She did not know John Barleycorn Must Die, nor the effects of tire tracks across one's back (I can see you had your fun!) ...and so my signals turned from green to red cc: Chagall 2021
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If I was to paint the scene before me, I would choose a palette of water in various states of decay, to capture the aqueous blur of figure and ground I would need to impart to you the sense of immersion but not of drowning air amniotic shouldn't my hands be in every painting? I lose sense sometimes that the rectangle before me continues beyond the frame they say that the world behind you does not exist something to do with the collapse of things quantum once my back was her front behind a spooning couple the world and its reality are twice rebuked I used my palette to paint her world, now somewhere she's lost in mine cc: Chagall 2021
I am at the pool early, to get a spot with table and umbrella, like we used to but the tables are all gone where we'd play cribbage for hours over coladas and Marys (both bloody and virgin) our laughter about His Nobs the clown face through which you emerged the water slide, gliding feet-first, hands tucked to navel, is now painted over the sunlight, though, is precisely the same in an old paperback I packed, I find a folded bar-menu from that day cc: Chagall 2021
I stare into the bowl of my sourdough culture and recognize the thriving community it is I imagine a microscopic Paramount Theater there in the mix and a sourdough entity (Sinatra-like) singing his little heart out to an audience of swooning Lactobacillus who feed on floating rye flour cc: Chagall 2021
I wish we'd had more time, son - another chorus, another round, a chance to make music again Time moves too quickly to the coda Let's play it from the top, one last time with feeling - con gusto - while you solo, quietly I will sidle away cc: Chagall 2021
I cannot tell a lie (baby) but when I chop the cherry tree down there ain't no sound I travel faster than the speed of light (baby) I'll be back before I'm gone cc: Chagall 2021
the flow of the underground river runs contrary to the uphill rise at the surface the land belies hidden contours that give life a calmer estuary pastures a small flock, drink comes from below, a bubbling gurgle we thrive in coves, in inlets where sun and wind and salt and air are captured perfectly old and faded is old and faded in sunlight pretending to be new again the heart rides many waves, water, air, time, the path of our gaze into another's eyes each jolt of recognition found there proclaims affirmatively I am - though these sometimes are lost jostled about in the fray, you and me I have a dear neighbor I call to when I need to hear her perfect tone we scutter about over seashells on the seashore doing sambas in the surf sometimes in sunlight, often in starlight, oh, how we sway and sashay we belie the stillness cc: Chagall 2021
The more you grow, the less you leave behind cc: Chagall 2021
on days when my mom gave me a dollar bill - for spending, and a tissue - for blowing into (just in case), she'd also advise not to put them both into the same pocket I once heard my grandfather posit that a friendly rival of his should be buried standing up, a prayer - I guess - for eternal cramping of the calves? my grandmother made everything germinate on her windowsill, even apricot stones and pineapple tops my mom's younger brother, my Uncle, learned to run between raindrops while aboard ship in the Navy he could light a Zippo in full headwind he was on the water looking into Iwo Jima while my Dad was face-down in its black volcanic sand spearhead battalions Marines atop aquatic vehicles if not for 2 older sisters and a miscarried boy, who would have been my older brother, but not the oldest, I would not be here meaning there was incentive for my parents to give it one more try - have a boy keep at it my father's father came to my mother in a dream, he died a month before she gave birth to me, and said You will have the boy, and Millie will have the girl as if some prophecy were coming to bear on the world once my Dad threw a rubber ball into the sky, so high and it hung there for moments, the most beautiful pink against blue cc: Chagall 2021
So motivated was I to see my granddaughter and her offspring grow old, that I resolved to live for two hundred years, setting my mind, my heart, and my spirit goals, on a specific - albeit distant - day in the future. A daily, if not hourly, reaffirmation of this - live, live a long time - advises the cells of the proper pace with which to advance, slow down, we've got a ways yet to go You must set the proper expectation for yourself, for example: Once upon a time, I aspired to live to be 100 years old. I was born in 1957, and so I targeted 2057 as my horizon. Then one day, after considering my granddaughter and wanting to see her as an 80-year old, and her children, I realized that living to 100 would be inadequate to accomplish that. I picked 2100 as my new horizon. Everyday, every hour, I acknowledge 2100 as the target Psychologically it readies me and makes cohesive all of my subconscious and unconscious systems the we that is me are all pulling in line to make 2100 happen A 60-year old with a life expectation of 100 is 60% of the way there, while a 60-year old intending to party at 143, is only 42% along. So we consider our self less than halfway there Our telomeres will oblige us, I am certain you'll see cc: Chagall 2021
Alphabet City 