She searches for sea shells, slowly combs sands,
then wades out waist-high; the surf erases
yesterdays’ traces, and less is no more.
She (it’s just she) is shucking shells by the shore.
© Chagall ∞
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With only the ordinary
we shape new lie to the land,
extraordinary contour upon which
to dwell and to set our roots
at odd angles to the rise that marks
the divide no longer,
the apropos
no longer becoming rather been,
is seemingly all the rage these days
or are you missing the drift? The rift is
the riff, like the rose was once.
Look at me I’m streaming!
A
lilt,
a
lull-
a-
bye.
© Chagall ∞
You
the final ray of
sun on her face
Tell me,
did she lower her eyes and
were her cheeks flushed?
© Chagall ∞
She’s a circling gull and
I am a flash among shoals.
She swoops me up and
then she releases
for I am not what she seeks.
I wash away once more to be beached
yet again on the sand down the shore
amid shells and kelp, content atop smooth
sunbaked eroded rock.
© Chagall ∞
In an instant the sound of the ocean ceased
and in that vacuum nothing remained
save the din of human voices.
© Chagall ∞
Calliope, pentateuch, kombu bay-bay
Chukka boot a Buddha yay!
© Chagall ∞
I am as young as this moment allows but no less.
Someday I’ll have been here again.
© Chagall ∞
Politicians, given the floor, feign this pensive, ponderous persona, 90 percent bullshit and 10 percent ill-formed question. I am amazed purple – red and blue, if you were wondering – that this is the cream of our crop. (Primal scream here)
© Chagall ∞
I am intrigued by her etcetera,
the ellipsis she dangles without
modifier, the comma of her petulant
being, the subtle contour of her fonts,
the page she splays open while she sings
hymns to the bare branch, the storm
she incites with mere thought. She needs
no blessing nor permission to spin
maniacally as she pleases, a dervish,
a twirl.
© Chagall ∞
I wink at the blind to catch their eye,
proposition the deaf for an ear, my lips move
to articulate tongues, arcane and garbled
chicanery, while fools wisely ignore the signs
to take heed.
In a tunnel that escapes me
thoughts meander, drifts blown ash
from fires once hot, close enough to burn
now cold, cinders reassemble not so easily these days,
but I try.
On the outside off the inside
under overcast tops ‘neath the shade,
is where I fail to succeed to be
what I’m not. And I find that I’m lost,
but I really don’t care, concernedly.
You are the essential wholeness of nothing,
everything wrapped into one and one,
she to others, just shy of a crowd.
As today marks the end
yesterday clears its promise
and I’m face-flat against the white wall
once again.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 