Certain songs I cannot sing, conceived to cry, melodic intervals, melancholic chasms, lyrics left unsung like spoken word, life's celebration cut short, the foolishness of what we feel, fragile undying compulsion to love perchance to exist, finally Just when the fun is starting, comes the time for parting... cc: Chagall 2022
Tag Archive: Music
Did Mozart ever play anything Gershwinesque, even inadvertently? Did the bustle of Vienna inspire blue rhapsodies? His fantasias maybe touched the future he tinkering with the altered chords, lost in unfamiliar cadence and harmonic progression led to wonder as he wandered the keyboard exploratorily foretelling big machines in cities moving, the cosmopolitan sway of its denizens the light of eyes, the sadness in hearts Salieri's specter cc: Chagall 2021
Making music is the most fun one can have
with clothes on.
Without clothes?
Why, making pasta carbonara, of course!
Chagall 2019
I started to write a poem then shifted
to write a song
Chagall 2017
My best friend borrowed a guitar, I told her to return it
with a full tank of gas. She just shrugged and said Huh?
© Chagall ∞
She is comprised solely
of essential oils, lovely
silken flow, pistons in valve
lubricant, stamens on pistil,
pollen swollen anthers, she wills
the will of the wisp to do
her bidding, she calls sweetly
through the nightbird, coopts
its thin coiled chord to vocalize,
to trill appoggiatura.
I relax limb and tenon about her,
promenade on wrists and knees:
gymnopédie as it was meant to be,
arched, pointed, and flexed.
© Chagall ∞
Dion singing about runaway girls,
makes me want to pull my heart
tighter around the years, they pass.
Kisses fade into scents of lilac
where lavender used to be, where
there will never be roses.
I couldn’t bear apologies from
so tender a spirit, especially
for naught, such was her challenge.
I etch the horizon precisely where neon should be,
pretending there are bridges and stars hanging
in thin city air.
I’ve imagined myself as a silhouette on rooftops
blending with balustrades and fire escapes, in shadow
descending quietly.
To find her alone on Belmont Avenue, under streetlight,
in gentle snowfall, in warm rain, wherever her life
turned inclement.
And time is like an arrow struck from the quiver
of a rosined bow, approaching its acme.
…ask any fool that she ever knew …
© Chagall ∞
She asked if I would please come down from the parade,
home from the water where hope flows slower than time,
back to where it all began to all begin, to be all in
one final moment momentarily lapsed. And each passing
day is a cedilla underscoring existence like LaFaro’s
thick bass one summer under Evans at the Vanguard.
Apart from all living things, everyone is fine,
at least that’s what they tell me. I get lost in my
search and then look for a way to return to the search
above me; sky is potentially below so to fall is to fly.
© Chagall ∞
In the space there between slipped fingertips
whorls of sound explode into bursts of light
© Chagall ∞
The light is soft here as if all the world is heather
askance, atilt and askew. I stare at a door ajar
that invites me to slip in now and then, and I do.
I float on a tone, bulbous sound beats against time
measured in gulps, a three-quarter waltz paced regularly
when I least expect it to. I wish you eternal lavender.
Life offers life on the gentlest of palms below the wrists’
hollows so slender and kissable. Cheeks intended for cupping
dimple and provoke the protrusion of lips for tugging, to daub,
pull and pout. The colors around me begin to lose their soft-edge,
sadly. I hear the click of the door lock, not certain which side I am on.
On the down beat I gracefully swoop with torque and suspension,
sinew and skin and blood, at work in miraculous union.
© Chagall 2017
Alphabet City 