I’m not coming out, but I will invite you in;
today we’re serving sliced-twice fried rainbow.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: life
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 ∞
Certainty on any topic is
a prototype for a pathway to truth.
© Chagall ∞
I dropped my son and his girl off
at JFK Airport last night for their
after-midnight flight to London. They
were so excited. I am so deeply saddened
that the world is as it is and I regret
that we are not all loving people.
© Chagall ∞
Autumn of 1969, my uncle lived a stone’s throw
from Shea Stadium, Queens, New York. Planes we’d
see, hear and could almost touch overhead from his
backyard were the same ones flying there in
black and white on Channel 9. Everyone mostly from
back then is gone now. But the call of the final out
still ricochets through space and time as a wave
of sound and image, bounced off Telestar, Cleon Jones
forever under the shot to left before the large white
letters 371.
© 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 ∞
There on the snow, the shadows of ancient flyers
perched atop rooflines, barring the sun.
© Chagall ∞
Do not aspire to sustain your compulsion.
© 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 