I will cash in on thespian knowledge
So I really must know how to act
Or make a fortune while foretelling karma
Still I’d owe way too much deep in debt
So I’ll seek to reap riches from relating tales
About life being grand at the edge
Where only sweet water flows across miles
Evanescent, effervescent, ever long
© Chagall ∞
Down the hill, Sara and I tumble gently
heels-over-head, beginning and ending
as the other for somersaults will do that,
grass stains smell greener than they look
smeared across the lips of a grazing young
doe, sun on the neck has never been warmer,
near hot on the back of calves stretched taut
en pointe, mycorrhizae underfoot soothes our soul
for we are not alone in this ancient crazy place
susceptible to life, prone to being alive,
an altar upon which we recite our ode to living,
exalt dark heavens where wisdom is surely actual;
We are always Nature she says as we roll to a stop
at the gate of a beautiful garden.
© The Other ∞
The note of the birdsong lies solidly
suspended in the hollow of blue space.
The temperature of my body is precisely
the degree of the world enveloping me.
A simple brushstroke, tapered glyphs
weighty enough to have gravity, flutters.
About you I watch dusty particles dance
in light that is more than merely a halo.
Illumination.
© Chagall ∞
There’s an artist in France
collects heartbeats
Tens upon tens of
thousands of
pulses
Moments in lives of
those who will
in time be gone
Survived
only by these
I wonder does
the data show
if broken hearts
beat softer
Chagall 2016
Death is not absolute for those who stand above, outside
where spirit begets body – the wonder, not where body begets spirit,
for that would be a wonder of wonders.
© Chagall ∞
Eclipse. “… what they’ve done,”
holy sound; black veil. Alpha,
omega; all time
at one with all: one.
This time, this triduum: now
burst, cry into light.
Baskets filled with food,
sun-soaked altar rail. Sweet breads,
bitters, ascension.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The erotic aroma of fenugreek, caramel, and chocolate,
rose from her reclined body as she reached for the drawstring.
© Chagall ∞
Melting pots aren’t all the same.
Go find your own.
© Chagall ∞
The tapping whisper of rain,
Gulls soar, serifs against the long stretch
Of sky and land, the mosaic face of water,
Morning air, thin and cold, early day
Mist envelops always, hope is desire
To release, to touch the atmosphere,
To mean the words yet to find tongues,
Tone recedes into tones receding, the far edge
Where filaments unravel into the empty, void
Unless stamped otherwise, a puddle to stomp,
A bright yellow-slicker, the tapping whisper
of rain.
© Chagall ∞
Rebirth. —CC
Barnabas and Paul have been on the road,
Iconium, Perga to Antioch,
where they ran into strong opposition,
from the Jewish elders and the Elite.
I make joyful noises throughout the day,
the Gentiles appear to understand us.
I dab my own tears with wool from the lamb,
my soul bleached white from the blood of the blessed.
John’s time’s spent at the Tiberias Sea,
after I told him about my dream there:
the surf rolling in, my mind drifting out,
to future days, to ages not yet come.
He has visions there, stronger than before.
Thousands of people, all races and tongues,
beyond the tribulation, the end days,
before the throne, humbled and united.
I miss my friend; it’s difficult for me.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
There’s deeper meaning now to everything.
How lonely it must be to not believe.
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
Alphabet City 