Late autumn hot
unique humid
sea breezes in-land
colors still ablaze
I a burnt copper
in setting gold sun
reflections, perfect blues.
Chagall 2015
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She accused me of leaving
too much peanut butter behind
in the jelly.
I told her similarly you
vis-à-vis the cream cheese.
Chagall 2015
Comatose except perhaps in trances
I’m obliged to amble – a somnambulist I am
the wisp’s own will, a fleeting glimpse
As a flitter upon a cheek’s a lash
the softest breeze that wind can muster
flutters by
I’m lost in your shallow breathing
in a warm cocoon spun of chestnut tendril
sweet oily aromatique
It takes but a moment to finally cease
I wait just a beat, then you’ll know
Chagall 2015
She asked me how the party would be
I told her to think Fellini, she replied:
You mean to say they’ll have pasta?
Chagall 2015
It’s slow
sometimes cinnamon
can seem like syrup
jazzy like cymbals
symbols streak my brain
maybe just my ears
an especially clear day weekend
overhead everywhere bi-planes!
Chagall 2015
She’d never known a tear
to defy gravity
They simply lift
invert then fall
little time
left now for wonder
Chagall 2015
I told her how freaky a chick she was
about the time that the mime walked in.
Chagall 2015
More than whispers, a whistle, in pert moonlight vespers
prayers through branches that sweep by my face, at this clip
too fast pace, I can easily traipse across lines lost except
for a glimpse of life pulses every now and then.
Curtsy, we bow throughout time, an elegant wakeful rest
is just all I can take at this moment, forgive me – how sad that we falter
I fall, every now and then.
Chagall 2015
I drove around
to window 1, yelled
Supersize me soporific!
I’m storing up surplus numb
for the winter
Chagall 2015
Hoping your Saturday night, this October 31, 2015, the only one of its kind, is an absolutely wonderful one. —Chagall
First, begin with absolutely nothing,
no time, space, simply a predilection
for One thing, a spark to ignite the dark,
static, friction, a motivating force,
to kindle the frenzy, convert god-dream
to knowing, start a centillion factors
in motion, each without form or substance,
a shove from the unmoved mover: chaos.
Large circles of empty, bounded by nil,
teardrops of absence, without within none,
an aspiration, an absolute truth,
onto itself, without contingency.
Perhaps nothing never was, but always
something lingering there on the fine dust,
hovering there as a mist, in silence,
waiting, breathlessly, hopefully waiting.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 