My numbers are all messed up.
You’ve denied me twelve times,
monthly really and three times I’ve risen,
leavened, refreshed. I’ve but seven left.
© Chagall 2015
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Builds in cascades of sound – phonemes,
by feeling little bits of life fly off of your tongue
where open fields find rest on hallowed oath, an appeal to the people,
notwithstanding the people, assuming only the best for those
who be so gathered. The speech expresses
the significance of that, that the moment
in its utterance, for the speaker
and for the listener,
is inevitable.
© Chagall 2015
I’m learning new words
Such beautiful languages
All my friends have spoke
© Chagall 2015
Oh my god people
if you only knew
how nuyorican
chagall can be
on a friday – listen:
I’m dancing
to tito puente!
© Chagall 2015
Started my day on the wrong side of email,
ended up in my Sent box, thinking
it was incoming mail. Then I put
two and two together. Feels good
to be back inside the Inbox.
© Chagall 2015
She said flowers are for making
sweet nothing of the air, she’d wave
her bouquet in sweeping arcs,
to trace comets she saw there,
streaks of scent, slow color to fade
figments, flames in the dark dimmed
to a lilac’s breath, her intentions lingered
longer than she, still remain.
© Chagall 2015
A celestial ring to it,
turbines recede in the croon
of Doppler effect,
up above first clouds, a speck,
But you see it, don’t you?
Basso, pleasingly gargled vibrato,
slow trilled. Perfect blue cold day.
© Chagall 2015
You and I, we are
such partitive people,
our hearts set on some
or any, but never specifically
this one, a bit of or a kissful
of that.
© Chagall 2015
What I thought was silence is
instead sound, figure on ground,
and that’s where the magic is,
underground, hear that? That hum
on which the silence rests? Fine –
we’ll take a moment. Now
focus. The silence rests on
ground. Focus on the ground.
Hear the hum?
© Chagall 2015
My gaze is locked in numb appreciation
for the life that passes my window,
on occasion my eyes flit higher to peer
at the lone eagle or the spiraling dove,
everlasting images from a timeless place
framed beyond the glass, impressed
on the silver that backs the dome,
I feel myself small, a flower between pages
torn from the volume, untethered soft
silken threads to bind me no more,
I elevate up to find it’s not different
than falling down, I let myself go, ascend so
it’s me, I pass by windows, waving to the crowd below
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 