The counter-top is cold against my arms as I prop on them and
lean way across the span of the kitchen’s island to kiss her,
toast crumbs and all.
Chagall 2019
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With recipes, songs, and poems in my head,
I wonder, you know, how I think at all
Chagall 2019
I had such grand enthusiasm, until the pop;
a bubble untethered, remnants of rainbow alit on the ground,
the smell of glycerine in salted air, hope in freefall,
nearly imperceptible droplets – moist matter – for a moment
tickle cheeks, then dry to chalky dust, as tear-dew does
This voice inside me impersonates intercession on my behalf;
kindle that stokes ambition is best not left to chance, so
I splash my face with palmfuls of water, and begin the search
for tiny twigs
Chagall 2019
The stuff you write seems
somehow secretly
subversive
Hidden Me$$ajiz
and that kind of
rot
To beat, or not to beat
out the rhythm
is the answer
Ponder that while
ya’ pound and gather
ye rosebuds
Aglow under glorious lamp
heaven heaves
Where teardrops
tarry, starry-eyed
sisters sigh
Blest, yesterday’s satyrs
rest no more for they’re wary
Wrestled under wristlets,
I relinquish my hold
Tested,
crested,
bested
Westwardly northern gazes,
an other-worldly haze
wafts
Prolongs the permeation
to ascertain the permutations
possible
Sing with me!
…we are just
too mahvelous
for words
Chagall 2019
There is something aglow in my hand but
every time I look at it, it is gone.
Chagall 2019
When bubbles break the boundary
bring the boil back a bit…baby.
Chagall 2019
She got angry because I said I wouldn’t be impressed one way or the other.
Perhaps I should have said non-plussed.
Chagall 2019
Too beautiful to use in any practical sense,
I tuck the melodies away near the fold-away stairs,
by the porcelain espresso set, and mark them
likewise as fragile.
Chagall 2019
I’ve waited too long to reach out,
to call, now it’s much more difficult,
soon it will be impossible.
Till the next time we see us.
Chagall 2017
I’d not thought of carousels in a while,
till I started going ’round in circles,
bobbing always down, no hope for the ring
right there at the tip of my outstretched hand
I gave my steed permission to let go,
enjoy the thrall of sweet grass underfoot,
the cool pure water from the brook to trough,
unbridled runs in dappled afternoons
Now at the gate I take one final look,
stretch out on the hay at the end of day
to dream of speed, fruit, loving caresses,
a soft brush trailed down and through tangled mane
The deep gaze into the eyes of twilight,
a large heart heaving after the gallop
slows in time to a steady rhythmic pace
until it ceases, when riders dismount
Across the glen the calliope sings,
lilts to say it had not been a sad song
Chagall 2019
Alphabet City 