I imagined once I would be here, as surely as I remember that day now, there upon a time yet living cc: Chagall 2021
Tag Archive: mind
What is there
after you’ve flown?
Where are you
once you touched down?
Careful there on the ledge,
perhaps you’ll not fly again.
How sad to have flown
for the last time.
When up is down
to fall is to fly.
How joyous to have
flown at all.
I’d have thought
clouds to be harder.
I invert when I fly
for I am the sky.
So inwardly
I fall.
Alight on soft pockets
of air.
Dust
on air.
I pray while
I fall.
The whole planet
is falling.
We spin and we turn and
we tilt and we yaw.
The earth rushes to us
once befallen.
© Chagall ∞
How subtle are these symbols, to clinch or to clench,
both embrace, one the certainty of winning, the other
holds tight to imminent loss, to quench, bring cooling
liquid, healing balm, through tight canals to affliction,
immersion in ice, or steam, infinite horizons of water,
too quiet, to hush someone lovingly with finger upon lips
shushing air.
© Chagall ∞
I search for the source, a vantage point
over which I hover to resonate, in order
to speak with alacrity, honored to be
the medium, the clarion voice,
le trompettiste; I flow and so
I’m a flower, a steady stream
of warm words awash in your ear,
the storm before the quell,
not merely a silent hour,
an end to separation,
a prelude to the loss
of the throb.
© Chagall ∞
Tendrils girdle, torso, bracchia,
anxiety manifests, parted seas close,
I prefer to be cleaved to channel pervasive winds,
a feeling named, neurosis in situ, otherwise benign,
despair unnamed is more easily thwarted, a mystery
even to itself
© Chagall ∞
I am intrigued by her etcetera,
the ellipsis she dangles without
modifier, the comma of her petulant
being, the subtle contour of her fonts,
the page she splays open while she sings
hymns to the bare branch, the storm
she incites with mere thought. She needs
no blessing nor permission to spin
maniacally as she pleases, a dervish,
a twirl.
© Chagall ∞
Today while reading Figure and Ground, I highlight
passages that I do not want to remember.
© Chagall 2017
The procession begins,
mere letters shape form
from void, become benign
shapes we call words,
to beget concept.
Me?
I’m happy
right here.
© Chagall 2016
The soft line about me
contours my figure to ground
of which I am less certain
its makeup
Push, pull,
yaw me in space
Long-drawn
cushion of touch
A central agitation
between the eyes that is more
pressure on the optic nerve than
any real sense of being
Breath’s a valve,
there are few ways in
Contract, expel
me into ground
Is
a way out
© Chagall 2016
They’ve changed
the laws ’round
here so you can
smoke pot as long as you can
prove you couldn’t have been
better off doing something
else elsewhere
Chagall 2016
Alphabet City does not condemn nor condone the consumption of words.
Alphabet City 