Archive for August, 2013


Haiku For Sure

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Possibility
lies in each passing moment
though skies are certain

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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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

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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

Betwixt

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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

The Invite

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Psst!
Listen . . .
wanna sleep over?

It’ll be fun,
I promise.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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Erudite crude rites
such strange initiations
like their shit don’t stink

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Haiku For Going With The Flow

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Life is so simple
Breathe in and out without thought
Why get more involved?

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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I carry the dead
hushed voices on my shoulder
heaven cries, we weep

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

If Only

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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

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