I sip reheated French-pressed coffee from a pint Mason-jar, I see its steam rise
in the fanned rays of sun amidst dust in the shadows of slatted blinds
Chagall 2017
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We all know how the sun can peek through the upper branch and reveal
the light behind God’s head. This morning it happened. Everywhere is timeless.
Chagall 2017
Dervishes of wind at play kick up leaves crisply cold
scented pink bubblegum frosted-sweet from an autumn ago
in my mind time swirls this grin about my hollow head
where I have lodged a candle
Chagall 2017
Frantically I weave long strands resilient by nature but suddenly failing
to emulate the eons’ prototype, ancient formulae in my head still vibrant
guide me, blessed incantations – recipes for life and all its themes, I pray don’t fail me now, permutations be gone, mutations Go!, permutations be gone…
a rosary of beads of nucleic acids, counting-off like so many marines marching
1-2-3-4, 1-2…3-4! I don’t know but I been told…(echoes, do you hear them?)
I feel them building their bridges to nowhere, pieces of puzzles jig-sawed and ill-fit
at odd angles to intended points for docking, errant by design
and now This, pervasive and intrinsic
Chagall 2017
Two hobos walking down the road. One asks
Did you make poopies in your pants?
The other replies indignantly
Why, no!
A few miles down the old lonesome road the first hobo asks again
Are you sure you didn’t make poopies in your pants?
And the other again insists
No, absolutely not!
The first hobo sniffs around then suddenly pulls down the others pants and drawers
in one fell swoop and there it is, a pile of poopies, and he points and says
Look, I thought you said you didn’t make poopies!
and the other hobo grins and says sheepishly…
Oh, I thought you meant today!
Chagall 2017
So watch…I hit Publish here to post, right, now watch…see, the phone rings!
Chagall 2017
Sun through the pane strong on my cheek and neck, sucking the right half
of my tilted head – read brain – deliciously away in an up-stroke of solar heat:
the environment as masseuse
Chagall 2017
She said ‘lito, it’s cold in here!
I said Baby…turn up the heat!
Chagall 2017
Write
the wrong.
Chagall 2017
Clouds enshroud the light in the garden, I am mist on shadows reflected
as moonbeams on rain far removed yet right here waxing, running on ere running off
Chagall 2017
Alphabet City 