Sometimes
unexpectedly
greys – candy-finished blacks
bursts of day-glo color
then everything goes
misted white again
Chagall 2016
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I told her
as you had asked
that she knew nothing of moons
that it was waxing and gibbous
and she replied to tell you that
you are an idiot as anyone can see
that it’s nothing of the sort
but indeed instead waning crescent
She added
it comes with old age
then she gave me this kiss and this locket
she said that you’d know
Chagall 2016
Tell her for me
she knows nothing
about moons
It’s waxing and gibbous,
there’s nothing more to be said
Chagall 2016
I’ve no hatches to batten
down and round I go
in a spin
ancient
dark funk
Goodnight to all along Battenkill
(frigging spellchecker never heard of the place nor the river)
How many pounds of flower
does it take to hold one down
and round I go
in a spin
some sort of voodoo
I take it
I gather
assemble all I can
we take us with us
by the tree on my count
let’s mark time briskly
we escape
one by
one
Regather
two
by two
slithering down
and around I’m gone
in a spin
merely light minutes
away
Chagall 2016
Blue below icy
Lakes frozen aqua brittle
Still beings moving
Chagall 2016
I.
Today I sensed
in the care of a plant
what I needed to do
II.
Today I sensed
during care of a plant
what I needed to do
III.
Today I sensed that
the care of it all
is what I needed to do
IV.
Today I sensed in
the care of it all
that I was needed
Chagall 2016
Seems more are adept at curation
Before we wept adoration
Explore! She slept long duration
Yawn (bore) inept calculation
Minds tore deep perturbation
Dreams worn out devastation
Reams doorstops of masturbation
Tons of crap indeed an anthology makes
Chagall 2016
On the roof
the city below
is quiet
Gray
the order of
the day
People still use clotheslines here
cursive swoops of nylon rope
wet haberdashery semaphore
Empty rivers on either side
the low-end of tugboat blasts
is lost here
Each one grabs
an arm
a leg
apiece
Spreads me like a kite
brings me to the edge
begins a count of three
A sail on the river begs a breeze
no longer grasps hold
kites below become smaller
. . . I be gone
It is certainly quieter here
save for the rush of wind
Chagall 2016
Alphabet City 