What I thought was her panty-line
was really my shoulder-strap.
© Chicheme ∞
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time to go free-form
like that goddess
what’s her name
waxing Prozac-ic
sipping on juleps
chain-smoking discount
cigarettes
hurling lightning
from fingertips polished and trimmed
with just enough twist to her rap
to convince you
that there’s actually someone home
just maybe
charms serpents for deep-sea custody
of children undoubtedly
unshod unfed uncared for
and oh my god does she love the applause!
especially when she feigns aplomb
or pretends she can orgasm
at will on demand
as if these things really mattered
She’s a woman-child
hear her whimper sputter
and fall
over
broken heels
over
backwards
over
and over
and over and done
she rides mountains and waves
with a trident in hand
snacking on brains
and deep-fried testicle
defies the real gods
this self-deemed deity
on a diet
of doritos
and daughters
(you heard me right – she would eat her own young!)
alights somehow always
in open…
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An epiphany, a brisk smack to the back of the head:
Please read on for an Alphabet City post that’s a bit out of the ordinary
Left and right in D.C. – they all suck! None of them represents ANY of us
yet we behave as if they do. Is your point of view so vapid that it actually aligns to one of these binary choices? DEMS, REPS, INDS, LIBS, CONS – I have a 90 year-old father-in-law who has got it right: “They’re all crooks!”
We need to wake the f*** up as a people at large and realize that we are being had from all fronts. Even the most stalwart matador could not sidestep all of the BS coming our way.
You know the old saying: Thank you for having me. It was a pleasure being had.
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 ∞
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
Alphabet City 