The little blue light of the vacuum continued to pulse;
my referring to it as the umbrella at first had set us off on the wrong foot.
And she – basil – with the emphasis on the second syllable.
no frying z, just a clean s, like in seal. Who does that?
© Chagall ∞
I’m not sure
to trust in
my ear or my heart,
impatient
to convey, to commune, to go with
the rhythm already,
shunning sidestep,
when I breathe
the wax is eloquent,
each pause
brings new delight
in asides,
innuendo
more than any tryst
captured
a lover’s imagination,
a wink in due time,
and I am merely a waif
combed in elusive fashion.
© Chagall ∞
I was confused by her leaving, thought it instead
the roar of the ocean or the fall of the sky
She made the waves rise for she is the water
upon You I played splashingly wonderful, once when young
Earth ends, sky reigns, there on the thin line
where I’ve tiptoed appearing nimbly soon after sunset
She in my arms, her hair a cascade over low-flying clouds
some nimbus of sorts bringing aqua-aqua to the world
In calm repose we align constellate, symbolic of who we are
on the grander scale, she so poised to take a single step
Into deeper heavens I gaze awaiting the faintest sound of a thunderous clap
signifying everything coincident with her return, aromatic escorts
With her gone comes impenetrable ground where once she was figure,
her form as empty in its definition as once it was a blossom
I bounce, a balloon on a ceiling in celestial updraft, peering,
waiting, bobbing
© 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 ∞
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 ∞
Petite organisms traipse ever so tipsily
o’er the photosynthetic landscapes of leaves
on yonder trees and nearby yews, everyone’s doing
the tango, the tangle of photons, lip-locked organelles,
dancing to Miles’s Solar.
© Chagall ∞
We would meet up and lose our minds together.
You could say we had a cata-platonic relationship.
© Chagall ∞
I had merely pointed out that one could actually
wash the pot out while waiting for the oatmeal to cool.
© Chagall ∞
It’s a singular frame of view
for a universe of points of
view that are merely bags of
shells strewn on your beach
in front of your cabana while
you lounge there marveling at
the beautiful contours of each
of your feet, your’s and her’s.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 