I’ve nowhere to turn except
to the expression of the timeless.
Though I am tired I forge ahead
convinced that the road leads direct
to the fount of some wisdom yet
undiscovered. Sadly, I am mistaken.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: time
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 ∞
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 ∞
Everyday I write
a novel backwards.
© Chagall ∞
Looking for bandaids
today I found her
old shampoo. I added
water beads and shook
the bottle, then I showered
and lathered. I am no longer
in the now but am back
to an earlier day when
she was still here. Aroma
is a time machine.
© Chagall ∞
In the space there between slipped fingertips
whorls of sound explode into bursts of light
© Chagall ∞
Fountains in the monsoon retain their poise,
the shape of their intended spume, the refraction
of light on water rainbows while a misted plume
seeks the space to assert itself.
© Chagall ∞
As the beat goes it says
so much to do so instead
do nothing – lose myself
in any direction – when
I was a girl once combed
in elusive fashion – was
more than I’d ever do –
take myself in any direction
– laughter rings and never
fades, simply dies away though
fingertips touched so lightly.
© Chagall ∞
She searches for sea shells, slowly combs sands,
then wades out waist-high; the surf erases
yesterdays’ traces, and less is no more.
She (it’s just she) is shucking shells by the shore.
© Chagall ∞
The sound of planets receding,
the doppler of large trucks
flying by on endless road,
the cosmic hum of rubber
rubbed hot-asphalt on this summer night
beneath shot-stars that are
suns by day, while we lovers by night
with our tops down rejoice
in the blue-static
of AM radio
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 