers meet
Alone at the point
amid too many crosswinds
Lean flat
lie back into the wall
Chagall 2015
The night air is extraordinarily
cold, rarefied – prompts me to consider
if I had considered the language
It is snowing
then I thought simply
It snows
or simpler
Snowing
and still
just
Snow
sparkling
dry falling
night squadrons
wee icy crystals
cascade down her lashes
freeze cheeks
numb kisses
her lips
quickly
we are the first
to warm ankle-deep in
Snowfall
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 