Archive for March, 2013


Outpacing Peter

Faster than Peter,
past acacia and carob,
I ran to the tomb.

We sang, we danced,
embraced and wept,
jumped up and down, cried out.

Our voices echoed:
the chamber there was empty
past the low doorway.

Alone in the damp,
except for our friend’s garments;
his scent was still there.

I ran past Mary,
leaving the rich man’s garden;
Arimathean

sweet hawthorn kindled
the fires of Golgotha,
from the day before.

Past olive, almond,
apricot, pine, turpentine,
I ran to tell them.

© Carlos Chagall, Easter Sunday, 2013

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Battenkill

The long taper of the fisherman
carves graceful serpents in the air,
undulates overhead, uncoils,
lays his leader down on the eddy.

The coachman’s hackle catches fine droplets,
sprays from the crisp rush,
reachers for the crest,
slow dancers, lurid with deep thrusts,
small surfers on the foam, riders on the scree.

A rainbow in the fast lane least traveled,
in the underwater silence,
flexes rudders in a rush to the mar
in the clarity of the surface. In an instant
the hook barb sets into the soft palette ridge. There!

An electron on a wire, taut signals, no slack.
A tug on the line between thumb and index, yanks.

The rainbow, slick and wet, the surface of glycerin bubbles,
shocked by sunlight,
the maddened roar of the pool,
regrets the prior impulse,

in a graceful arc, in forbidden air,
catches a glimpse below
of grateful free rainbows,
defies and reasserts its fate, re-submerges,
running out the line, but jerked back hard
with the whirring intake of reel.

In a froth of its own making, frenzied oxygenation,
the rainbow abandons its own locomotion,
to the small plummet of a fall that marks a carry in the forest beside the stream.

A steep slide to a horizontal glide, and is wrenched high in the air.
Too high, too hot.
Indigo.
Violent violets.
Brush smears on cloudless skies,
peek through the tops of the old white pines
that can still be found here.

At the apogee, there is no tension.
No tug.

And the rainbow is weightless.
Flying,

free
fall
back
to the planet.
Hits hard on the surface,

for a moment
half in,
half out.

Descent buoyant to rest.
Finally, silent and spent.
Immersed in cool waters, on the soft polished stones
at the bottom.

The run of the stream is halted:
froze.
Time:
still pulses.

Caws of large birds startle the silence,
with reedy bleats
to mock the passing.

For the moment.
At least for now.
Till then.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Strepitus

Eclipse. “… what they’ve done,”
holy sound; black veil.  Alpha,
omega; all time

at one with all: one.
This time, this triduum: now
burst, cry into light.

Baskets filled with food,
sun-soaked altar rail.  Sweet breads,
bitters, ascension.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Trawling

In dreams I hover
lucid at low altitude,
just above treetops.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Mellifluously

What are you saying?
Crap coming out of your mouth.

Repeat after me:
Mellifluously.
“My lip fluid flees.”

No, no way that’s it.

“My limbs filled with fleas.”

Are your ears okay?

“My foot fell asleep.”
You’re pulling my leg, right?
“My liver’s diseased?”
You are a pisser.

“My life flew away.”

Bueno! Much better.

“My loves flee easy.”
Now you are talking!

“Miles ‘fore I sleep.”
“Please just let me be.”
“Just let me scream now.”
“Throat to head, just rip.”
“Mellifluously.”
Yes, now you got it.

“Now your turn. Repeat:
Expose brain to sky.”
Expository.

“No way Carlito.”
Exponentially.
“You’re growing on me.”
Expeditiously.
“Faster, good, faster.”
Ex-explosively.
“Not fair to breathe twice.”
Expletive delete?
“That’s correct. Shitty.”

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Q The Clowns

How was I to know
you were just some avatar,
HTML embedded,
creeping along there

on the dim edges,
the ghetto of my iPad,
hawking Dom like some Don while
sniffing Elmer’s Glue,

re-tweeting real deals,
’cause you’ve got none of your own?
“I’m a business … man!” bullshit.
Sierra Leone.

We get it. You heard the jam,
copped a line and made it your brand.

Sells in small vials,
little viles, small viri
to infect, perfect all who
follow to follow.

The bizarre bazaar.  Yowza!
zip-a-dee-doo-dah-Zumba.

Dear dead matador,
The carnival crews are happy
to pitch you your own three rings,
where you would hold sway.

Act now, don’t delay.
Cease to decease, one more day.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Get your headphones on (we’ll wait) and enjoy this music set to poetry. 

We had a blast.  Let us know what you think.

Original composition; house demo; very young tune, very rough arrangement and production

© Carlos Chagall, March 2013
Originally entitled Paris
Sebastien Eric Greco, vocals
Bambino Cuadrado, Percussion
Dede Rivera, Bass
Carlos “Chicheme” Chagall, Guitars, Lyrics

The lyrics are here on Alphabet City.  Sebastien took some liberties, but for the most part, true to the original.

  • Sebastien is smooth like a close shave on a hot Saturday night, phrasing like peppermint.  He got a little upset when Dede called him “Miguel Bublé.”  It was pretty funny.
  • Bambino wants to do more on the percussion, but the current loops groove enough for now.
  • Dede laid down a great live bass track.
  • You can hear me on rhythm and 2 lead parts, one acoustic and electric. Anything you hear that is tasty, that’s me. 🙂

Hope you’ve been pre-gaming.  We have.  See you at the After Party.  (I wish you could see the look on Sebastien’s face right now) And now without further ado :

If you like, we left a bonus track up on SoundCloud: Chicheme’s Alphabet City

We were seriously considering posting at 11PM to remind our friends to join us here at Alphabet City for the midnight EST debut of Rue Chambiges, but decided against it.  Instead we poured another Texan single malt and enjoyed the full moon.

Chicheme

cropped-rainbow-shutterstock_117680335.jpg

Earlier today posted: We are thinking of posting the final part of Paris as a soundcloud tune, but Sebastien has cold feet about it.  I told him to chill.  More as this story develops.

Update: Sebastien has agreed to a posting of Paris this evening, music set to poetry.  Debut at midnight tonight, here EST.  We are excited.  Hope you are too.  May not be everybody’s cup of tea (bourbon?), but hey, something to do on a Wednesday night.  Look for a post entitled Rue Chambiges.

 

 

We are thinking of posting the final part of Paris as a soundcloud tune, but Sebastien has cold feet about it.  I told him to chill.  More as this story develops.

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