Tag Archive: mind


Befell

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 ∞

Neat Little Bows

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 ∞

2 to 1 to 0 to 1 to 2

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 ∞

Mind Under Matter

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 ∞

She, the Zephyr

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 ∞

Stark Relief

Today while reading Figure and Ground, I highlight
passages that I do not want to remember.

© Chagall 2017

Quick Convey

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

Premeditated Meditation

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

Just Saying

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.

Talkin’ About You Again

A word, a blank page no more;
this is where couplets end.

From hereon in
strange waters.

The next view must speak louder
than nothing – if not, why bother?

Pictures are an option
just not here.

Help me to pluck ideas
from all these implicit ellipses.

Chagall 2016

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