I met her at the city garden
reclaimed ghetto, a farm
she was pretty so I asked
Do you like beets, tubers?
She replied
You mean like John Phillip Sousa?
As I’m a Nuyorican
I could tell that she was muy serio
yet all I could say was
Oy vay
© Chagall, 2013
Our gang stepped lively
on cobblestones laid
by the immigrants
In echelon
choreographed
shoulder sway
from back in the day
before epaulets
and swagger
took half of us
away
before Johnny lie dead
in a rice field
before hippies lost
their hair
but still had lost their minds
city free-fall
the answer blowing
in the wind off rooftops
blonde-on-blonde
before black-on-black
© Chagall, 2013
She wore a talisman
or was it an amulet?
Dangled there about her waist
and sometimes around her neck.
Its spell was ward off the good times
keep hope and happy at bay
Lucky for me
I was never a voodoo lover
© Chagall, 2013
an opus deserves
a thorough read
not some topical
nod
on the surface
it appears
a no-thing
you’ll comprehend
perhaps it’s really
beyond you
in a manner you’ll decide
is beneath you
ignore it
feel free even
to revile
like sonar
sweeps your landscape
peruse the depths
of your charge
walk the waterfront
of your longing
till you fail
to tell
the difference
between the things you need
and the storm about
to dash
your head
adrift
you are
awash
are you
awake?
© Chagall, 2013
Autumn comes colder
than summer but not winter
spring brings hope to life
© Chagall, 2013
Your back is cold
against my belly
your breasts are warm
in my hand
we are hieroglyphic
on a Mayan cave
lines drawn
in the sand
© Chagall, 2013
adrift
you are
awash
are you
awake?
© Chagall, 2013
she likes a dry kiss
more friction that way
small pulls of stuck lips
and darted licks
to moisten
always parted
warm shallows
just a brush
a rub
wide sweeps that narrow
tighter still
till
the focus is
a point
merely
a touch
directly over
the bow of Cupid
and only then
will she agree
to silky
wet glissando
© Chagall, 2013
It’s Saturday nite, so have a blast. Tomorrow gives thanks for life.
I hear the wind whip
the leaves in the distance behind me
unable to stay steps ahead
I lose ground with each stride
my gait grows shorter
slower and wavers
I reel
as a drunken lover
lost her way
points to the music
finding it’s there
not there
once reminded
twice branded
enough left
to right the path
thankful for the swerves
in-line with the stagger
the wind catches me
races up my back
a violent eddy of debris
at my feet
deals a blow
two hands smack flat my ears
pains, clears my mind
to say
walk it now
just die alone
and I’ll hear nothing more
about it
© Chagall, 2013
She said
the hardest part about love
is the waiting
to be asked or kissed
near the phone, by your side
up all night
or around
the bend, on the news
hand and foot
like a fool
for the other
shoe
to fall
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 