a lot of people want to do big things, to make big things work, while they ignore doing the little things to make small lives wonderful cc: Chagall 2021
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an experienced smoker compensates for bad draw cc: Chagall 2021
The heaviest rain Shallow roots can reach deep now Tall oaks espy hope cc: Chagall 2021
it exists not in any way you imagine heretofore unbeknownst no hocus-pocus hokey-pokey turnaround plain as day's crystal night there! dead-center before you within you without pervasively everywhere you inescapable cc: Chagall 2021
I make a palindrome turn around, baby, jump right back and repeat itself (little blues fill here) I was tongue-tied once to the bed, tickled thoroughly through-and-through till I talked Till I bled On Fridays I put synonym in my coffee, sugar in my tease, homonymically speaking, I drink it down with ease (descending dominant 7th arpeggios into final major) oh yeah! rain, rain, go away... cc: Chagall
With my watering wand set to Mist, angled to morning sun, I shape miniature rainbows at will on the fly over the bluestone dianthus cc: Chagall 2021
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
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
Alphabet City 