Instead of coffee, I made her sweet froth cc: Chagall 2021
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I remain truly yours to the cause of the heart to the matter at hand here and now split as a fine-hair V a moment prior to then one foot still ago in the eye-shift lost in the indigo on the gaze from here to there cc: Chagall 2021
There's nowhere to run but forward when your very own buttocks are chasing after you I look up; the view of my forehead escapes me, I have trouble tasting my own tongue I have gazed into eyes, though I've never heard a word from the ear despite listening intently (somewhere once I heard that gerunds are bad) maybe all words are bad the imperfection of the green bottle is more precise than the words that attempt to describe it the contents of the bottle shake, underground tremors but not enough to make waves, albeit how tiny I can throw thoughts like darts, from my bullseye out to any errant arc aren't we the pair? I stroke the umbilical cord, coaxing it gently to relax, to collapse into a coil, to reel you in to feel you in total darkness attempting to discern shapes any form will do to exit the nil nipping at wet organisms that threaten - nay promise - to engulf we ride the tide home in free-fall akimbo asleep back-to-back, we have nowhere to go but forward cc: Chagall 2021
there it is, that distinct aroma a wind of the past a breeze of the gone a flash of laughter once, now lost somewhere in the deluge, somewhere in the design supine on the detritus a back-float on time ethereal buoyant, I fall from a rooftop farewell, receding sky welcome home whispers the blue cc: Chagall 2021
Did Mozart ever play anything Gershwinesque, even inadvertently? Did the bustle of Vienna inspire blue rhapsodies? His fantasias maybe touched the future he tinkering with the altered chords, lost in unfamiliar cadence and harmonic progression led to wonder as he wandered the keyboard exploratorily foretelling big machines in cities moving, the cosmopolitan sway of its denizens the light of eyes, the sadness in hearts Salieri's specter cc: Chagall 2021
Once I woke to a dream after having not gone to bed One day I will lie down to sleep and leave the dream Until stirred to awaken again In the fog of new light I recall fragments of the earlier dream These will fade once words come cc: Chagall 2021
largo the obbligato rolls across my ear like slow thunder tympani atop the waves crest and pop into droplets at the apex trapped underwater trapped underground: subterranean rivers flow across my face with slithery tendrils, kelp and salty agar the melody sings my inability to breathe without gills this time around once on shore, I am not certain whether to fly, to run, or to flop about in a death throe I deem the sun most welcome after the rain cc: Chagall 2021
the snow falls slower than my heart beats, I descend in irregular swirls, buoyant, at first light aloft I am yet to be alit still in search of ground without regard for the frigid air, for no matter the temperature I fail to accumulate instead I melt on eyelashes run down cheeks without regard for the whisperer, her lips and her eyes only partially close and so she lisps as she edges away to exit silently whistling she circles mid-air like stars or like snow as if wind were gravity cc: Chagall 2021
when too many strangers gather... I pattern myself as a snowstorm muffled calm cold crunchy under-footing tender iced fingertips a burst of warmth soon to come, soon to rise a tepid updraft on which to ride beneath where the bow breaks is an ocean of cradles she sings rock-a-bye lullaby softly at night in powdered fields faraway moonlit hills small gray-purple bumps he and she that shan't want shall still wait there need not be lights for there to be neon cc: Chagall 2021
what if you are the snow? so many constellations, one sky numerous simultaneities the sum of the heart cc: Chagall 2021
Alphabet City 