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 ∞
Light will guide me back
To ascension, a view from above,
Lofty gray weightlessness,
Ethereal suspension among birds
Of distinction, marked no longer
By petty ways, now only grand schemes
To return one again to a state of grace,
To engulf my self, to imbibe as well
The liquid of life, thus to hang in the balance,
Neither here nor there as it should be, to be
Either actually is a penchant unchained still linked
To time, once blinded I sensed the fence surrounding
Me so I blinked and clicked my heels, an attempt to awaken,
To rise, to ascend, score a view from above in the lofty gray.
Weightless.
© Chagall ∞
The note of the birdsong lies solidly
suspended in the hollow of blue space.
The temperature of my body is precisely
the degree of the world enveloping me.
A simple brushstroke, tapered glyphs
weighty enough to have gravity, flutters.
About you I watch dusty particles dance
in light that is more than merely a halo.
Illumination.
© Chagall ∞
Death is not absolute for those who stand above, outside
where spirit begets body – the wonder, not where body begets spirit,
for that would be a wonder of wonders.
© Chagall ∞
The tapping whisper of rain,
Gulls soar, serifs against the long stretch
Of sky and land, the mosaic face of water,
Morning air, thin and cold, early day
Mist envelops always, hope is desire
To release, to touch the atmosphere,
To mean the words yet to find tongues,
Tone recedes into tones receding, the far edge
Where filaments unravel into the empty, void
Unless stamped otherwise, a puddle to stomp,
A bright yellow-slicker, the tapping whisper
of rain.
© Chagall ∞
I never wanted anything more
than nothing less.
© Chagall ∞
With moral north poles pointing everywhere
I instead choose to fold inward along the
outline of every petal of my being.
© Chagall ∞
Exhaustion is a rollup shade,
comes down over inner light
to cast shadows that run too
deep, bluer than cold black.
Oddly, since I can see that
I am invigorated, renewed. I
am outside of the physical
debris; I am beyond the miasma.
© 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 ∞
Alphabet City 