Tag Archive: language

See Spot Run

lack of words does not imply nothingness
as no one would be able to infer the symbols

no intonation of internal sounds
would ever arise, no cloudy shapes 
to morph and billow like sails in gray fog

froth dissolves
leaves fine residue

oh what paths we weave

Chagall 2020

Sez Oo?

OK, drop your hands if you don’t love Flintstones!
Ah, Jacques non a dit pas. Bye-bye. À la prochaine.

Chagall 2017

on writing on

sometimes I re-read things i once wrote and at first
thought they are grammatically wrong until i realize what it was i meant

Chagall 2017

To A Page

blank page – i don’t know
whether to load it or stroke it

or smoke it
down to the wick
(be flip
for an idea)
must be cartesian
product they’re
selling ’round

cheaply, on chagall’s time
not mine, I speak through
him, it’s rare to meet such
a medium…Well done! When
the steaks are – scratch that –
the stakes are high, way above
our heads – scratch that –
my head, an aftermath befitting,
a prequel to an epilogue, a rattle
of prose chugs along, not waylaid and
cannonballed. Sometimes you just got to
get up hill a bit and start to tilt down crest
allow yourself to roll to the finish, pick up steam
as the contour of the line permits, it’s a coaster
works on gravity, life’s a carnival.

blank page – i don’t know
whether to eat it or eye it
so i sing it

© Chagall ∞


One more morning
I’ll write. Gray,
sure. Air with the
same scent and feel
as that day, you bet.

The need – the ache –
to hold onto anything
that doesn’t slip away.

Perhaps the living is
easy and the writing

Sound attests
to the existence of time
as sure as motion does
yet so much timelessness
in the rustle, the whisper
of leaves on canopy branches
high among the zephyrs. I
grow dizzy to imagine myself
there at the top looking down.

Maybe I’ll feel more today and
write less about it, pull in
the shutters, the sash.
Still, here on the inside
I fashion small chips
of graphite into pencil
an essential element
to build strong bones.

With enough sun and love
a stand of kindred spirits
can endure forever.

© Chagall ∞

bye, passing thru

black-cherry-black: outlines objects
for those with night vision

I am cozy in its dark warmth

powder-blue-moonlight: stark relief
cooler gray shadows

night in the arbor lost-in-pink:
awake at first light
these are the deepest hues

breathe in
the petrichor
salty brine

© chagall ∞


I did not think I would write today,
living life had more allure until
I reached too far, I felt too
deeply, I fell ever so gently
from such a short height,
that’s all it took
to be here.

© Chagall ∞

A Matter of Definition

It’s not that I’m bipolar, so much as
I have got a thin divide twixt extremes.

© Chagall ∞

Lost in Transformation

Autocorrect changed kiss off to kiss all without my knowing;
it’s probably just as well, all things as they must be.

© Chagall ∞

Hitting It Off

The little blue light of the vacuum continued to pulse;
my referring to it as the umbrella at first had set us off on the wrong foot.
And she – basil – with the emphasis on the second syllable.
no frying z, just a clean s, like in seal.  Who does that?

© Chagall ∞

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