Hey, if you want ice
You gotta fill the trays.
© ChaChagall ∞
Archive for April, 2017
Thinking of writing a screenplay for a latina
biker-type detective, call it and the character
Blue Agave –
Thoughts?
© Chagall ∞
She had tucked the onion matzoh up high and away,
in its own cellophane inside a ziploc, back in the box.
So much for easy snackin’.
© Chagall ∞
Water bead grass bayonets cut tongues,
steely dew, fondant of morning rain.
How I love to lie eye-level to ground
to look up at tall blades against the sky.
I have an itch on my cheek that only closely
coiffed tightly tufted turf can scratch.
I mistake her smile for mist or soft rain,
so similar they are in drizzle pattern.
There’s a run of slatted fence traces hillsides,
hugs the rise and the run of the land as a tribute to time.
Eyes beguile but only if you let them, don’t you let them, don’t they say?
Sometimes the wax can be saved to create brand new candles to burn.
Eye-level to ground the flames from above
cast my outline as an amber cold hollow.
That which is me which does not pass light
rests immortalized sunk into shadow.
With morning comes water nourishing.
The eye adjusts to blue. Rain sugars dew.
© Chagall ∞
I yearn for the happiness
that you do not feel
I vibrate my total being
to will it so
I learn instead that
love can grow from sorrow
Chagall 2016
I am notably missing from the photo,
this portrait of me is instead now a landscape,
the foreground that should have been
a background had I actually arrived
on the scene. I wonder whose index finger
pressed down the shutter. Of all the proofs,
I like this one best, it instills a sense
of the imminent, careful lighting, edgy compose,
something’s about to happen, to jump at you from the frame,
you feel it.
Instead I order
a life-size print
of me in white hat
buried up to my forehead
blinded by the bank
of new-fallen snow.
© Chagall 2014
Light will guide me back
To ascension, a view from above,
Lofty gray weightlessness,
Ethereal suspension among birds
Of distinction, marked no longer
By petty ways, now only grand schemes
To return one again to a state of grace,
To engulf my self, to imbibe as well
The liquid of life, thus to hang in the balance,
Neither here nor there as it should be, to be
Either actually is a penchant unchained still linked
To time, once blinded I sensed the fence surrounding
Me so I blinked and clicked my heels, an attempt to awaken,
To rise, to ascend, score a view from above in the lofty gray.
Weightless.
© Chagall ∞
Absent hypothetical lichens
perhaps have Tourettes … unlikely.
© Chagall ∞
For those where rain is. —CC
Small letters alight on her lashes, tiny poetry about her eyes
Kisses of ancient rhythm, a pucker for a flame stoked
Each blink the turn of a page reveals whole worlds
Every breath has meaning, those lighter than air defy gravity
Limericks line her brow when she laughs
When she sighs I trace my lips along the long volta of her neckline
Where her sonnets turn around
Down her arms flow three-letter words, we are kids again
Awash in primary colors, hands waving wildly at tickles
Dancing about in a spray, we drink water from a hose
There are symbols dangling from her ears that I do not recognize
Baubles of mystery; I linger there eschewing translation.
© Chagall 2016
Running away, we outrace the comets,
then rest on our backs, at the southern pole;
stars, concentric orbits, clarions toll:
Life on this planet, as good as it gets.
My love for you hangs in mist, crystalline,
cascades in tickling ripples down your face,
rinses from inside out, the dust, this place.
There is no heaven, nor hell, this serene.
There is no place at all, there’s no bridge back.
I reel, mad dance, awestruck, struck dead, anew,
the last call. We didn’t make it did we?
“No my love, we both died in the attack.”
Cold wild winds blow hard in vain to renew
the calm before the storm, eternally.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 