Alphabet City

I shout 
hey shithead 
don’t shit on my chair 
as I shoo the bird away

and move my chaise
to the shade

cc: CC ‘23

Marks on paper
not unlike scars
make us smile 

cc: CC ‘23

I've run out of cerulean
- cyan too - 
just when I'm here,
kicking off sandals

Yet,
I gavotte at the sea
and imagine I bleed
with the sand, the sky

A bird shadows my shoulder
from high, then walks beside me
pecking at smooth white stone
awash

In froth we quick-step 
atop spongy beach

I feed her maize 
from my easel,
ochre plantains,
sweetest blackest
banana

For me she sports her colorful back,
plumes and wingspans and I 
have since restocked
with all sorts of blue

cc: Chagall '23

This morning I recorded the sound of chainsaws, and the screams of dashed dreams of red-shoulder hawks

cc: CC ‘23

Over the years I’ve learned 
if watermelon is well textured,
refreshing, it need not be that sweet,
and biscotti dipped in cold milk
need longer to soften

cc: CC ‘23

Long ago she talked about talking
in present tenses

God, how I miss that,
how deep my yearn

no one nowadays is

so many adults,
so fucking mature

cc: CC ‘23

There is too much shadow in the open field, 
awry, amiss, no sign of the shadowed, 
when I turn my back, will it be gone

cc: CC '23

Is it brighter nearer or
darker farther, or 
are they one the same?

cc: CC ‘23

Earliest cuneiform, sacred symbols, feminine eyes, cradled star babies, translates roughly 
to peek-a-boo!

cc: CC ‘23

I would feed from her palm,
fronds and seeds mostly,
respite - a chaw of Godly green

for the soul, to partake,
to lap the cold run
water 

refreshing, the brighter suns,
the most forgotten days 
I’ve known, yet

neatly abandoned,
an old house
on a dune

faded blue
sanded, salty by 
water, it’s nature

its tears
reappear

cc: CC ‘23