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 ∞
Tag Archive: Bohm
Each sense has a cache of
residual reality
– attention! –
not memory at-work at all,
just dimming glows, we filter
the actual,
we choreograph the quintet,
low-capacity volatility,
mosaic,
iconic,
saccadic.
© Chagall ∞
A game of inches, halftones someday maybe
just a fingertip away from grasp, the thinnest
side of a prism edge, a place where souls slip
but not slide, inter-inter for one inter does not
suffice to suggest the slight of gap, the sleight
of the blue that is nearly blue, monochrome
intervals are what we are, variations in theme,
grande motif, leitmotif, light years away from any
home.
© Chagall ∞
Infinitesimally minute circles of being
align, vortex along one malleable cortex.
I am distributed, I am a planetary system,
I hum prismatic with colors of sound primordial.
© Chagall 2017
Through the south-facing window I see the eagle fly
till the edge of the pane, so I run to the east
to espy her in contiguous flight but she is nowhere to be seen.
I return to find that the window is gone as well.
© Chagall 2017
You told me
the objects about us had
names that marred luminosity
so beware the symbol, embrace the actual.
© Chagall 2016
Still here.
I and the air are
still here.
Faint hum,
a seashore … a dynamo
maybe.
Tickles:
inside my head.
A hushed voice speaks
of a hushed voice
who speaks.
I command them both
to shush.
© Chagall 2016
As I go
so goeth
a quick step
alongside
yet again
watch me teeter
I catch stride
ambulate cleanly
now and then
sometimes for a pretty long time
oops!
banana peel
yep – my head popped
cement apparently
jarred me looser
I float beside me
in rarefied ether
levitate clearly
now and then
© Chagall 2016
The sounds of night
linger and stray
into morning
This is not
real light
I’m aware
Too faded
perhaps
too bright
Too soon
the day
breaks
The day
brakes
Time slows
I enumerate
each passing
thing
One by
one
I am lost
in implicate order
Purely
of my own design
© Chagall 2016
I’ve quieted
my inner voice
by holding its head
underwater
an imaginary pond
there in the darkness
immersed until the bubbles
stop
till bright sun fills
the void to dry
up all the water
evaporates
leaves
no trace
behind
no evidence of voice simply
silence
only
now
Chagall 2016
Alphabet City 