And just like that
the priest begins to rise,
not out of his seat,
but off the ground – actually
levitates, hands filled
with communion hosts, he tosses
these like tiny frisbees, targeting
the mouth of each parishioner,
one by one, left then right, rotating
wildly like an ascending Elvis in purple robe,
I scamper to hide behind an ornate column
that bolsters the apse, awaiting the end of the blasphemy
Chagall 2019
I hope your life has turned out
as you wanted
Chagall 2019
I have memories
of being in echelon
which means that at one time
I must have flown
I can feel
where wings connected
between biceps and pectorals
the backward sweep of deltoids
to where flight would have taken hold
like a clamp
we hang low in the pocket in the rush of fresh air
hundreds of feet high in a V across calibrated
stagger as if random we bank in a frolic
as one gaining air on the others steep turns
tightly so much torque but our bodies are made
for bending flexing near breaking
Our hearts are different
not so resilient, they snap
because they’re unforgiving
Chagall 2016
jaded, timeless moments turned
dull, filled with ennui, perhaps
it is more about timelessness then
everything is akin to nil,
another pole of view, that’s all
there is nothing but
we do not exist, there is no other
but the one insistent assertion of to be
that we share
everything we are is akin to nil,
neuroses with names like Michael
God is us
Chagall 2019
I make frozen smoothies
using homemade heirloom yogurt,
I imagine the healthy bacteria
probiotically clinging to finely crushed ice,
vanilla and agave, frosty, chilled and sweet,
entering my body, defending themselves against
the hot sulfuric acid of the stomach,
surviving the long ride,
evolving as flora
Chagall 2019
A string of vowels around your neck –
mostly ohs, some ays –
calls me, says linger a while
with ease
spend time at the collarbone,
speak in tongues, erratic soft kisses,
come what may and sometimes why
how many angels can dance
in the round ’round your navel?
I wonder, I ponder,
I drift way down yonder
away with words where silence reigns
and paragraphs puddle-up
lick the lips of a buttercup
consonantly yours,
truly forever
with best regards
till my sentence ends
until I am free
once again
wild and windblown
thought in a breezeway,
a notion in an alley-updraft
ascending to rooftops
down the fire escape, ringlet
curls cascade your face and shoulders
where one-syllable words are writ in primary colors
a you planted firmly in the hollow of your neck
another in the heart, and one – the forehead
with a ruler I draw a straight line
and brush away the letters from your cheek
with a felt fine-tip marker
I scribble my opus there
only us two
mid-sentence
alone we two
mid-air
Chagall 2019
I ask her to come over to my side,
we’ll hug, I say, she does, the porch swing creaking
from her weight on my lap, our necks intertwined like swans
without saying a word
we watch the candles burn
in the close surround of night
Chagall 2019
Out on the porch,
I lace up the old green sneakers,
fit like a foot-glove, I’d wear them inside if I could
but they’re muddy, perfect for garden-traipsing
and short strolls
My gloves, similarly fit my hands like a glove, as they should,
for that’s what they’ve been made for
I trample and pull weeds, respectively, that’s what gardeners do,
I enable the rest to breathe, encourage, resuscitate
To the beat of staying alive I pump the world
to assure pulmonary palpitation not precluding anyone
I save one-fifth of all reaped
to seed the coming year
Chagall 2019
In all these years
I could have crafted an opus
or a child, or both, or at least lived
persistently in what is actual
Chagall 2019
Damselflies amass on the weathered log,
electric blue with lacy wing, shadowy lattice
thrown by stark sunlight upon grey wood in open field,
cool within the maze of lines, the structure
of flying things, the ultimate lift of small bodies
into pre-orbit sky, and I in the capsule await the countdown
as God calls out, “Attention all hands, stand by…”
Chagall 2019
Alphabet City 