This line is in memory of hundreds of lines undone,
erased, deleted, made gone
And what has emerged but meta-prose,
writing on writing
© Chagall ∞
Latest Entries »
People on the planet? A quick search reveals there are seven
point five billion. My handy calculator powered by the sun
tells me this is two to the thirty-second people (give or take a power)
I record my voice, I hum an A, 440 Hz pure tone
that I bounce to a second track, so now there’s two of me
I repeat – four – again and there’s eight, for thirty two times
(give or take a power) until I achieve a chorus of me
of seven point five billion
I sit there under headphones
in perfect surround, the volume way up
I am all that there is
© Chagall ∞
Dear Reader: this is a rewrite of a 2013 post of the same name.
In my backyard, the sunlight that shines there
is mine.
© Chagall ∞
For five days and nights the ghost dancers moved in solemn step
to implore the return of the buffalo, the turning back of time.
© Chagall ∞
The crescendo of cicadas
Morning is hotter
than yesterday’s noon
A nonchalant wind imbued with the scent
of a distant ocean I’ll never see
blows by
(inspired by Celestine’s work at https://readinpleasure.wordpress.com/ )
© Chagall ∞
Why erect a palisade
when one can simply vanish?
© Chagall ∞
The stars will guide me home one day,
I’ll follow their path until the edge
where the furtive eyes of seers peer
from beyond the eddies of time that spiral
amid the shallows of predawn, in waters
formed succeeding the impetus, immediately and
forever, I’ll be awash in the brine,
soaking, absorbing, adsorbing, and engorging,
until I burgeon and explode
into nebula-cum-universe.
© Chagall ∞
Our music will always exist while remnant
of us ever having played it mightn’t
No photograph in black and white coarse-grained
in the morning coffee and the light of new day
coming through the window
A voice, a life captured
in a vinyl groove, we dig it out
with diamond styli
Trapped in overtone
due to expire, reliving
the last time touched
Sere earth in rapture over the horizon
lines recited in subtle gesture atop
fallen and graceful wonders
The music’s more than bulbous slanted dots on stave
windblown rests and italicized Italian
We are intended
to be sung
© Chagall 2014
beyond the horizon
approaching machines
© Chagall ∞
My vices are tinted
chartreuse, emerald, and puce.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 