Sweeping the cutting room floor I find
sweet snippets of verse about you
Chagall 2019
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The dead, in the life of night,
parade among toppled stones,
incite the dance from below
to rhythm scored by moonlight
A lullaby
for days gone
Reel and waltz, ye phantoms!
Pirouette nimbly sublime
among raked rocks, fading candles
lit by wistful prayer
In time time ceases
Out of time
Chagall 2019
My abdomen bulges
from internal pressure
I exert to convince
you of things plainly so.
Chagall 2018
If ever I end up
in a hospital room
awaiting my final hour,
break me out.
Let’s have one last adventure.
I would rather die sloppily in my own backyard
staring at your face, then neatly in some sterile room
without you.
Love, Chagall – 2019
Even now I wave goodbye
till the car turns the corner.
Chagall 2019
The time found when
one is excused from
having to perform
a previously scheduled
and daylong duty, begets
such wanton pleasure.
Chagall 2019
I remember when I was a child,
before I could speak, I could feel
the earth fall in orbit ’round the sun
How frightening this sense of terra
less than firma
As well, the rotation of the planet was apparent,
a careen around celestial hairpin-turns
en route to sunset and tomorrow
Since then I have acclimated,
developed counter-balance to allow
me to deal day-to-day with the topsy-turvy
flight of our bumblebee
Similar to seeing life
right-side up
I am a silver surfer
atop a hallowed plain
hanging ten
Chagall 2019
Inspired
but tired
Chagall 2019
Last night it dawned on me,
quite vividly, that we must
be alone in the multiverse,
otherwise our poetry would
not convey such great wisdom,
nor our existence such ultimate
irony.
Chagall 2018
alone at the window
she ties up the sash
the street below
one flight down
so close
she can touch
the slow night life
in passers-by
the time strides by
two-by-two
a pretty girl with flowered hair
from a balcony tosses beads
Dulcinea above petals that waltz
rains down from the fire escape
in wonder under melted snow
she beckons a frosted kiss
icicles melt into rivulets
that run her chin down her neck
refreshing sips
sunlit water
still so calm
too deep
a wooden bench – a frozen lake
vees of faraway flyers dip then soar
in echelon back to home
I have loved her in the wind
among tall grains we ran to flee
I have quenched my thirst with a long draught of rainwater
sipped from the taut concave of her abdomen,
the rhythm of her arc ebbs the flow
of a drink akin to tart citrus ade
one-flight up from the street,
a tenant is neither here nor there
how many nights I still walk off the ledge
into mid-air
and in the late hours
I relish the first-floor’s rarefied gas
the omniscience of feet on the street
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 