My enjambement is intended to make
make you stutter, step a-
round stuff, leap …
stick
the landing.
© Chagall ∞
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Miracles are merely potential
miracles until they occur.
We’ve ennui lately with need
to live more divinely,
find light where there’s none
beyond all suns.
Blessed are we
all. We
are.
© Chagall ∞
Neither left nor right appeals to
one who is constantly turning.
© Chagall ∞
Certainty on any topic is
a prototype for a pathway to truth.
© Chagall ∞
I dropped my son and his girl off
at JFK Airport last night for their
after-midnight flight to London. They
were so excited. I am so deeply saddened
that the world is as it is and I regret
that we are not all loving people.
© Chagall ∞
Autumn of 1969, my uncle lived a stone’s throw
from Shea Stadium, Queens, New York. Planes we’d
see, hear and could almost touch overhead from his
backyard were the same ones flying there in
black and white on Channel 9. Everyone mostly from
back then is gone now. But the call of the final out
still ricochets through space and time as a wave
of sound and image, bounced off Telestar, Cleon Jones
forever under the shot to left before the large white
letters 371.
© Chagall ∞
Wind through the trees,
Autumn –
or is that surf,
July?
I am northeast
and southbound
baby.
I need a jukebox,
an American Legion.
I prefer a good tap beer,
or a pinot noir from Beaune.
You can’t beat 3PM
for afternoon
delight.
although
noon, one
two, four, five
all have special meaning
Okay,
anytime
is right.
I adore
the produce aisle.
I do so love
losing my ticklish mind
undercover with you.
Keep a bottle on chill,
keep us moving forward.
© Chagall, 2013
The Paleolithics had neither plaid nor paisley
and as far as I know they didn’t plant parsley or
parsnips either – perhaps persimmons? Their art
amazingly exceeds their tools, stone goddesses more
majestic than the pebble axes that beget them
lovingly, beautifully incised designs to lift spirits,
to raise hopes, and to imbue faith in the goodness of creation.
We, the ancient people.
© Chagall ∞
I am precisely like a beacon she breathed
yet the time still faded quickly away, syrup
stopped in its pour, a cascade surreal atop
lithe and limber aplomb. Inside I am a rush
of water banking smoothly along high sides
of perilous plummeting flume, before I dive
so help me God … to ascend and emerge again,
the scent of lavender adrift on warm woven mist,
I am blinded by light calling me from the shore.
© Chagall ∞
She is waxing prosaic as she elbows her way
through the crowded agora, how she loves the bustle!
Throwing fingers up to signal the meter, opening bids
under kerchiefed hands where a shake resembles a seductive
sleight of fingers traced in palms’ undersides;
I continue to traipse my way up her wrists until
I cup her shoulders and press the tension
from her neck and temple. I will smooth her
into massaged rapture before agreeing that
her prose is genuine.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 