Archive for September, 2013


For Basoalto

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Beloved,

you write of the white statues
in the gardens of midnight
alabaster darkened
in the weak rays of stars
overhead in cold skies

where a kiss is like a petal
torn from just above the thorn
but before the bud
with only a hint
of the bouquet
and the promise

and we twirl
and we twirl
and we twirl
madly under moons
that are merely satellites
escorts for the real
who are meant to die in one’s stead
should it be necessary

who knows what’s need
in everything
there is no exception
to the rule

a tear on cold steel
warms the blade
if only ever so slightly

and we laugh
and we cry
and we die
sadly in our finest hours
since this is all there is
that we have

we know what’s beyond
it’s what’s here
that we’ll need to conceive

© Chagall, 2013

My heart once was open
a drafty emptied room

Sun aslant
on faded walls
venetian blinds
parted and stuck
bent by peering eyes

I’d look out
over beachfront
abandoned
atop the dune
beyond the reach
of riptide

Swirls of mist
amass and conspire
to engulf me

There at the edge
of a rising sea
out on a ledge
staring down

© Chagall, 2013/2018

While it’s just an Autumn Friday,
it somehow seems more than that,
preordained a holy day
but by whom, I couldn’t know.

It does feel special –
a canoe carved in time
that I feel I’m obliged,
even intended to lie in,

lay low
to shoot the rapids,
braced in a four-point stance.

I look up, see nothing
but sky in constellation,
water founts arc the lip,
refresh but nearly drown me.

On this day of reclamation,
nocturnes for atonement
pipe through vents
that rim the sky (good bass
– it sounds like vinyl)
push cold air.

And I sense there’s someone out there,
maybe a Being or two,
masterminds, big kahuna,
a capo, a boss,
a God.

Murmuring I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted,
more than prayers, I think
perhaps formulae.

Or maybe it’s just two Angels
out for kicks on a Friday night,
the weekend’s tip
with a divine tap,
a haloed index finger
extended from a perfect hand,
aces over kings.

The evening is timeless,
an aberration in Ordinary Time,
extraordinarily so,
unlike all that’s come or will,
smooth-shaven, coiffed,
perfumed.

I am mass,
resonance,
shape and design breathed
through glass, spun backwards,
figure is ground, the toucher is
touched, trapped in surface tension.

Small planes fly low
en route to Idlewild;
even here on the ground
I can hear the pilot
implore the crew
to land.

I arrive at this special feeling
by making less of who I am:
I strip way
I float away
I fade away

I bleed through the blot of autumn
that once seemed so pervasive,
inevitable a construct,

like time and space,
life, death,
love and rebirth.

© Chagall, 2013

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The bandleader said
we don’t play no cha-cha here
how about a waltz?

© Chagall, 2013

 

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Awe-struckers out there
we need you to strike
thunder experience a plus

jaw-droppers wanted
can you leave ’em agape?
please call the following number . . .

are you a spell-binder
able to bound
– a really awesome fucker?

low-riders
head-rattlers
high-rollers
toe-tappers

x hyphen y
we need you!

© Chagall, 2013

Haiku For Winding Down

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Lazy night rhythms
slow down the rush of the day
sleep’s the real dream life

© Chagall, 2013

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Just now
I’ve officially declared
today to be
Brooding Poets Day

Hmm…
yep –
hope I find time to write
while I ponder, lament
and drown myself
in absinthe

Let the blames begin!

© Chagall, 2013

Conclusive

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Write fast before
I lose it

avoid sidebar
and step-arounds

to the point
neither vertex nor acme

or apex
nor vertigo

could be anywhere
in-between

at the origin
one can decide

which way to go
to zero

© Chagall, 2013

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On 10th between A and B
at the northern edge of the park
the buildings across
face southerly light

The expanse of Tompkins Square
cuts a vista there
unique for this part
of the city

In the movie
Love With The Proper Stranger
a sweet complicated love
between Steve McQueen
and Natalie Wood grows
each the stranger

The movie is filmed in ’63
before flower power
and the death
of the stars

a month after Camelot and Texas
but prior to Mekong
as a household word
and 10 years at least
before VCR

Natalie plays Angie
who works at Macy’s
with an apartment
there on 10th

In one scene
Rocky (Steve)
comes over
for dinner

The camera pans westward
from Avenue B
catches the southerly light just right
could be Paris for all we know

Captures that perfect day there
on the Lower East Side
before anyone knew
of Alphabet City
or of planes flying in
too low

People old then
are gone
even the young then
are gone
everyone alive then though
in award-winning
black and white

Angie and Rocky sup
Natalie looks fabulous in basic black
from the street outside
joyful screams come ringing in
children skating and punch-ball
in Tompkins Square Park
where everyday I would play
having grown up on 11th and A
maybe that’s me? – I would wonder

My Dad looks up
in bold relief
against the weave of patterned stone
that rims the park

He tightens the skate
and hands me the key
sits on the bench
with his paper

I soar over streets
in a rumble like surf
washes the sand away

Do a hard stop and turn
to face where I started
there’s Rocky walking away

Walks past my Dad
on the evergreen bench
and I pray it will stay this way

But it’s a world without Pause
or Rewind
and so the story flows
without any chance
of a second glance
only the promise
of a future showing

© Chagall, 2013

 

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I run downhill
faster than I ever have
amazed not to fall
in the darkness

into the glen
breathing so heavy
that I feel
my heart and head
will explode

my lungs fill
with the living smell
of moss, cold winds,
and  promise

alone, dizzy
so easy to follow
overhead orbits
since I’m spinning
concentric myself

For a moment
it’s plain
precisely life
no doubt about
the origin or the outcome

anyone can see that
everyone has
caught the glimpse
the bug
the drift
the gist

up in the landslide
until it stops
vague and dead
with nothing but doubt
of the many things
that no one gets
or has missed
like planes, the  point
and you

Here in the field
I’m the center of all creation
through me light must pass
on its ride to the other side

© Chagall, 2013