The rabbit told me they loved the snow,
the warm underground, dark and quiet
save the sound of restful breathing.
Chagall 2019
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We don’t need a new list – I shouted –
what we do need is a list of locations of previous lists!
Chagall 2019
it’s amazing how few people
draw flowers correctly – see
the fractal emerge from the page,
sentient and postured
a few delicate strokes as needed
to render the chlorophyl,
pistil and stamen
I watch carefully how form inverts
along the optic nerve to become
a weight of the heart, life between two pages
a boutonniere where the mind was,
mandala for a dollar, a dozen for ten
the rose and the baby’s breath,
sky-blue mums amid perfectly serrated evergreen leaves
dabbing crisp stems in cold water
sunlight on pink petals surpassed
only by sunlight on wood
I am defined by the curlicue,
the cowlick of life atop freckled smiles,
where water and earth combine to push
all of the lush seed wide open
to emerge and say hello to
this day of days
Chagall 2019
…it resembled the inscription
of the Egyptian cryptologist,
a cartographer’s worst nightmare –
spilled ink, worn more for wear than comfort,
the rhyme revered even then but not for long,
despite inclinations to the contrary and out of the ordinary
the rumpled cloth did look like a rat, I’ll grant you that,
but not enough to draw a throwing knife – and in such a confined space –
my God, who knows now which lines were intended to be what!
In the melee of the poem, one must always watch for
a snatch at the ballocks
Chagall 2019
gimletized: having had too much vodka and lime juice;
from the latin, meaning small goblets
Chagall 2019
This morning I stutter-stepped
to avoid tripping over the beams of sunlight
splayed across the wood plank floor
Chagall 2019
The curio smells of sweet wax, scented candles,
it’s always smelled that way, lemon and vanilla
tea lights acquired God-knows-when, a cloying
allure filled with memory under a patch of cinnamon,
forbidden matchbooks from forgotten places,
no flint ever struck, each hope of a tiny flame
still intact, fresh and dry, all ready to kindle
You in the uptake of breath, the vibration
of you is a dimension I imbibe, I pulsate
in your static, the sweet ozone of ether
about you
In the corners of cool dark places behind beveled glass,
fire asks for the hand of the wick
Amazing how the limbs contort to sound the heart,
enlist wood and metal, engage golden ratios
Fingertips strike tones, velvet bishops
– adjacent squares – eye one another diagonally
Intervals distort when you push them,
so don’t push them, let them be
I love the assist
of the barre when bending
Point and flex,
a bushel and a peck
I once had a toy, a mechanical contraption really,
the size of a small music box, a crane that bent stiff-legged
to gobble up quarters fed off a tee
It was old even before
I’d acquired it
Chagall 2019
One should always trim their wick
after a long burn.
Chagall 2019
How anxious I am to venture outside
where the sunshine and tips of branches meet,
a junction I marvel at every eve,
so perfectly made for one another
Timeless shadow upon a serrate edge,
one more night of cooled green summer Moondance,
a gavotte in darkness, low to the ground,
spring at hand – the long muscled run of calves
I love how the air turns colder at dark,
travels the body braced to pique more life,
a cold draught carves all my inside hollow,
blue starlight hidden in tall wept willows
Soaring above the tree-line, looking down,
the ground rushes up to meet me, swoops by,
I lean and I yaw, I out-maneuver,
veiled in smoke of my making, I vanish
Nose-up I have sometimes stalled and backslid,
reversed, a tail crash-landing position
I invert at the very last minute
saving the crowd and me from injury
Chagall 2019
When Jobs gave us a sneak-peek of
the Teach the Children ad, we all cried.
Chagall 2019
Alphabet City 