Tag Archive: language


Double Negative Blues

I got no salt on my egg
no sugar in my coffee
or butter on my bread
but I don't give a damn
...'cause I a'int a'int got you

cc: Chagall 2021

In A Word

There's nowhere to run but forward
when your very own buttocks
are chasing after you

I look up; the view of my forehead escapes me,
I have trouble tasting my own tongue

I have gazed into eyes,
though I've never heard a word 
from the ear 

despite listening intently
(somewhere once  I heard that 
gerunds are bad)

maybe all words 
are bad

the imperfection of the green bottle
is more precise than the words that attempt 
to describe it

the contents of the bottle shake,
underground tremors

but not enough to make waves,
albeit how tiny

I can throw thoughts like darts,
from my bullseye out to any
errant arc

aren't we the pair?

I stroke the umbilical cord,
coaxing it gently to relax,
to collapse into a coil,
to reel you in

to feel you
in total darkness
attempting
to discern shapes
any form
will do
to exit the nil
nipping at wet organisms
that threaten - nay promise - 
to engulf

we ride the tide home
in free-fall akimbo

asleep back-to-back,
we have nowhere to go
but forward

cc: Chagall 2021





See Spot Run

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

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
here

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
lullaby

© Chagall ∞

Preamble

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
tougher.

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
lavender

© chagall ∞

Or

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 ∞

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