Tendrils girdle, torso, bracchia,
anxiety manifests, parted seas close,
I prefer to be cleaved to channel pervasive winds,
a feeling named, neurosis in situ, otherwise benign,
despair unnamed is more easily thwarted, a mystery
even to itself
© Chagall ∞
In this room of southerly light
are objects more precisely defined
than abstraction – concepts
topographically smoothened by
the erosion of ground around figure,
bulbous impressions upon my tactile cortex
is touch.
© Chagall ∞
The light is soft here as if all the world is heather
askance, atilt and askew. I stare at a door ajar
that invites me to slip in now and then, and I do.
I float on a tone, bulbous sound beats against time
measured in gulps, a three-quarter waltz paced regularly
when I least expect it to. I wish you eternal lavender.
Life offers life on the gentlest of palms below the wrists’
hollows so slender and kissable. Cheeks intended for cupping
dimple and provoke the protrusion of lips for tugging, to daub,
pull and pout. The colors around me begin to lose their soft-edge,
sadly. I hear the click of the door lock, not certain which side I am on.
On the down beat I gracefully swoop with torque and suspension,
sinew and skin and blood, at work in miraculous union.
© Chagall 2017
Before time there wasn’t only
incessant heartbeat
Humans though water are merely steam
no less of all things
The moment before you knocked
the door swings open wide: you arrive
The ones already in search continue
long before you’re here
And wordless reads best
though you can’t remember
I relish the sizzle
when we meet ice
How we burn
underneath the numb
Chagall 2016
Please don’t be offended
when I say you smell
like brine, sweet malolactic
rising probiotic, heady
bursting with life force
human doughy thing
that you are –
hey, where ya going . . .?
Chagall 2015
I cling to her voice
as it emanates from silicon
compressed audio that’s naught but a
phantasm of her life and blood
no warm scent of talc but when I press
against the nape of her neck
when I lose myself
in the long float
down
Chagall 2015
The cut from your cheekbone
to your chinline down your neck
lies the flat plain above your cleavage
where it separates in two perfectly
aerodynamic curves that cannot be comprehended
on graph paper or by formulae
Chagall 2015
The cut from your cheekbone
to the line of your chin down your neck
to the flat plain above your cleavage
where it separates into two perfectly
aerodynamic curvatures that cannot be comprehended
on graph paper or by formulae, could only have been
conceived and made real by One who truly knows
the meaning of lust.
Chagall 2015
I’ve a sense that I can heal,
perfectly settle in form, for all the flaws
are just misconceptions of me by me,
how I dwindle in size, halving the distance,
keeping one eye open and the other turned deaf ear.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 