The rosemary toast so crisp and
the fig jam so delicious, the sound of
my own chewing inside my head –
I didn’t even hear you come in!
Chagall 2019
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I startled myself today
peeking through a glass
reflected in a window
Chagall 2019
I remember (once) stringing my Strat with nylon
Then I turned the twin reverb on:
no magnetics, no sound
but great action
My friend Pete played so loud
we bought him a number 11 jersey
Vovo would pan for seeds down
inclined album covers
Sara would flick ashes onto her jeans
and rub it in to add wear
And Bob Smith (true name)
stole my Sunn concert lead amp-head and
my Zimgar conga shells
that I bought from Benitez
in the early ’70s; old-Robby
one morning vacated the house we
used for practice
S**thead couldn’t even keep a beat
Chagall 2019
She’s the real deal,
she has heart.
Chagall 2019
Odd how the shadows across the splay of the music
are out of sync with the movement of my own hands
Whose hands are interceding with the fall of the light!
There’s a clock in the room beside me beats incessant time
like a wave runner would
I’ve gone under, I keep going under, I don’t like going under
I’m so tempted to rhyme with asunder,
so I look it up quickly to be certain I know what it means
So as not to be caught off guard
I wouldn’t want to be caught off guard
I don’t like to be caught off guard
Chagall 2019
We were the last,
sad you don’t remember,
the high cliffs overlooking
an ocean, I can’t recall
its color, but the salt mist
remains upon my tongue, as if
the name of a newborn, like
sparks at the edge of vision
And now we are the first to set foot
here on the softest of downs
Chagall 2019
The little engine that could,
minuscule humans who might,
worlds cry that shouldn’t,
cosmos states thou shan’t,
God who simply is, then isn’t,
but was, at least for now
Chagall 2019
Open about you,
retain the last line for God
and never use “and”
Chagall 2019
…and don’t punctuate!
Meaningless treaties
In the end the blast kills all
Butterflies rejoice
Chagall 2019
I don’t care if you are left or right – both sides suck.
There are songs in the rain,
voices in the droplets,
lilts in pitter-patter
on rooftop weathervanes,
the soft ping on shingled
rooftops that keep us warm,
cozy despite the gray
sky above us tearing.
Puddles gather, earnest
to hold, they recollect
yesterdays’ reflections,
concentric circles bead
with every drop that falls,
awaiting the still face
at the end of the pour,
the break of sunlight through.
Chagall 2019
Alphabet City 