Alphabet City

I felt it die, quite tangibly,
the fire inside, desire
to reach for stars, not settle

sometimes I stare straight ahead
for minutes awaiting some impulse
to move

spun wheels
in a mud of my making
pretending the usual will do

I have grown to accept
being insufficiently content
lacking the elusive prize

occasionally I rally,
the moment rushes, wells
in my chest

but I’m a dying match
my conflagration
never comes

I miss having purpose

Chagall 2018

I eye the bourbon, the color of honey,
then dab my index and pointer fingers
into the surface of the liquid, catching
a bead or two of the liquor there
where the digits meet, I briskly inhale
to immerse my nostrils in the caramel pungency
of whiskey there at the tips – I follow
with the lightest of touches of the amber to my upper lip,
just a daub to get better acquainted, a deep breath and then
a long haul that traces the cascade from glass to tongue to
epiglottis to stomach to blood system – low bass rhythm stirs,
moves the feet a bit, incites meringue – or maybe samba,
a choice I ponder while pouring a second long draught.

Chagall 2018

He asked Olga, do you mind if we clear a spot to work here?  We don’t want to bother you.
She said Ziggy, please stop bothering me.

He said Thank you, Olga. You’re a doll.

Chagall 2018

Chapter 1

It’s just an old house settling,
sighing really, expelling laughter
under cold timbers

in autumn,
as houses do – actually a handful of times
each year, though seldom we notice

As spring turns to summer, sun on wood
pops alive yellow, breathy new petals,
cool dew, moist loam

Under rain gear, in galoshes, I dare
every puddle to step aside, I’m stomping in,
warm or cold, for somewhere a towel is waiting

Snow is never too heavy
on the rooftop, buoyed by the lift of moonlight

In the window under the eave, a golden glow,
a triangle of candlelight carved in space with your face
there in the glass

I am entranced by the amber glow of my neighbor’s light
there from the woods beside us – it spills into and fills
the night between our homes; I am elated by that promise

Chapter 2

Once as a kid in the attic I lay on my back, my head hanging down off a beam,
the ceiling the floor, lights things to walk around, pretending
the world upside-down.

Outside the window the clouds are the ground,
I fall down but oddly sail up,
white on blue, I tumble
wildly

Chapter 3

Once a kite got stuck round the chimney,
beautiful in sunlight through the day,
for many seasons, never to blow away

Until finally the faded-linen flyer released and slid along
the smooth contour of its frame, off the roof, pulling its
long braided bridle behind, to slice through the air in a final
throe, a goodbye wave in descent

It had been nearly 300 days since
the kite had left ground

Chagall 2018

I got nothing,

Jimmy, you got anything?
No, Carlos. Nothing.

We got nothing.

Chagall 2018

I leave purposefully giving you opportunity
to sneak to steal a pinch, so much more fun
from the outside.

Chagall 2018

Whilst, albeit after as well,
life emboldens the otherwise

To rise and to dance,
twirl the day away

Not a soul very likely to fall out of trance,
gallop – lose stride, prance or sidestep

Stumble, don’t wash away
merely a step from the falls

Astraddle rock, braced to race upstream
against water that gathers to lather me

Carry me back then and fro, I eventually gain sure footing,
younger – bellowing freely, louder – longer, everything newfound

There are many nights ahead,
all that are till there are no longer stars

No longer tea or cups,
nor anyone to cause a stir

Then I will feel you most,
displaced in strange orbit

A glance or a nod yet
having to do

Precipitation
a certainly

Chagall 2018

In a stack of reams bound by a matte silver clip,
was a cloth, a leaf, and an eyepatch lettered with
quatrains flowed from a black felt nib,
untouched by moisture or wear.

Chagall 2018

Brevity be damned.

Chagall 2018