To the ant who questioned my Being while circling my foot in play:
I’m a Möbius strip, an Escher curve, a vast topologic ocean
© Chagall ∞
Archive for July, 2017
Perhaps we are all
Afloat in this universe
Pending gestation
© Chagall ∞
I have so much to say today
so I shake you to wake you
Get up! and I’ll tell you
of life that bursts
to get inside
Your mind and your heart,
need I mention the soul?
If indeed there are
such things
Fragile things that come and go
once, or twice, I don’t really know
though I do when it’s only me
I dreamed that I once was atop a hill
wondering which way was down
so I followed the cooler breeze
Was that you where the sand ran
dry to wet at the edge of the dense brush
opening wide to the sea?
Of all that we were and all that we are
in prayer that we’ll someday be
Wake up! I’ve so much to tell you
© Chagall 2014
My smile’s upturned
at the top of my head,
I imagine it now
to reside there,inside and high
at the crown, it’s void
of the need for facial
muscle or tension.In suspended
jubilation
I simply will
will myself
simple, to be
me, not a care
in this world,
go dumb.Mine’s a Cheshire grin
that you can’t see,
but inside I glow
with big polished teeth.My sobs are just
camouflage, first
you see me, and then . . .you don’t.
A lot of folks cry
on the inside,
not me!I’m laughing all the way
to the wake,
which by the way,
is on the way
to the bank.Keep your wits
about you man,
’cause a cold morning breaks everyday.
My smile’s upturned
at the top of my head,
I imagine it now
to reside there,
inside and high
at the crown, it’s void
of the need for my face,
any muscle or tension.
In suspended
jubilation,
I simply will
will myself
simple, to be
me, not a care
in this world,
go dumb.
Mine’s a Cheshire grin
that you can’t see,
but inside I glow
with big polished teeth.
My sobs are just
camouflage, first
you see me, and then . . .
you don’t.
A lot of folks cry
on the inside,
not me!
I’m laughing all the way
to the wake,
which
by the way,
is on the way,
to the bank.
Keep your wits
about you man,
’cause a cold morning breaks everyday.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I.
The depth and richness of human
ignorance is awe-inspiring
II.
Old school hippies smoked pot at the bandshell:
what’s left of it, just ain’t right
III.
Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?
That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.
I don’t much care where.
Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
A thin line separates
thought from written word.
© Chagall ∞
(Inspired by a comments exchange with Celestine @ Reading Pleasure)
I feel that old wedge of wood
between my plexus and my temple
meaning the pressure of time
to get things done, I’ve learned
to feel it without words, it is
merely sensation, like the rose
petal of circling bullet holes
that I’ve deemed my anger there
in a stream of turrets just above
my belt line, mossy scent of water
heady far back behind the eyes coats
the back and top of the inside of my
skull is the melancholy of remembering you
© Chagall 2014
This line is in memory of hundreds of lines undone,
erased, deleted, made gone
And what has emerged but meta-prose,
writing on writing
© Chagall ∞
People on the planet? A quick search reveals there are seven
point five billion. My handy calculator powered by the sun
tells me this is two to the thirty-second people (give or take a power)
I record my voice, I hum an A, 440 Hz pure tone
that I bounce to a second track, so now there’s two of me
I repeat – four – again and there’s eight, for thirty two times
(give or take a power) until I achieve a chorus of me
of seven point five billion
I sit there under headphones
in perfect surround, the volume way up
I am all that there is
© Chagall ∞
Dear Reader: this is a rewrite of a 2013 post of the same name.
In my backyard, the sunlight that shines there
is mine.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 