Tag Archive: Alphabet City

Morning Nocturne

Consider that
there is
no God

All birds sing
of their own

a sadder tune

There is
no echo
nor refrain

No joyous

A lonely lilt
on empty branch

© Chagall 2016

Pun Tears

I cry nowadays
At the drop of a hat
All about me
Berets and fedoras

©Chagall 2016

That You Be

On the roof
the city below
is quiet

the order of
the day

People still use clotheslines here
cursive swoops of nylon rope
wet haberdashery semaphore

Empty rivers on either side
the low-end of tugboat blasts
is lost here

Each one grabs
an arm
a leg

Spreads me like a kite
brings me to the edge
begins a count of three

A sail on the river begs a breeze
no longer grasps hold
kites below become smaller

. . . I be gone

It is certainly quieter here
save for the rush of wind

Chagall 2016

Downtown Uptown Friday Night!

Shirt out
a lot o’rolls
tucked in
different but better
rolls go away
now just a matter of

Chagall 2016

Baby, It’s The Dance . . .

It’s a remnant from having studied French
she said plus perfectly, the tip of her tongue
all over in the right place, she breathless
throaty with her R

I held her longer than most
in the wind with fingertips
on lashes snowflakes melted
atop her body’s heat, small eyelit flames

Of ember ablaze in night-rubbed velvet
against the grain barely purple, simply that time again
I push aside a single lock of an S
more breath than kiss swept away

I urge her to spin with a touch
to the hand apply pressure enough to propel
her to rotate about on the point of a world
that spirals her axes abound
her carousel horse gallops organ-spun
sun is alive diamond photons
still warm and so new, yet
to cast any shadow

Apropos to nothing that I know of
yet I sense that we light up
essentially this way, she allowed me
to show her

I loved her because
she wore espadrilles, not despite that
let’s be clear

Chagall 2015


All of the things
I seek to avoid
are wrapped up in
neat tidy bundles.

Chagall 2015

The breeze is welcome tonight,
blows gently from the southern tip
of the island.

The kitchen curtains
light and sheer, lift and fall,
lull and frail, alight and float
from this fire-escape.

A scouring sound, the street-cleaner’s truck
big brushes, soft cymbals, a slow waltz but jazz.

Someone sings the body fluorescent,
a silhouette there! hops between rooftops,
the lookout for errant low-flying dreams
flushes the pigeons from their coops
who turn to spirals of doves.

I am as young as this moment allows
but no less. I’ll have been here again.

And morning light blinds bright silver.

Chagall 2015

Somewhere Around The Umbilical


I knew you as sound, vibration,
a mix of visceral reactions I’d cherish,
each a name I’d disregard
to experience you first hand not twice
removed. To kiss is to dive
is to plunge with no net, is to soar
without ceiling: That’s us below!

August City


babushka ladies, coarse and woolen coats,
plastic covers adorn divans and settees
in quiet parlors, front rooms in railroad
ghetto apartments

people to the left of me,
to the right of me, above and below,
whispers through the closets I hear
encounters that threaten danger in muffles
intended for someone else not me thank God
this time.

And Rivera still flies his pigeons
against bluest skies, a Latino silhouette
with arms extended like a holy man gives flight
to his flock over tenements and heartbreak,
the hope of generations, dormant and receding.

© Chagall 2015



Her emojis gave me much pleasure,
brought soothing pressure to my thumbs.

© Chagall 2015

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