where ripples fold thin flues arise
to hollow glass tubes to chime
she of first lines and I of the hook
made beautiful poems together
haunting caesurae
we prayed coaxing winds to carry
the continuum
my life
she would cede
at a 4-way stop where none proceed
she pirouettes?
Chagall 2017
if you and i were hummingbirds
you would never alight at the feeder
but instead would draw nectar pulsing midair wildly
frenetic and i would simply perch, sip, occasionally peek
over our shoulders
to the jet stream, my dear?
© Chagall ∞
I am the samba that remains unwritten
For the space between sand and sea
The dance upon rocks polished by time
Made smooth by deep-water indigo
Bluer than wet waves, sails settle thusly at dusk
On horizons beneath sunlight ceased to fall
To fail to bring light, a blow to grace
A jab to faith, a tinker’s blow to pierce
The armored scowl, the incalculable wonder of eyes
The ponderous pout, beget and be gone
Forgotten, nay a fadeaway dappled in corduroy
Supplicants or another vicarious agenda, indigenous
More than formulaic, naturalized to exist right there
As it must in a flow of energy besieging my optic nerve
I exist to impart everything, I defy thrombosis for I bore
Deeper than the vein of inflammation, the zone of wizened trespass
Thank you for the bodies receptors, for warm city nights
For carousels and the songs that they play, the march of grand horses
Somewhere glasses touch, each a soft mallet upon the other to rub gently
Searching for the warm tone, the sensual rub of globes
I am that samba that snaps you back to the beach
In cool day, in bright coveted morning
Amid constant pressure despite inclination toward shade
Over-anxious more than unctuous or ingratiating
A tip of the hat coincident with the wink is elementary sparkle
The samba that returns like the surf does
Though sometimes it stops
It’s true, so samba through
To the space between sand and sea
Samba, there is where I want to be
Samba, gesticulate, a cuba libre
Leaning out over the rail of the balcony overlooking sand and surf
A small fox at dusk darts furtively through the rough sandy brush
The backs of houses along the dunes along the beach along the ocean
Darkness settles on salted breezes aromatic with land crabs
Less fearful to exit their holes this time of day just before night
When the number of stars and wan atmosphere rival the majesty, the ocean’s roar
In pitch blackness, the world of the blind
The roar of sound dominates the ear
And so goes the body, I am the waves you hear
Of this there’s no denying
I am the song of the samba receding
© 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
The gaze paints a portrait of
you, lilac and oceanic.
Room-light a dying candle
– the last flame licked, wisps of smoke … the wick –
flutters then dies in evening wind.
The house is dark
save pinholes of stars
where once were windows.
I float here easy as I do
sand or water. Dancing
blue-white as moonlight on snow.
And everywhere, everybody, everything
seems to hum
om.
© Chagall 2016
One day long
ago I lived
with a senorita
who scored
clave-shaker
duets for money
From the window
I shouted
It appears as if
snow is starting
to fall!
She whispered dryly
Then let’s let it
Chagall 2016
You keep seeing me from the outside in
I think that’s good
she said
Up to a point I’m guessing
then it demands
deeper dives
A roil – yes there must be
one of those – a tussle
some physical fabrication
Two bodies meshed – or is it fused?
I think it’s just sliding
gliding really
Chagall 2016
To indulge the juvenile delinquent
in us, divulge if you would delight
in making out for a moment?
Nothing real crazy
just a peck or too
or three will do.
Nose-to-nose who knows
how far we goes, head to toes
maybe.
We
shirk
all
pressure.
Who knew so little soap
could emit so much lavender.
Chagall 2015
Hats off to whomever
tuned the blend
got my toes tapping
heart pumps
races up my leg
like a ruby lip
smooth ride
tension sprung
unbound gypsies
how we release
watch me twirl
my bandanna is now
caught fire
Chagall 2015
If words could dance down the steps like Astaire,
gingerly make their way on the balustrade,
slide the curlicue spiral to the bottom,
then these would be those, oh wouldn’t they be lover-ly?
© Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 