Pirogi
rogue sirens
and Geo-politique
a frolicking
Georgian ego
top dog at the Kremlin
has it all
a Moscow flat
a Ukrainian wench
and plenty and plenty
of borscht
Sour cream takes
the heat off the beets
Iced vodka
the hot on the blonde
let’s play
gotcha at the dacha
my little
baboon-yes you
kielbasi on the grill
is best
Dobray dyen
tavarish
© Chagall, 2013
One by one
copying all of my poems
out of WordPress
reliving my pathetic – er,
I mean
poetic life
export my ass
looks like NSA doodling
not a poem to be found
too much
HTML-BP-XYZ
crap like <><> and what-not
Doing a month a day
I’m up to July
remembering the joys
of those great times
friends, beach
sand, surf
not unlike
a Corona commercial
as a matter of fact
exactly like that
(I can’t hear you
with the headphones on!)
© Chagall, 2013
Lily was a dancer
you could tell
by the moves
she couldn’t make
Billy was a singer
worked the deli crowd
you could say
a counter tenor?
Weekends spent
backgammon and gins
and tonics and
nachos and sex
and gins and
tonics
pirouettes
arpeggios
and daydreams
come and go
all in a row
© Chagall, 2013
I browse quickly at my tag cloud
impressed by artists
losing love
somewhere on the streets
of New York
amour
down the drain
barefoot
on cobblestones
losers of Paris–Roubaix
pigeons
with moves like Jagger
peck at the dead
or maybe just
debris
the ice man
no longer
cometh
’cause every call
is the last
good people
in cold room
flats
live days
railroad style
nothing here is ish
it’s the real thing
except no one
accept that it doesn’t
matter
at all
that it matters
greatly
and the view from atop
the bridge at night
is only outdone
by the sight
of approaching
river
© Chagall, 2013
plaster of Paris
falls from the ceiling
seals me in
it’s Fall
autumn in Paris
leaves, me
she’s left
but I’m right
in the end
on the Left Bank
of Paris
atop a bookstall
looking down
at the Seine
all the sane
watch my dive
I descend like a Swann
falls through
all the time
lost
remember our walks
along budding groves
and Guermantes Way?
© Chagall, 2013
Life evaporates
into pale blue icy mists
we flutter and die
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
You’ll need a shawl on the beach tonight
as well as a worthy captain
waning moons break hearts
while those that wax bring nothing
but hope
we grow larger each step
in surf too warm
in light too bright
to be real
we bring
so much of our self
to it
the world doesn’t
work this way
or maybe
it just works so
footsteps
in relief
well before washing
away
© Chagall, 2013
He says I’m a girl’s girl
and I’m not sure what that means
so I raise my guard
lower my voice
keep my cool and my distance
Feeling like a feisty fly-weight
Dominican boxer
hard as a rock
but soft and petite of breast
like the ancient brujas
who came before
come after me
I can see that his chica
has more of a thing for me
whispering Hello Acey
but nothing but deuces
wild here
We would while away the hours
maybe even a lifetime
given half the chance
a closed door
and an open mind
I remember my own advice
to let it go
outside in
drive deep
just take the blow
in lieu of explosion
it’s how I save money
on rouge
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
My poetry needs to take deeper breaths
propel long lines that flow and wind
rather than hyperventilate
Ride a breath’s rhythm to its logical end being careful not to lose it at the very tip
but to achieve diminuendo in a whisper, in a hush, in a final whoosh!
I can see that one can get dizzy
with experiments of this sort
exceeding the reach of the exhale
stuck lungs scream for welling
sweet, sweet air
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I’m growing weary of the pattern
write, wait, like
or not
what if we all suck
and don’t have a clue?
our life
is adulation
approval
by the clueless
collusion
of the delusional
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 