Yeah, about as liberal as my butt.
She doesn’t even compost!
Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: creation
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
Collapsing, ever-folding
within me to a point
that explodes, infinite
lights the wisdom surrounds
without me endless consonant
tone, the frequency
of life, a hush no longer
stillborn, dilating
full prism color deep space
skies black oil universe swimming
and I am grinning across the breadth
expanse from ear to shining seas
of the oldest stars that hover
so wise, beautiful when they cry
the carbon is much sweeter that way
and makes the eternal you, man.
© Chagall 2015
Isn’t this one brighter,
isn’t it worthy? The stars
will one day be perfect, given
the time, kindly mark my word.
© Chagall 2015
Working right now on the internet’s interplanetary expansion,
appearances point to IPv12 to provide all that we’ll need
to be heard above the din of inter-creative force, a border protocol
at the edge near the boundary right before event horizons suck you in,
all for the sake of smileys bounced between the stars.
Endless possibility filled the moment
(which happened to be morning) sun
baked me dry and timeless so I became
one with the sky so far
above the ground I hover, delight
in my self now not at all
sad to lose it.
© Chagall 2015
Not a parent nor a prince,
neither president or king,
ones lover not-self
but God.
© Chagall 2015
We only had words, no meaning,
long liturgical drones,
endless hours, sonorous
dirge-like ponders, attempts
to reveal the roiling core
of our humanity, of love as ground
for creation, essentially to invert,
to feel likewise on the inside,
overlooking already being
once removed from having once felt,
a mist on the face of the water.
© Chagall 2015
This then is essentially done,
I just need now to go and do it.
© Chagall 2015
My numbers are all messed up.
You’ve denied me twelve times,
monthly really and three times I’ve risen,
leavened, refreshed. I’ve but seven left.
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 