The aroma of oil and salt,
a breeze cooler than the stagnant
air about me, fried potatoes
on ocean winds waving somewhere
on the planet, whitecaps hold foam
while moonbeams reign supreme
in the gravity, the order of things,
as all must be is surely.
© Chagall ∞
In this room of southerly light
are objects more precisely defined
than abstraction – concepts
topographically smoothened by
the erosion of ground around figure,
bulbous impressions upon my tactile cortex
is touch.
© Chagall ∞
Each sense has a cache of
residual reality
– attention! –
not memory at-work at all,
just dimming glows, we filter
the actual,
we choreograph the quintet,
low-capacity volatility,
mosaic,
iconic,
saccadic.
© Chagall ∞
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
So subtle this thing called language
rears its head above tangled perception
discernible froth we skim cerebral
I prefer raw more sensuous groping
meaningful wordless visceral stew
the lasting poems of impulse
Chagall 2015
There are high tones
in all things about her
Smell, sound, taste,
touch, sight
Her presence brings quick arousal,
awareness that life starts here
As her dimensions deepen
I find myself more
mystifyingly immersed
Oddly – sadly –
perhaps it is time
to part
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 