Alphabet City

I tell my budtender, a large man,
I don’t want a strain that piques the appetite,
I don’t need to be making pizza at 3 A.M. He nods;
he knows what I mean.

Chagall 2019

runoff from the high ground breaks through
from under the ice-crusted snow, flows
such a deep blue that its black,
like the line of a broad felt marker

Salt left behind by a tear
cooled in the wind,
dried on your cheek

you ask me if I will stay mad all day,
I ponder if I am simply supposed
to support all you purport to be
despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary

in response I ask
how can I be sure

I turn to watch the bolt of
life from the underbrush
startled by your footfall

you oversimplify the world, I say,
there’s a lot of gray between here and now

while you overcomplicate it, she says,
…I’m right here

you ask me if I intend to remain mad all day,
I ponder if I am simply supposed
to ignore, forgive, forget,
despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary

I turn to watch the bolt of
life from the underbrush
startled by our footsteps

you overestimate your claim the world, I say,
there’s a lot of gray between now and then

while you overcomplicate it, she says,
can’t you see, I’m right here

Chagall 2019

Check out my books! Yeah – you and Robert Frost.

Chagall 2019

My mother and granddaughter,
the oldest and newest people I know,
together in one photo, reflecting light
back to the lens, a most beautiful array
of photons on glass, ink on paper

Don’t fade away

Chagall 2019

In time, all tumbles down,
breaking crowns, thumbs in pies,
lasses on tuffets, lads in blue,
kitchen utensils running away,
the love – the fear – the awe,
the moon, tiny lambs unsheared,
goodnight, sleep well, sleep tight,
the first last stars we see,
godspeed, good light, till morrow.

Chagall 2019

Even in the deepest indigo of night,
I can see the platinum of her outline
in moonlight, chiseled silver braille,
a powdery ghost from long ago, laughing
breathless, running ahead, she yells
over her shoulder “be careful,” not to fall.

Chagall 2019

All you auto-pedagogues out there – yeah, You – take note:
today I twisted off the handle thinking it was the cap

Chagall, 2019

There is one more thing I can tell you tonight,
considering the stars, I wonder what they wish upon

Chagall 2019

If you want to understand how an American
standard composer wanted their song to be sung,
listen to Ella Fitzgerald’s first take
on any verse and chorus – absolutely true to the score –
after that, look out!

Chagall 2019

Barefoot in the kitchen, cleaning out my junk drawer,
when the sharp scissors fall straight down, through
my foot to the floor, pinning me – saving me from
the caving ceiling right over the spot
where I was to be

Chagall 2019