I
The rain simply stopped –
suspended there in mid-air;
Breaking news at ten!
II
The reign simply stopped –
suspended there in mid-heir;
Bray King news at ten!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Archive for June, 2013
I hate when they ask
you to write your own obit.
Sure, get me to do your dirty work,
rub my own nose in it
while I’m at it!
I will answer a different question,
rewrite the game, beat a different drum.
Instead of what I did,
I will enumerate all that I did not,
publish that as a logia of anthos.
My final wish?
To be cremated, then reassembled.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
If I stretch out long,
first flex, then point,
extend tendons, brush
against you, by chance
would you do the same?
My figure fits
your ground perfectly,
soft sanded curves,
mortise to tenon,
tongue ‘n’ groove.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Not enough gypsies around these days,
too many straights and narrows.
Riffs in overdrive, suck kick-drum air
atop the bass, leave a razor scar,
pop the weasel with a rim-shot snare;
all hail the power trio.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
.
More what I am,
meaning here at the center,
than final wonder.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Platinum light,
hurtles through the ancient bristlecone pines,
an iris there at the crowning,
an earthbound star, misted in droplets.
The whispers of the gods
bellow the flame at the core of the foundry.
Saints huddle there in the clearing,
stare blind into the aperture,
immersed in the source of divinity,
spirited away by hemoglobin.
The light instantly incinerates mortal infiltrators,
safeguards the ranks,
to assure only the holiest walk among us.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Here’s the dilemma:
yours is a question of trust,
mine’s about ethic.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
We . . . eternities
stretch – out beyond to both ends . . .
are the ellipses.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Don’t let it fool you,
the moment rides forever;
you are just the stop.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Sands are cooler this time of day,
evening shore’s spongy underfoot,
refreshes the soles on up.
My towel skirts me,
hula at the waist, a tuck-knot,
long, cool cotton sways,
massages me, naked thighs.
I buy a coco-rum-nut at the hut,
torches burn, leave a larger than usual tip,
fly chica behind the bar
rewards me with a double-floater-shot in return.
Salt air leaves me heady, nostalgic,
for some primal scene,
saline roots, when hot springs sprang,
before speech found its way to our tongues.
Duet up the beach plays Jobim,
he, nylon acoustic
she, silky throat and lovely neck.
Samba for lovers,
smell of herb
from under umbrellas.
The rum is good,
arouses my caramel,
makes me thicker,
I glide, boogie board on bare feet.
After the verse, at the coro,
I step toe to heel, to toe to heel,
dancing like no one’s watching,
’cause no one is.
My ears pop suddenly,
the rush of knee-high waves
swooshes crisp, tens of decibels louder,
foam about me touches my towel hem.
I am doubly alive, in overdrive,
oxygen never smelled so good,
clean, sweet, perfect pleasure,
just breathing in, keep breathing in . . .
Back at the hut, I double-up rum-nuts,
bum a cigarette from the fly chica,
who lights me up and smiles.
I do a paso dobla,
in a rum numb,
up and down the beach,
dancing, someone’s watching.
Queres dançar comigo?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 