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
Tag Archive: language
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
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
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
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 ∞
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 ∞
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 ∞
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 ∞
It’s not that I’m bipolar, so much as
I have got a thin divide twixt extremes.
© Chagall ∞
