At the end of the day – the last day – it doesn’t matter who you’re screwing
or whether or not you keep the baby.
Chagall 2017
Archive for December, 2017
Snowflakes are similar to people: no two are alike and we fall when it’s cold.
But when alit upon ledges, we tend to jump; that’s how we differ.
Chagall 2017
Our time here is always brief
a spark between two endings
the poem within the tome
on an empty shelf
a darkened room
the basement of a large mansion
tucked away among the hills
that begin to show the age
of the bedrock below
from which they spring
incessant droplets
of water
erode Everest
over eons
I will find you again
though it might not be
this next round
or the one after that
nor the next
Know that
the sadness you’ll feel
at night looking up
at planets and dreams undone
is the hole
of us
the gap between
beginnings
I will hold you here
until then
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
If I could stay awake, I would
drive throughout the night to take you to dreams you hold,
to leave you at their step.
But here I am with heavy head, a crushing fear of veering,
and of leaving you more lost than found, where dreams are drawn
to eddies to drown, and I was never a swimmer.
Chagall 2017
It is snowing inside, a barren patch of roof bares entry
to interiors once warm with ambient glow, the golden splendor
of those who touch and those who go, those who have come and gone,
to leave imprints behind, traced outlines, a message etched in haste
upon frosty panes in condensation, I Love You aside stick figures,
streaked serif flairs over time mar the meaning, seemingly melting
letters despite the cold.
It is snowing inside.
Chagall 2017
Moments always pass
Time stops if you will it to
We are not the same
Chagall 2017
Despite new shoes, I continue to walk worn paths,
to revel in familiar reels, tried and true two-steps,
heel to toe, apace with my own stride, the earth
pushes away with each tendon’s flex, en pointe,
pas de un, atilt arabesque, low to the ground,
homage to the sky, frequent pirouettes
braced at the knee, a dervish, a devilish imp
with an ancient glint of sun, nay stars, in her eyes.
Chagall 2017
What I thought was the sound of trees being felled far away
was the nearby hum of the beating wings of fire and damsel flies.
Chagall 2017
She said small things, seemingly inconsequential.
She’d rather I not speak at all. Her monologue
swells her lips, and so I daub them with my own.
Chagall 2017
Today, in this digital age, even reformations are accelerated.
Chagall 2017
Alphabet City 