Exhaustion is a rollup shade,
comes down over inner light
to cast shadows that run too
deep, bluer than cold black.
Oddly, since I can see that
I am invigorated, renewed. I
am outside of the physical
debris; I am beyond the miasma.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: inspiration
She asked if I would please come down from the parade,
home from the water where hope flows slower than time,
back to where it all began to all begin, to be all in
one final moment momentarily lapsed. And each passing
day is a cedilla underscoring existence like LaFaro’s
thick bass one summer under Evans at the Vanguard.
Apart from all living things, everyone is fine,
at least that’s what they tell me. I get lost in my
search and then look for a way to return to the search
above me; sky is potentially below so to fall is to fly.
© Chagall ∞
Everyday I write
a novel backwards.
© Chagall ∞
I distinguish clearly
my addictions from my compulsions.
© Chagall ∞
In the space there between slipped fingertips
whorls of sound explode into bursts of light
© Chagall ∞
Miracles are merely potential
miracles until they occur.
We’ve ennui lately with need
to live more divinely,
find light where there’s none
beyond all suns.
Blessed are we
all. We
are.
© Chagall ∞
Neither left nor right appeals to
one who is constantly turning.
© Chagall ∞
The Paleolithics had neither plaid nor paisley
and as far as I know they didn’t plant parsley or
parsnips either – perhaps persimmons? Their art
amazingly exceeds their tools, stone goddesses more
majestic than the pebble axes that beget them
lovingly, beautifully incised designs to lift spirits,
to raise hopes, and to imbue faith in the goodness of creation.
We, the ancient people.
© Chagall ∞
I am precisely like a beacon she breathed
yet the time still faded quickly away, syrup
stopped in its pour, a cascade surreal atop
lithe and limber aplomb. Inside I am a rush
of water banking smoothly along high sides
of perilous plummeting flume, before I dive
so help me God … to ascend and emerge again,
the scent of lavender adrift on warm woven mist,
I am blinded by light calling me from the shore.
© Chagall ∞
I surf the voices in my head;
god let me land on one today
that I can live with, through
whom I can experience joy.
Instead, I fall through the
perforation that maps me topologic.
I am beneath the ice that I see cracked
everywhere, so … onward to the light!
I have left frozen lakes behind before.
The plush forest before me fills green with oxygen.
The errant calls, caws of life, pop from the canopy.
Arid sunlight, warm air, fills my face, my lungs, respectively.
We are moist and saline creatures with our own special scent of talc,
with eyes accustomed to deep focal points, we scan horizons.
Sadly, we discard all that we are so to be who we might,
astride upon waves with legs getting stronger everyday.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 