He asked What’s the plan?
I replied by asking what he meant. He elaborated.
I said Oh! No plan really. You call me and dad – tell us when we need to be there.
And like magic we’ll be there.
Chagall 2018
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We are the flight we imagine,
inbred patterns in echelon
where the self is all,
akin to sky-writing
crop circles in the air
to mimic life below,
it is colder here above
earlier as a sign, at times
the wisps filigree all the way to earth
as ice, but not today, I am left
with face upturned,
mouth wide-open to receive
rain, buckets of drops
in gulps, a blessed christening
of water and time, equally apportioned
to the deluge, forever
against the gray unbounded,
weightless without dimension,
tracing ancient veers in unison,
aligned to primal throbs for rhythm,
in the throes of sunlight and wind.
We are the light we’ve imagined,
the eternal unity, whorls:
the fingerprint of who.
In graceful arc with universal yaw
we dive to clear mid-air where
we imbibe wildly on the wing.
Chagall 2018
The movement of bees across the lilacs,
group brilliance spread, for each flower we touch,
has its own due time, a suckle, a rub,
powdered noses, compound but bloodshot eyes,
quick departures to drop off sweet treasure,
returns in wing-step to resume harvest,
never missing a beat or a petal.
We are the we who colonize this place.
You move, I fill, you fill my move, and so
we dance a pert, apian polonaise,
primal patterns that intoxicate us,
gluttonous pleasure amid the nectar,
I roll in the musky charms of Venus,
sans the desire to come up for air.
The hive is a place for our alchemy,
where powders convert to beads of gummy
cone-nestled honey, the local terroir,
the minerals and startdust peculiar
to only us, there’s no others like us,
anywhere in the throbbing that surrounds,
nor the worlds of impulse we hold within.
We move like…
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She said You’re trying to create tension in the dough
so I whispered to the flour with each passing knead
Some of you will end up as toast – live it while you can.
Chagall 2018
I do so want to untether
but what to sever, to cut?
Afloat a sky of many eyes,
awake blue flutter,
cloud-horizons, wisps
fall through helium
precocious and cold,
mid-air,
near autumn below.
Everywhere seemingly the hum of machines,
large and small,
fix and prune,
to make right the stray hand of nature.
The stranded blare of a horn, on-stage
or maybe a taxi when all the world
is foggy, early morning bakery-goers
groggy from the night, savoring
cinnamon jelly doughy dawn.
Dark pekoe brings out the night again,
air and color,
breezeways pervade my every sense,
each dialect I use,
the refrains my
heart sometimes hums.
I bounce when I hit the high note
and ricochet… exit – a sharp propulsion,
spirit and mind, honed to a point.
Nerve, sinew,
saline, thought:
exemplify ballast.
Chagall 2018
I professed I thought one could reuse kernels especially
if using air – not oil – and indeed if those
were further un-popped.
Chagall 2018
I typically acquiesce as I am much more likely
to successfully rebound from disappointment.
Chagall 2018
I underestimate the magic of a small room,
acoustic fidelity does make you seem real. The actual
time and place doesn’t matter despite the cohabitant tingle.
Unjustly qualified – I apologize, but only
so much, no more.
My uncle made money appear from behind my ear once
when I was a child, and I wanted to be a magician
just like him. Feign of hand for the feint of heart,
a lot like love and less like sailors on leave
ashore somewhere.
The incredible desire to leave is sometimes a prelude
and not necessarily an aftermath, something to keep
in hand on windy decks. It’s hard to believe there are so many leaves
this early this year; these wooden docks and breezy days
are the ones we remember for leaving.
For having been there ere to have left at all.
I dance around my meaning, like my room, fearful there is none,
only ramble, touch and sensation without cohesive element,
life-like. It is about coming and going, everything all the time,
with infrequent intermissions, too few timeouts where two sometimes
more people step aside and find themselves alone in small rooms.
Draw in and listen.
Chagall 2018
They think I’m asleep but I’m nestled on the landing above
looking down at the warm glow below, lulled by sound.
A party balloon on a ceiling – or
one of hot-air flying low, no higher than
backyard apple trees.
I am too young to care, despite the onset of years;
I dangle at bent-knee over railing to watch the sky fall.
The rush of blood to the head, the pulse in a thumb,
corpuscular beat – hearts and throbs and throes.
Cozied here with my favorite pillow, under nightlight inside
atop soft carpet ply, passing the moments of moontide
peering through the balustrade, listening intently.
Forgetting each morning the last night’s gleaning.
Chagall 2018
The world is tilted just so
we receive enough sun for laughter,
sufficient rain to promote bows,
legendary pots of gold, the hypnotic
lure, a kiss; bridges sigh
heavy from the rush of tides
downstream, the race for
calm eddies, shallow pools,
languid warm waters to bathe,
oxygen bubbles to breathe,
a world of no bother, between lips
in the interim – the gap separating
life, persistent, poised,
at the transom looking down
and in.
Chagall 2018
Alphabet City 