Love I think has side doors, ways to enter unannounced, behind the main stage, below the orchestra pit. Oh, but to fly down to the center spot from the mezzanine tethered to a taut invisible wire, a nymph dreaming of a midsummer night. But then what? Soliloquy, bow, curtsy? A pas de deux followed by fond adieu? I'm through your cellar window, past sorrow, stumbling over joy in the dark and damp. Overhead, a string, a pullchain of light, evades my touch with each stretch to grasp it. © Carlos Chagall, 2013
Archive for August, 2017
Behind closed eyes fly dark balloons
in night sky of my making
Chagall 2017
Shall we wait while you folks transition through your medieval period?
Chagall 2017
This morning a butterfly sleeps
on the screen of my porch with antennae
lightly cupping the mesh
I stare deep into her round compound eye
and blow gently along her abdomen
She stirs, lifts off in flight then vanishes
Chagall 2017
I am waffling with the rebels watching ripples lose tide
At one with the rest at behest of the crowd
Lone walls to gaze one brick at a time
Come on, come back soon
The front’s fraught with power lines
Boulder dams that will dash dotted hopes
Along minds struck in signature, peculiar fine strokes of the pen
The ink of another day
Younger dark prose embossed on paper bleached sky-blue
Ideas tinted like the night reflecting across the world
Chagall 2017
More sad than people die is people kill,
how far are we now from Eden? Is not a plot
of land and beloved around enough to constitute
that worth living and dying for? There is no
greater cause than You.
Witness today not only
the decline into depravity but an abysmal lack of creativity
as well. There is delight to be experienced in peace and happiness
without moral judgment within the purview of any mere mortal.
There is so much value to be derived from creatively asserting oneself into
the space of passionate debate, and constructive collaborative
action. Not the crap that is passing for transformation and rebellion today. What watered-down and negative hogwash from wannabe everythings!
Wannabe nothings. Wouldn’t know what true community felt like if
it ran up and bit ’em on the ass. Neither side capable of seeing the
tautology and illogic of their respective positions – and who gives a shit
about those positions anyway – ARBITRARY AGENDA – or perhaps it is merely
a singular AGENDUM. Again that lack of creativity. There is no greater cause for them than Them.
There are enough real-enough problems on the planet to consume the time of any global population. Forget about money (another post someday). Focus resource and time. Enable every single human being to have shelter, to eat nutritious food, to drink potable water, to have sanitation facilities and health care. Basic Maslow need stuff across the planet at large. Basic “real” resource stuff
not greenbacks and their illusion of enablement or (the flip-side)
of disempowerment.
Divert all of the passion and energy of every ism and meme-toting group
to that charter. If not that, then what? WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE BATTLING EACH OTHER FOR WHEN WE ARE ULTIMATELY THE SOLUTION?
wake up
have fun
with life
this precious gift
we are all experiencing
in this wonderful time of creation
Carlos ’17 (or thereabouts)
The quality of the sun this morning deems the hour sacred
enough so that I implore you to come dance, spin royal
and crazed through fields of lilac-eyed Susans, stomp
the rock along the way with me, rise up to kiss the glory.
Chagall 2017
As she presses her naked torso onto her side of the screen door
I can see from mine the copper mesh deconstruction of her body
into thousands of framing restraining geometrically perfect
tiny fleshy square pulpy beads.
Chagall 2017
I desire a spin on the dance floor,
to fly to where time stalls, to come
ceases to beckon but only you.
Powdery pink in the mist
on the brink amid pale blue horizons
where eagles dally.
Fresh from the start of that other day
when cooler winds prevailing the plains
truly were greatest.
We bring life to the hillside,
broad fields of color, milkweed,
hibiscus and comfrey run wild.
Suns seek this earth to radiate upon,
a garden of solar results, we are orb dancers,
kabuki on a sphere.
Last night I awoke startled, suffocating
though breathing naturally, oxygen
no longer enough.
Lungs within lungs yearned for deeper breath,
for air to sweep to lofty wind more rarefied
than any we have breathed.
Throughout time she dances, a silhouette
scented of patchouli, holy water,
and salted sweet-brine.
Chagall 2017
She says it’s way too early,
this time of year for warblers,
kinglets and tanagers too.
Ornithology challenged
(I know little about little birds):
What then is this time good for?
I shouted out from the crowd.
Despite the many faces,
drawn about her in the park,
she is prompt and direct with response:
It’s that season for fine young ladies,
to sight those special and rare
ducks like the Cinnamon Teal,
birds like the Black-Tailed Godwit.
With that she puffed her plumage,
I turned to exhibit my wingbar,
snapped at a mayfly there in the air,
and lifted off in glorious flight.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 