Any two people
anytime
reflect the face
of each other
a patch of land at sea
under starlight
is where I embrace you
we kiss to the lap
of warm waves
a timeless moon-blue
velvet moire overhead
opens to the expanse
of all existence
a single moment
an eternal glimpse
Chagall 2015
I have no energy left yet so much to say.
No, that’s not right. I simply have need to say something.
There is no specific content or quantity in mind.
I hope that in describing that need
I’ve said something.
Writing is no longer a viable alternative
for that primal scream I would emit
hurling myself off a rooftop.
Chagall 2015
She tried to convince me
that she was the list of all things
the ontology
She placed the back of my head
against her breasts then kneaded the pain
from my shoulders
Her rhythms were micro
inside at times then upon the muscle
a consummate masseuse
She turned me folded around
hot moist wrappings
settled-in cool smooth sheets
She leaves a dulcet tone
rung before it’s struck
reverberating
still
Chagall 2015
She whispers
It’s you from long ago
And indeed I feel younger, more vibrant
As I run soft kisses along her neck
I ask her
How will I be?
Chagall 2015
And here I am on the road not taken
Such strange inks adorn these pages of dense fiber
Cottons milled by a barefoot princess
Toeing the loom’s treadle with a supple ankle
Her every step accompanied by wind chimes
Once disturbed by warmer breeze than now
She turns her head to show a long braid
Of intricate knots as if hieroglyphic
On the wall where firelight casts amorphous shadow
Rise then fall, I’m an ancient Mayan again
Till she looks away, moves her head slowly
At pace with a wheel that turns and turns and turns . . .
Chagall 2015
Walk into any bodega and order
no-frills double value half price
delicious as can be hot as hell
coffee regular.
Oh, and a paper bag of home-made plantains.
Chagall 2015
Although she was Brahmin
her enlightenment came
straddled atop a Shudra.
Chagall 2015
A little too early for Reblog Friday but here goes. Love & Peace to all. May all your debates be 3-ring. —Chagall
He ran a calloused thumb,
over the Zippo flywheel,
out of flint and Ronson.
An older guy, the Navy taught him
to run between raindrops on flightdecks.
On the Boston when Spearhead Marines hit Iwo,
works now at Gabrow’s Toy Store,
there on Avenue B.
Runs numbers for Connie from the pizza store,
who works for Lucy, whose married to
Tony the Barber.
Watches Bilko, Burns, and the Beaver,
has a crush on Coca and Miss Brooks both,
fancies himself to be Palladin.
Sometimes hangs with Blackie from the garage,
or Alvie the addict,
remember – he used to date Momo’s girl?
Got beat up by the guys from Avenue D,
who thought he was someone else.
Has an egg-cream and Joyva jelly bars,
every day at Sid’s,
with the kids
when they come home from school.
Owns Action comics, one through ten,
in absolute mint condition.
But he’s misplaced…
View original post 64 more words
She was a cannibal goddess, bad for business
eating half the prophets.
Chagall 2015
My Dad called everyone Cap’
since his days as a grunt Marine.
He never spoke of Iwo but I knew
it disturbed him deeply, men from both sides
deep in red volcanic sand strewn about Mount Suribachi.
They passed around pure grain alcohol
on the landing crafts, some hit the beach
in a daze.
The Oldest Gyrine, they called him,
he enlisted when nearly 30, came home
to work in a bronze foundry, flamethrower hot,
my Dad the grunt Marine.
Chagall 2015 – Semper Fidelis
Alphabet City 