One minute I’m walking
warm through the field
and the next
it begins to snow
Flaked sandy drop
so steady
How quickly
it gets
knee-high
I trudge
through dark
gray cotton
light
right
before heavy
wet flakes
consume me
On my back laughing merrily
my heart pumping wildly
I drink in the fall from the sky
through a mouthful of stars
© Chagall, 2013
Things
are just
touch a
of out
sequence,
dis-
com-
bob-
u-
lated.
© Gallcha, 2301
Me
or a bubble
bouncing
along
the edge
of the ceiling
again?
So much dust
atop
these cabinets!
It appears
I’ve
rubbed
to a
halt
A
tight
drum
Too close
to the
light
Bare
hot
incandescent
The roar
at the edge
of the falls
Or maybe
it’s just
an updraft
Through
open window
and up
Steady
and
rapid
First rooftops
then worlds,
next time
recedes
Me
or a star
careening?
© Chagall, 2013
By the very
tight and precise
vee of the gaggle,
I could tell she was
firm, a fair commander.
Turn on a dime, all nine
chute the dip
as one.
So beautiful
atoned
in echelon.
Lost in startling air,
when twilight came
the vee softened
but only for a while.
© Chagall, 2013
I write this very carefully
so that you don’t stray – at least not very far –
naturally.
Keep the pale blue
in you going,
temper and pace,
and be aware.
In fragrant air
keep bouncing aloft –
see how rooftops keep rising
before us!
The
last
fall is
the hardest,
so say failed aerialists,
but such a sweet kiss
when we’ll hit the ground.
© Chagall, 2013
You’re not anywhere near
where you’d promised
you’d be,
Señor Moon . . .
Mister Moon.
And my sweetheart
is flat, she’s downright
disappointed.
So I think that you owe me
something – no Señor Moon?
Mister Moon . . .?
You’re waning, I’m waxing,
we’re slightly out of step.
Or perhaps, as you say,
she simply finds me too . . .
clean-shaven?
Oye baby!
Signorina,
that’s a
che
bella
luna.
Extraordinarily che,
opulently bella,
laughingly che bella
luna.
© Chagall, 2013
In order to
defend and protect,
we must first agree
on what’s at stake.
© Chagall, 2013
The world awakens
a fresh day to age and die
unsuspecting life
© Chagall, 2013
This morning the usual banner confronts me,
says Just another day!
but I know better,
and I’m going to show it,
and it doesn’t have a clue,
and exactly who died
anyway and left it
queen for the reign?
© Chagall, 2013
You may call me Ishi,
the last Yahi,
if that suits you.
Though back in the foothills,
I am nameless,
known essentially as one who is
with, in, through, and about
the wind –
that should suffice for our purpose here.
I have no friends
who still live
so no one can
properly introduce us,
such is the custom.
Perhaps one day you can christen me,
and together we can return
to defend the canyons,
where and when I will show you
my real name.
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 