Possibility
lies in each passing moment
though skies are certain
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Archive for August, 2013
See that hand
waving up from your waistband?
That’s me
via your pajama leg!
I’ll just loll here a while
let my fingers moonwalk
up and down your belly
index
tapping on your navel
a little bongo
scurry like
a cat on a mouse
on parquet
triplet raps
middle to thumb
add the ring for
straight four-four time
end with all moving
cascades and flourish
like Vladimir Horowitz
full-hand five finger
quintuplets
ah, so you’re ticklish!
well, I’ll just blow raspberries here . . .
and here . . . and . . .
okay, enough? cry uncle
Tio!
Come on, get dressed,
we’ll go have breakfast.
Did I lie,
wasn’t the sleepover fun?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Please see The Invite – the prequel to the frolic
What can you do for the poet
who fails to get her own writing?
You’d think that she’d know it
cold, be the one
to enlighten.
She writes
so we can’t interpret
cooks to repress
our taste, sings
while no one is
listening, in prayer
she’s alone
with her words.
I intended for this to be just so
it’s really not what you think.
Oh, those? Mere camerae obscurae,
please don’t touch, they’re mine.
In the end somewhere from a weathered couch
she opines on the state of the air
about her congealing in slow waves
that pulsate, fade, and die.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
time to go free-form
like that goddess
what’s her name
waxing Prozac-ic
sipping on juleps
chain-smoking discount
cigarettes
hurling lightning
from fingertips polished and trimmed
with just enough twist to her rap
to convince you
that there’s actually someone home
just maybe
charms serpents for deep-sea custody
of children undoubtedly
unshod unfed uncared for
and oh my god does she love the applause!
especially when she feigns aplomb
or pretends she can orgasm
at will on demand
as if these things really mattered
She’s a woman-child
hear her whimper sputter
and fall
over
broken heels
over
backwards
over
and over
and over and done
she rides mountains and waves
with a trident in hand
snacking on brains
and deep-fried testicle
defies the real gods
this self-deemed deity
on a diet
of doritos
and daughters
(you heard me right – she would eat her own young!)
alights somehow always
in open fields
feet first and heart last
to recite arbitrary couplets
as if that’s what’s going to save her
where there’s always a nymph
or a satyr
stand-in for some lumberjack
who’s really daddy in disguise
and so must fall to the axe
in the end
where she’ll stand
legs spread wide
presumably in heels and tight-assed
straddled over the carcass
of the vanquished
foaming in frenzied
ecstatic glee
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Even though you’re here with me now
I want you to know
I’m elsewhere
walking on pavement
slick with rain
watching bars and hearts empty.
Bring me back
just hold me dear,
tell me it’s all right,
kiss me softly
in dark rooms at the edge of town,
hear far-away whistles blow.
I’ve never made love
in a first-floor flat,
have you?
So close to the street
but so far from heaven.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Psst!
Listen . . .
wanna sleep over?
It’ll be fun,
I promise.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Erudite crude rites
such strange initiations
like their shit don’t stink
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Life is so simple
Breathe in and out without thought
Why get more involved?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I carry the dead
hushed voices on my shoulder
heaven cries, we weep
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I grow younger with each
breath that I take,
a reversal of ill-fortune, let’s say.
Cracked the code, a matter of will,
these genes obey if you let them.
I bounce off the ageless,
effortless, like stars
to the edge of time,
a return trip home
to new days.
My state of mind
is to pay no mind
to the state of the being
I’m in.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 