I find my rightful place on the pin, thanks to the grace
of a million dancing angels
© Chagall ∞
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HOW COME WE DON’T HEAR THAT MUCH ABOUT THE LUNAR PLEXUS? HUH!?!?
Rain.
My neighbor is playing classic rock, lost in the din
Of rain.
Cardinal calls pierce the sheet of sound, lovingly embrace
The rain.
All of life cascades in a downpour around me, I am lost as preordained
In the rain.
Saturation. Virginal daisies or is that camomile?
I am the rain.
I am every scent of lavender exposed in mist on warm nights
After the rain.
The softest drop of dew about to flee from thirsty petals
Before the rain.
Moonlight, peeking out from dying clouds,
Dreams of rain.
I lie beside you, fall through your gravity, you ask What’s it like inside?
I whisper Rain.
© Chagall ∞
1 on 1
between you and me
the irrational root
of this 2
has us puzzled
Chagall 2015
I search for the source, a vantage point
over which I hover to resonate, in order
to speak with alacrity, honored to be
the medium, the clarion voice,
le trompettiste; I flow and so
I’m a flower, a steady stream
of warm words awash in your ear,
the storm before the quell,
not merely a silent hour,
an end to separation,
a prelude to the loss
of the throb.
© Chagall ∞
The aroma of oil and salt,
a breeze cooler than the stagnant
air about me, fried potatoes
on ocean winds waving somewhere
on the planet, whitecaps hold foam
while moonbeams reign supreme
in the gravity, the order of things,
as all must be is surely.
© Chagall ∞
Relax deeply, secure in the updraft, ride the scree,
low in the pocket, let flexible tension arc about you,
buoyancy – wind rushing cilia,
spread under light and sky
in full spanned glory,
a journey upward
to thinner
rarefied
air.
© Chagall ∞
I’m not sure
to trust in
my ear or my heart,
impatient
to convey, to commune, to go with
the rhythm already,
shunning sidestep,
when I breathe
the wax is eloquent,
each pause
brings new delight
in asides,
innuendo
more than any tryst
captured
a lover’s imagination,
a wink in due time,
and I am merely a waif
combed in elusive fashion.
© Chagall ∞
She said Waitress! Excuse me! There are tiny teeth marks on my strawberry
I said I’m the owner, and welcome baby to the world of organic.
© Chagall ∞
If it wasn’t for make-up sex
I’d have a lot of free time on my hands.
© Chagall (aka Chicheme) ∞
Alphabet City 