Comatose except perhaps in trances
I’m obliged to amble – a somnambulist I am
the wisp’s own will, a fleeting glimpse
As a flitter upon a cheek’s a lash
the softest breeze that wind can muster
flutters by
I’m lost in your shallow breathing
in a warm cocoon spun of chestnut tendril
sweet oily aromatique
It takes but a moment to finally cease
I wait just a beat, then you’ll know
Chagall 2015
She’d never known a tear
to defy gravity
They simply lift
invert then fall
little time
left now for wonder
Chagall 2015
Over time
God becomes
ever more vast
Chagall 2015
To indulge the juvenile delinquent
in us, divulge if you would delight
in making out for a moment?
Nothing real crazy
just a peck or too
or three will do.
Nose-to-nose who knows
how far we goes, head to toes
maybe.
We
shirk
all
pressure.
Who knew so little soap
could emit so much lavender.
Chagall 2015
I continue to search for soft wind
to blow the gentler spirals that were once
aloft above metropolis, pinwheels of fallen dreams
so many ticks on the tape ago, confetti
don’t rain on her parade though it pours on mine
and she and I have no umbrella, just tiny Chinese
parasols we grip between our teeth
to shelter our hearts from the storms approaching,
eddies, torrents, and twisters, so difficult
near impossible, to steal a kiss this way.
Chagall 2015
The leaves outside my window
couldn’t be more red, more red
than I have ever seen.
The sky above my head
couldn’t be more blue
yet less blue than I am now.
Chagall 2015
Thought was there
not now
Chagall 2015
From here on in
the lesson gets harder,
loss more bittersweet
than gain less fulfilling
but still high stakes
and so worth playing
I’m living, I’m doubling
down from here on in.
Chagall 2015
The Oracle reached across me
scented of myrrh and peppermint
her hair brushing my face
as she leaned in and whispered
hushed, seductive, wizened:
Carlos, my love, you must know
that across this earth, nay
the universe large, we are living
in the age of the asshole.
Chagall 2015
Shall we allow this Sunday
to slip by without memorial
just another in the line
or is it something special?
Tonight is a time for sorrow
yet also hope for the new day
I’m so mixed in a bipolar way
flashing hot, cool, on, off
a sob becomes a scream inside
a head filled with sugarplums
upon whose breast I lay my weary cheek
perchance to awake. Allow me
to place a kiss atop your forehead,
to the tip of your nose,
in this perfect dark room we giggle
and glimpse the faeries of the evening
diaphanous will-o’-the-wisps scattered
on warm breeze misted alive they frolic
galloping about our optic nerves
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 