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Archive for July, 2013

The Glassblower

July 5, 2013

chagall backdrop

With oxygen my chief inhalant,
I pulmonate my way
through a tangle of moments
I manage to right-side up
to a semblance of order,
I call my life.

They say that you focus
on only a thing at a time,
but I seem to be struggling
with even that.

I rotate through the five senses,
like so many outfits,
costume changes laid out for the week,
before wash day, Friday, rolls around.

I see, I hear, I smell, I taste, I touch,
I conquer.

Son of a bitch inside my head
keeps insisting it’s me,
though I’ve asked over and over:
please stop calling here.

I find serenity in the ground,
in the space around shape,
the silence between words,
the time around now.

It’s the art of glass blowing,
creating outsides from the inside,
from a glowing tip,
sand to form to ash.

Tags: existence, Glassblowing, life, nonsense, sense

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Sara In The Wildflowers

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chagall backdrop

A ten-finger bundle of oregano,
freshly harvested, tied in coarse twine,
hangs from a drying ring,
just below the wind chimes.

Unusually strong winds for such a hot day,
tousle the bushy-head lavender.

That scent is Sara,
in starched white smock
and little else,
visible until she descends
down the overlook.

I run to follow her,
slowed by the stuck porch door,
to finally gaze at her from the ridge,
for a while, unobserved,
she dances about the calypso orchids.

Tags: calypso orchid, herbs, lavender, love lost, rare wildflowers, Sara, Wind chime

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Here’s What I’ll Do If I Am Elected

Filed under: Poetry — 4 Comments

chagall backdrop
Assume that there are two and a half
million military personnel
in the U.S. forces.

Canada’s border is fifty-five hundred miles,
Mexico’s roughly two thousand,
the general coastline about thirteen thousand.

Let’s say then twenty thousand miles
for one trip around the perimeter
of our great country,
just to make this easy.

I ask a local seven-year old,
who advises me that there are five
thousand two hundred and eighty feet
in a mile

So in total that’s one hundred and five million
six hundred thousand feet
around these United States.

So here’s my plan:
Let’s bring all of the service personnel home,
each and every mother, father, sister, son, brother, daughter, aunt, uncle, partner, wife, husband, sibling in-law, cousin, friend, lover, poet, musician, machinist, laborer, teacher, and the like –
bring ’em all home,
all two and a half million,

and have them then stand a post around that perimeter,
one of them every forty-two feet,
less than two first downs,
less than a sprint to first base,
about double the distance of the three-point line,
two-thirds the distance from the blue line to the net.

My name is Carlos Chagall, and I approve this post.

Tags: Canada, Independence Day, Mexico, platform, United States, United States Armed Forces

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Haiku For July 5th

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chagall backdrop

Search out the tyrants,
for the sake of the union.
Why not start right here?

Tags: Freedom, haiku, independence, tyranny

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Haiku For Kaua’i ‘O’o

Filed under: Haiku — 2 Comments

July 3, 2013

chagall backdrop
Kaua’i ‘O’o,
pacific honey eaters,
extinct, there’s no more.

Tags: extinction, Kauaʻi ʻŌʻō, pacific honey eaters, Zorn

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Regarding Faunal Relaxation Caused By Deforestation

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Lazy birds sing what sound to be questions,
small inquisitions, diminuendo, trills in five-eighths time,
while hurrahs of wind rush the dense canopy of their home,
like waves on sand.

Erase traces of what used to be.
Beyond, I hear loggers, large machines, mechanical chorales spun,
in odd reverberant Om, mantras for flat-felled forests.
Erase traces of what used to be.

I rush the treeline, run insanely,
unable to draw enough air to support the bellow I envision,
the weight of the howl I want to import, the reply I want to scream,

to the wood pigeon, the grand thrush,
the paradise parrot, the heath hen,

to the parakeet, the laughing owl,
the island rail, the piopio,

to the Kaua’i ‘O’o,
the grebe, and the oystercatcher . . .

My chest heaves, uncontrollable gasps,
like a mourner in the front row,
my eyelids gummy, thick strands of hot tears,
sun-waves diffracted, rainbows sheared on my optic nerve.

I purse my lips and find the bird call within me,
I sing a soulful lament, run arpeggios clean
without glissando, a call to flee,
to fly away, to find places that we cannot find.

But my song is lost to the world of sound around me,
to the crescendo that approaches rapidly, the steady march, a goose step:
Erase traces of what used to be.
Erase traces of what used to be.

Tags: Bird, Deforestation, Ecosystem, extinction, forever is a long time, sin, species, travesty

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Cover of Sara Bareilles – Gravity

Filed under: Music Set To Poetry — 3 Comments

Sebastien Greco – vocals
Carlos Chagall – guitars
Dede Rivera – bass
Papa Cuadrado – percussion

Tags: Music

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My Carnegie Deli Order

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July 2, 2013

What’ll you have?
I’ll take a Scarlett Johansson, a Liv Tyler, and a Linda Fiorentino . . .
no make that an Annabella Sciorra.

Lettuce, tomato?
No, nothing on them.

To go or for stay?
For here; I’ll eat them here.

Okay, number 15.
Oh, and a Kirstie Alley to go please, extra cheese, extra mayo.

Pickle?
Sure, why not. And throw in extra napkins.

Tags: Annabella Sciorra, Carnegie Deli, just for the fun of it, Kirstie Alley, Linda Fiorentino, Liv Tyler, New York City, Sandwiches

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Johnny Pump

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My butt’s blistered, sliding down bannisters,
to avoid the ladies on the stoop,
who sit with their skirts hiked-up three stories,
when a basement flat would suit them better.

Johnny pump sprays to cool off the hot streets,
we go full gush here, none of them mist caps
that the city would want that we should use,
I mean – this is the ghetto man – you know?

Being serious, some kids go naked,
right here on the street, Eleventh near B,
(where the Shower House was, you remember?)
as if this was paradise or something.

You know who you can trust when the pump’s on,
you know who your boys are, girls know the same,
it’s those who don’t spray you when you pass by,
the ones who let you go and keep you dry.

I fly up the stoop, I near pull a groin,
Las antiguas who sit there grab at my ass,
playful, like those secret aunts tucked away,
say goodnight my young prince, ‘sta mañana.